by Kitty Parker
"You guys have fought before," he countered, sounding almost pleading. He had taken the estrangement as his own personal responsibility, no matter how often I told him he had nothing to do with it. It would have happened eventually; I hadn't known it then, but anything me and Emma- Emma and I- could have become had a time limit on it. The Matchmaker would have come out sooner or later. "It's what you do. You fight, and then one of you- well, usually you- buries your pride and you make up and are closer than ever. Why can't you do that this time?"
"Because this time I'm no giving in," I replied with icy calm, my patience withering in the face of the exhaustion of constantly having to ignore Emma's presence- in person, in conversation, and in my mind. "I found out just how little she trusted me, and just how cruel she can be, and I'm not apologizing for that."
"But at least you seemed happier with her," he said with the certainty only a best friend can have. "Rachel- you know you don't really like her. Not like you liked- like," he corrected himself, "Emma."
"Stop!" I snapped, any tolerance I held for this conversation dissolving. Was done with her, finished, impartial. She didn't need to be discussed anymore. "She's as good as dead to me. And that's it."
Brock ignored me. "I mean, when you and Emma were really close, you were actually laughing and smiling outside your house. You took care of her, and I've never seen you do that for anyone but Troy. Hell, Dar, you got her a cat; you don't put that much thought into Troy's presents.
"I know!" I yelled. Brock twitched in shock at my sudden, unexpected vehemence, but took it in stride. "I know what I was like, okay? I know that I was different, maybe better. But that's over now. Done. Finished." I took a long, ragged breath. Brock waited quietly, patiently.
"I'm not going to cave this time," I finally announced, in a firm voice that I didn't think was mine but came from my mouth, "I don't have any reason to, and I'm not even sure I would if I did. She- she betrayed me, Brock, in a couple of ways, and I can't forgive that. Not unless she takes the initiative and apologizes. To me- a real, full-hearted apology, acceptably humble. And she won't do that, not ever. Because of pride and obstinacy and a dozen other things, not the least of which is the fact that she can't see what she did. This time, it's really done. And I'm not going to be the one to change that."
I strode away, leaving Brock gazing regretfully after me, grey eyes very sure that they knew more about me than I did about myself
Chapter 36
* * *
Emma
* * *
I never found out how I got to the hospital after that fatal phone call. I sincerely hope I didn't drive. Maybe I caught a bus, maybe Mom came to pick me up- I've never asked, and no one's ever told me. The uncertainty was all part and parcel of the dreamlike mood that had descended over me like a veil, muffling reality and sending it far, far away, so I could only vaguely see or hear or feel.
I walked down the hall of the school in that state, not noticing anything and yet hyperaware of ever little detail. A part of me saw Darien making out with some slut; the same part recognized that not so very long ago, that would have hurt. It still did, in a way, but the pain was drowned in overwhelming shock. Mom's words echoed through my mind. "Allan…not sure… in the ER… unconscious…" Hard as I tried, the record would not shut off, driving me forward and forward until, the next thing I knew, I was at the hospital and Mom was guiding me into a waiting room.
I hadn't seen this part of the last hospital I had been in (this one? I never knew, never wanted to find out, never wanted to come back). I had been unconscious when I went in and in shock when I left, the same shock I was in now but different. I had known this was going to happen, had known it could from horrible, bloody experience- why hadn't I warned him? Why hadn't I driven the point home more forcefully? I could have stopped him, would have, should have.
Words floated into the fog that surrounded me. A doctor was speaking to Mom. I was obscenely comfortable in this chair, staring at my hands and only seeing the bright scarlet of blood. "Cracked skull… ruptured spleen… bleeding in the brain… four days…" None of it meant anything. All I knew was that Allan, like Dan- like Dan… the bright flash of the oncoming car, the sudden bolt of the crash…
Some amount of time passed as me and Mom and Jack sat our silent vigil. None of us spoke; speaking might make it real. The room had a copy of Starry Night on the wall; that was the only thing that was real. It wasn't sleep, that thing I sat in; it was nothing. I couldn't feel, couldn't think, thought too much.
