by A. E. Rought
His eyes blaze, upper lip curls slightly, shoulders rise making him appear larger, a maniac wired on nerves and about to blow. My heart skips a beat. All I see in Alex’s expression is his father’s face, all I feel in his agitation is his father crushing my hand. I clutch my achy right hand to my chest and inch toward the door. If humans have a fear musk, I must reek.
“You were pretty crazy back there…” My voice quakes and I hate it.
Alex deflates with a long sigh, shrinking back into my Dune Eco partner, not a darker-haired version of Dr. Franks. He pushes his hood back, and runs a hand through his shaggy brown hair. A shaky laugh rattles from his chest and dies in the awkward space between us.
“I’m kinda crazy in here, too,” he says, and hangs his head.
A white line traces down his neck, and a starburst of white shimmers at his temple. His left eye twitches when he scrubs his face with bloodstained hands.
“I don’t do well with death,” he says, voice raw like he’s forcing the words out. “At all. I just can’t handle it.”
“But why?”
“Don’t you know?” A bitter humor has replaced his sadness. “It’s the reason I was gone, the reason I left the prep school to find— Anyway, it’s the real reason I missed so much school. I’m not a killer, a juvie hall escapee, or whatever.” He furls and unfurls his fists. Then with a resigned glance, he hooks his fingers in the hem of his shirt and pulls it up to expose his stomach and lower ribs. “I died, Emma. Dad insists it was only for a few minutes. We were moving into the manor house, and there was an accident…”
I see every bit of his old fear and pain, pushing beneath the surface of his scars. Inside, Alex Franks is as gouged and wounded as me. My hand lifts as if it has a mind of its own, reaching to touch the pale lines tracing a path down his abdomen. A feather light touch of my fingertip to his scar and a sizzle of something dances on my skin before he backs away.
“Tickles,” he mutters, and pulls his shirt down.
Apologizing for touching him would be a lie.
“Since then, I’ve been struggling with new fears, new aversions,” he pins me with a stare so naked and raw it hurts my heart to see, “new needs.”
Suddenly there’s not enough air in the car and my heart hammers so loud on my ribs I’m sure he hears it. I think he does, because he leans closer, like he’s listening.
Alex’s eyes have softened, the stoniness gone. My gaze pours over his features, the slightly crooked nose that might’ve been broken in the accident that nearly took his life. His lips, parted over the fuller bottom lip to let in his breath. And his hazel eyes, the puzzle my mind has been trying to master for two days now. A thin line, not much wider than an eyelash, pulls at the corner of his left eye. The ring around the iris is forest green, the hazel is deeper, and a freckle of black mars the bottom arc.
Just like Daniel’s.
Just like Daniel’s.
The air leaves me in a rush. The wrong I felt before flares, balefire hot in me and I recoil, pressing against the door. What kind of sick cosmic joke is the universe playing on me? They have the same eye. Might as well be Daniel hiding beneath Alex’s left eyebrow. Such amazing similarities, it’s like staring into Daniel’s eye again. The one I loved because he winked with it, a quirky difference that made me feel special.
The same wink Alex has.
“Take me to the clinic, please,” I manage past my shock. “My hand hurts.”
“Sure,” he says.
He blinks his heterochromic eyes before shifting in his seat to face forward again. The door presses into my side and arm while the fields I want to escape in slide by. I wish the car ran on my heartbeat. We’d be in town already, instead of trapped together with death in the trunk behind me, and a mockery of Daniel’s death seemingly hidden beneath Alex’s eyelashes.
“Did I say too much?” he asks.
It’s my turn to give him silence. Not out of temper. I can’t think straight, I can’t force words that aren’t coming. The deer, Daniel and Alex have morphed into a hideous single face in my mind. Daniel’s eye winks from Alex’s socket across the muzzle from the deer’s lightless eye.
Alex hits the train tracks on Washington. The thump of the carcass in the trunk is a sick reminder of how awful this day has become. The numbness inside can’t scrub the image from behind my eyes, or the hurt from my hand. An errant thought ambles through my head of how upset Mom will be that my brace was ruined. She’ll ask what I was thinking, was his panic worth it, yadda yadda. And then it hits me.
It’s natural to be where Alex is, regardless of the filth, the death and the shock of an eye so much like Daniel’s. I stare at him, daring him to look, while I sort out my feelings. Alex is there, like he’d cut past my defenses and weasled into my emotions. Impossible for knowing him a day—implausible if I’d known him for years.