I felt a hand on my shoulder and looked over. Somehow Rhi was there, Her pale, freckled face floating out of the blur of beige walls. Blindly, I let her draw me up. She moved to Mom and Jack, also pulling them to their feet and out of the room.
Mom might have made something to eat- I didn't have anything. Or did I? Food didn't seem very important. Allan might be dying; why was I bothering to eat? That night, I didn't sleep. I stared at my ceiling, one thought running like a broken tape through my mind. I wasn't crying- why wasn't I crying? Mom had cried, Jack had cried; come part of me had seen it. But I couldn't. I hadn't cried for Dan and he had died. Maybe now, if I cried, my brother would live. Why wasn't I crying? This dead shock I knew; I had gone into it after another car crash so long ago and yet so dreadfully near. I had changed; why couldn't I cry?
I drifted off into a fitful sleep as the sun rose, dry-eyed.
I must have woken early the next day, because it seemed endless. We got to the hospital- I didn't go to school; Mom and Jack didn't even consider going to work. The haze didn't lift. I spent visiting hours in one of those awfully comfortable chairs, not speaking or hearing or doing anything. This time, I didn't think. I didn't sleep; I didn't live. I simply existed, somewhere between life and dreams, where nothing was real and nothing mattered.
Somehow, I got home that evening. Maybe Rhi took us home again, maybe Mom and Jack collected themselves enough to get us moving, maybe a nurse shooed us out. I couldn't do anything. I had thought I was strong, that I had recovered, that I had dealt with the pain. I was wrong. All I could remember was Mom's voice as I fought for awareness out of the drug-sleep, telling me that Dan had died. Dan- Allan- pain- horror- and numbness, always that infernal feeling of blanketed survival that had come upon me then, pushing away the fact of his death into the deepest corner of my agonized mind, where I would never have to deal with it again. I had functioned normally, for a while- but now all those dark corners were stripped bare and the cycle was turning again to take its awful toll, and Allan and Dan were blurring behind my eyes until all I could see or hear or know was Allan- Dan- Allan- Dan- death- blood- life– death.
When we got home, I went straight up to my room. Once more, I didn't eat, didn't sleep. Didn't cry.
Candy appeared on the next day, taking the seat beside me, not looking at me with her tear-stained eyes. "Rhianna told me," she said, and her voice was hoarse. She had cried- why couldn't I? I needed to just as much as her. "I- I had to come."
If I had thought about it, I would have agreed that Allan would have wanted her there. As it was, I barely even knew she was solid. I nodded blankly and stared at my hands. She was lucky: she was there, waiting for news, preparing herself. I hadn't had that luxury. The whole thing had happened so fast- it had been a crash and pain and a scream and blood so bright it glowed and darkness and waking and death. And, always, the numbness.
Death- it was a funny thing, really. Why did we all run away from it so much? It had to be better than this thing I existed in, which was so close to life but wasn't, a coma of its own. And the wounds had been reopened and lifeblood was gushing forth because even as this unfeeling had enveloped me bandages had been ripped off, and I was a fourteen years old mourning the death of a boyfriend she had loved and the life she had known, before I had wrapped myself in layers of secrecy and distrust to protect the slow, draining injury that festered in my center, the one that wouldn't heal until Dan's ghost stopped looking over my shoulder and asking m
e, always though I never knew I heard it, "Why… why… why…?"
I couldn't take it anymore, the silence and tension and numbness of the room. I had to go – had get out – maybe if I moved I could outrun the ghosts and find something to anchor me on this side of the veil, not the past realm of almosts and used-to-bes.
I was lucky; I had on sneakers and the same sweats I hadn't slept in; I hadn't had the energy to change. It didn't matter to me, though. I would have run in jeans or high heels anyway.
It was a crisp fall day, and I didn't have a jacket. Or maybe I had left it at the hospital. I couldn't feel the cold. It I couldn't feel the ache in my legs after an indeterminable amount of time had happened, or the icy sweat that soaked me to the bone. I didn't know where I was going, or if I was going anywhere at all. I simply ran, the pounding of blood in my head reminding me with every step that I had lived and Dan hadn't and now Allan was going to die and what had I ever done wrong to deserve this?