I don’t think the clinic has anything to fix that. Even if we’re parked in Emergency.
The jack-o’-lantern laughs in flaming giggles, and the door opening for a man in a wheelchair doesn’t affect its glow. Its wavering light reminds me of my trip here last night, and the first doctor to treat me.
“Your dad isn’t working, is he?”
“What?” The duality of tone isn’t lost on me. One part surprise, one part suspicion.
“Is your father working here tonight?” I say in a firmer tone. “He was the first doctor to see me yesterday.”
Alex’s eyes widen, then narrow and his brows sink. A serious press pinches his lips. “So you’re the one,” he says.
“Excuse me?” I pop my seatbelt loose, and then reach around to open my door.
The locks click shut throughout the car. I spin back to face him, the fabric of his shirt thin defense between us.
“My dad,” he says in a self-righteous timbre, “came home ranting about some girl’s mother accusing him of hurting his daughter. He said she’s threatening him with a lawsuit.”
He really believes his father is a good guy. The fractures in my hand say he’s not. Anger heats me up, itches over my skin.
“And did he tell you it’s well deserved?” I snap. “I mentioned your name, didn’t even say your last name, and he crushed my hand. I’m glad your dad saved your life, Alex, but he hurt me.”
“He’s not like that.” Alex argues. “How could a surgeon who donates time at a clinic hurt a girl intentionally?”
“You tell me.” Muscles along my jaw clench, making my next words clipped. “Mom saw it. Now let me out of this car.”
“Fine!”
He flips the locks, and shoots across my lap to yank my door open before I can react. I tumble out, hardly save myself from cracking my head on the pavement by grabbing the door frame. Alex leaps from the driver’s side and scrabbles around the hood. Renewed hurt grinds in my knuckles. A sharp cry bursts from my lips, and instinct kicks in, opening my right hand. The world spins, gravity winning, then I land in Alex’s arms instead.
“Whatever you think about my dad,” he says, inches from my face, “I’m not him.”
I bite my lip and nod, trusting the son of the psychopath doctor who hurt me to keep me from experiencing more pain. In a smooth motion, Alex stands and sets my feet on the ground at the same time.
My mouth opens to mumble an apology, anything, to dispel the awkwardness between us. He puts a long finger over his lips, shakes his head, and pulls my things from the back seat. Considerate of my one-handedness, Alex threads the end of the plastic bag through the handle of my backpack. Then before I can thank him, he unzips the front pocket, and pulls out my phone.
“You should call home and let someone know to come get you.”
“Okay.” I set the bundle on the ground and take the phone.
Before anyone at home can answer the phone, Alex climbs into his car and disappears.
#
My worst fear waits for me outside the nurse’s door. Mom’s face is pinched as tight as the knot in the back of her hair. She pays the
balance due for a second medical device, then steers me to the car with a hard hand on my elbow. Head hanging, blond hair blowing past my eyes, I stand mute while she deposits the black trash bag in the trunk, then my backpack in the back seat. After she opens the passenger’s door, I slink into the seat and brace for a bitch out.
“Emma Jane Gentry,” she says in a heated, yet dead even voice when she slams her door, “do you want to explain why I have to pay for a second immobilizer?”
Want to? No.
She doesn’t give me enough time to formulate an answer.
“Fine. We will talk about this when we get home.”
And that’s fine by me. A few minues to think without Alex around to muddle my thoughts is a very good thing.
Mom waits till we’re home before venting her anger in little spurts. The garage door opens with a groan and ratcheting sound as the automatic opener chain slips and reengages. “Put those filthy clothes in the washing machine on Soak,” Mom says in her tight, restrained voice. She takes my backpack from me and steps up the back stairs. “Throw the brace away, then get your tail to the dinner table.”
She might as well tell an interrogation victim to hurry up to the torture chamber.
“Okay.”
She’s waiting to gang up on me with Dad. They might not talk a lot, there are days I think they don’t talk at all. But they are experts at tag-teaming me around the dining room table and making me feel about as tall as a water glass.
“Guess what Emma did today, John.” Mom sits across from Dad.
He ladles stew into one of Mom’s homemade bread bowls. Then he adds a little hot sauce, dragging out my agony. After a couple squirts of Tabasco and a sip of water, Dad looks at me over the rim of his glasses, then he looks at her. “Something you didn’t approve of, Arlene?”