It wasn't raining. It should have been raining. If the Earth had cried, maybe I could have to. It had been a beautiful day years ago, too. Damn it, it needed to rain. I needed to wash away all the blood and death; the showers hadn't helped but maybe the rain would. Impure rain, sullied like me by shadows of the past that I couldn't outstrip or hide from.
I had been running for hours now, feet beating their steady rhythm to nowhere. Something wet stuck to the back of my neck: sweaty hair. I stumbled, rose, and kept going. Now the blood on my palms matched the blood streaming in the movie behind my open eyes, of broken spines and cracked skulls and limbs twisted in horribly unnatural ways.
Why, why, why? My shaking had begun to resonate to that tune, the symphony of blood pulsing through my temples and muscles throbbing in my legs adding background music to the lyrics. Why had all this happened to me? Why had I been so stupid? Why hadn't it happened to me, but to those around me, those I loved? Why hadn't I dealt with Dan when I had the chance, instead of having it dropped on me with everything else right now, the straw that broke my back, just like Dan's had cracked. And most of all, why the HELL couldn't I fucking cry?
I was back in my neighborhood now, running through houses I recognized or knew I should, to a destination the miniscule portion of me that could think didn't comprehend. Past the playground- I had told Darien about my father there. He hadn't taken it badly at all, hadn't let it affect his interaction with my mother. Even Dan had been awkward with her for a while.
Past my house – Allan's house. Would he ever go back there? So much had happened in that house; had it changed me at all? That first party, where Darien had found out I was a Lexington. It had only brought us closer together: me and Darien, me and Allan. Had I not told Darien the truth because I wanted power? Or was it because the secrets stopped me and everyone else from realizing that I was slowly self-destructing, freezing because I was afraid of Dan's fate? Or a bit of both? Why did it matter anymore? Why couldn't I lay Dan's ghost to rest and move on? Why did I feel like I was betraying him by my bond with Darien, a thousand times closer than I had ever been with Dan? Why-
A doorbell rang. It took me a second to realize I had rung it, and that I was standing at Darien's doorstep, my movement finally stopped. But the orchestra of pounding and shivering and throbbing pain continued. I swayed a little on the spot, but stayed upright through no will of my own.
Darien opened the door – wasn't that Alfred's job? – I didn't question it, didn't have the capacity to. Reality didn't exist anymore, just his face out of the mist everywhere else.
"I'm sorry," I said without preamble, my voice hoarse and dry from disuse. I hadn't spoken in who knows how long. Darien stared at me, shock and confusion playing over his crystal face in equal measure. "I don't know exactly what I'm sorry for – everything, nothing – but it doesn't matter. Life's too short for it to matter." The words were going from my subconscious to my mouth without passing by my brain, but that didn't bother me, not then. "I'm just sorry. For everything I did to you or anyone else, for being me and stupid, for Dan and Allan and-"
Without a word, Darien took a step forward and wrapped his arms around me, enclosing me in a blessedly safe circle of warmth and strength and reality. And then, out of nowhere, life slammed back into me with all the force of a thunderbolt, and at last, for Dan's death and Allan's pain, for my own soul-deep anguish and the exorcism of old ghosts, I was crying.
* * *
Darien
* * *
For a long time, I just held Emma as tightly as I could, feeling her wracking sobs shake her body against my shoulder, her hands clutching my shirt with a desperate grip, like I was her only link to the world. I stroked her wet hair gently, letting her cry herself out as I tried to figure out what the hell was happening. I had never seen Emma like this before, not even when she was drunk. These tears betrayed an absolute, open vulnerability that I hadn't imagined she was capable of, and right on the heels of Lex's disappearance from school…
I had still been angry at her, furious even, when she had appeared on my doorstep like a wraith out of the light, barely substantial in the sun's glow. But then she had stuttered her apology, without forethought or control or her usual air of deliberation, and all that rage melted away in the face of her pitiable state. She was here; she had made the first move; she had done the impossible and apologized. And even if that didn't end my anger completely, it was a start.
Finally those awful sobs that came from the bottom of her heart stopped, though her shivering continued all the worse. Slowly, eventually, I realized that even though it was cold out here, the bare cheek against my neck was burning, and she didn't seem to be shaking from emotion.
I gently drew away from her as her grip on my shirt loosened, so I could get a good look at her. Bloodshot eyes gazed vaguely back at me, the green burning with a feverish light that made me think of Cassandra, or a Sibyl, out of a unnaturally flushed face. Her hair hung lank and wet around her head, bowed as if under too great a weight to bear. Her limbs drooped limply around her vibrating body, and as I watched she rocked forward, unbalanced and uncoordinated for the first time I had seen her. She was still a thousand times more beautiful than any girl like Rachel.
Without warning she stumbled, her eyes wide with fright as she saw the ground approaching but apparently unable to do anything to stop herself. I caught her and set her back on her feet, but didn't dare let go- she was leaning on my hand like it was the only think keeping her upright. Something was very, very wrong, and with more than just her. Something had made her act like this. But right now, the only thing that mattered was her… condition.
"God, Emma," I exclaimed, scooping her into my arms over her feeble protests (thank god for those; Emma was still in there somewhere) and carrying her inside, out of the cold. "How long have you been out there for?"
She shrugged, her t-shirt wet with sweat against my arms. "Dunno. Four hours? I left the hospital in the – morning, maybe? I don't think it had been light for long." Her head rested heavily on my shoulder. It seemed trusting. Dependant. Like a wall had broken and she could allow herself to need someone else. What had made this change in her, that made her act years younger and yet gave her eyes such an ancient look?
"It's three o'clock now! And that's twenty miles away!" I gasped incredulously, kicking the front door closed and striding purposefully through the house towards the closest comfortable surface we had- coincidentally, my room. "Did you run the whole way?" She nodded. "Did you even bother to drink any water on your marathon?" She shook her head slowly, as if she had to think hard to remember. I groaned. "You need a keeper," I informed her, letting her down on my bed with a tenderness that belied the exasperation of my tone. "Let me guess, you haven't eaten today either."
"I- I don't think so," she replied hesitantly, as I snatched a blanket from the foot of my bed and tossed it over her. I didn't know much about medicine, but running that far without water, all her clothes sopping with sweat in the cold air, did not seem like a recipe f
or health. "The last few days haven't really been clear. Ever since Allan-" she cut herself off quickly, not in the old way of concealing a secret, but more as if she didn't want to remind herself of a disturbing subject.
"So you haven't eaten in three days," I clarified, skipping over the mention of Lex although I burned to know what had happened. Nothing good apparently, but I refused to believe the rumors flying around. He was in the hospital, that was widely known, but the stories about ODing, or death, or jail- I gave no credence to any of them. With Emma gone though, and Candy vanishing the next day, I had no way to disprove any of them, and after the second day I was getting worried. I couldn't imagine anything bad happening to the most inoffensive of boys- then again, I'd also seen how reckless he could be when drunk, and the last time I had seen Lex, he had not been sober. But that would come later.
Emma smiled – weakly, sheepishly, and not from her eyes, but still a smile against the tearstains on her scarlet cheeks. "Mom might have made me have breakfast yesterday," she considered, "But basically- no." I rolled my eyes. And I had thought that she could take care of herself. "I haven't really slept either," she added, as if anxious to make a clean slate of things.
"God." I ran a distracted hand through my hair. "First thing's first. You need food and water, and then you need to sleep." I opened my closet door and picked out my smallest pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt, tossing them onto the bed. She stared blankly at them. 'You probably shouldn't stay in those wet clothes," I explained. Obviously, everything was taking a while to process. "I'm going to get you something to eat, and you can change into those." I walked out of the room, effectively cutting off any protest she might have made. And being Emma, she definitely would have made one, if not many.
I made my way quickly down to the kitchen, thanking my lucky stars that I was alone today; Troy was at a friend's house, Brock had opted not to come over today, preferring to go to Rhianna's (their little separation experiment had not lasted long), and it was Alfred's day off. Even if that meant I would have to make (or find) her food myself, I knew she wouldn't want people to see her like this, not once she got back into her right mind. I was astonished she had even let me see her.