“Our Dune Eco class,” I say before Mom can doom me, “had a field trip to Meinert Park. My project partner found a deer, hurt in the ditch, and was really upset. I couldn’t just leave him like that…”
“Oh yes, you could.” Mom skewers me with a sharp glance. “And you should’ve.”
Coulda, woulda, shoulda.
Even knowing he scares me, that he gives me sad, awful reminders of Daniel, I don’t want to do the smart thing around Alex. He touches me.
Amazingly, Dad seems more contemplative than pissed. He’s the calm to Mom’s storm. He regards me with a measured glance. “You haven’t mentioned a boy since Daniel died, have you, Emma?”
Whoa. Dad slings an emotional gut check. “No, I haven’t.”
His gaze sharpens behind the glasses. “So, who is this guy?”
“Well…” With Mom, there’s a chance I might bluster my way out of telling the truth. She’s a sucker for tears. Dad is not my mother. He’s an expert at drama detection, and sifting the truth from the stories I string together. I gave up trying to get anything past Dad shortly after the night I snuck out with Daniel. “He’s new to school, yesterday was his first day.”
True enough.
“And…?” Dad asks, one eyebrow arching.
“And he’s funny and been very nice to me. He helps me with my locker, and bought my coffee today.”
“And…?”
My voice shrinks in volume, and gaze sinks. “And nothing else.”
“Oh no. Something else,” Mom stresses, shaking her head. “He got you into enough trouble you needed to be dropped off at the clinic in his shirt.”
Her voice, the angle of her eyes and droop of her lips. I’ve seen it before, when Mom thought Daniel and I were sleeping together. Indignation bubbles up, seething and ugly, pushing on my spine and straightening it.
“Oh my God, Mom!” I shove back my chair and stand. “We weren’t doing anything wrong. The deer was hurt, Alex was upset. I wanted to help. We got muddy. He was man enough to give me the shirt off his back so I had something clean to wear. He insisted I go to the clinic, too.”
“He, he, he. Where were you in all this Emma? Willing to do whatever he said?”
“Arlene, please,” my dad says in his best diffuse-the-situation voice. “I think this is a good thing. Maybe not this particular boy, but at least Emma’s coming out of her…funk…” since Daniel died isn’t said so much as felt.
“I don’t like this.” She scoops up Dad’s empty water glass and uses it as an excuse to put distance between us. Water splashes in the sink, then the glass. “Not with that boy. Look at her, Merle. She was filthy. She had to get a new brace.”
“That boy has a name,” I huff. I scoop up my plate and shove the handles of my utensils into my brace. “His name is Alex. And he didn’t do anything wrong.”
“New brace,” Mom ticks off on her fingers, “missing school, and a different shirt.”
“Because we were trying to save a wounded animal.” Too many emotions today, I’m a raw nerve and Mom’s strangling it. I can’t just hang my head and clam up. “Forgive me for making a friend! Something you’ve pushed me to do for months.”
Mom doesn’t say anything. The flush in her cheeks speaks volumes.
Head held high, I walk from the dining room and carry my plate up to my bedroom where I can eat in peace and not have Mom bitching at me about trying to help Alex. Yelling at me for being friendly with Alex is just stupid.
My door slams behind me with a good shove of my foot. I can always blame it on both hands being occupied, one with dinner, one with a fresh, clean immobilizer.
I shove aside my laptop and sit at my desk to eat. It’s all mechanical, scoop, chew and swallow, scoop, chew and swallow. My taste buds are numb, burned by frustration, or the lengthy exposure to the stink of blood. The last clod of mashed potatoes sits on my spoon when a knock rattles my door.
“I don’t feel like talking, Mom.”
“It’s not Mom,” Dad says through the crack, “and I do. Are you decent?”
I heave a sigh, and immediately wish I had Daniel’s hoodie on as a barrier between me and Dad. He never comes to my door, never comes into my room. The spoon falls back to the plate, potatoes splatting across the surface.
By the time Dad comes in, I’m on my bed, with a pillow hugged to my chest.
“Emma, I know your mom upset you,” he starts.
“Ya think?” Okay. It’s a smartass response, but I’m doubly on edge now.
“You have to understand. We were really worried about you this summer. Things just start looking better and along comes another boy.”
“Wait. Stop right there, Dad.” I curl my legs into a crossed position. “Alex has just been nice. He’s not ‘coming along.’” I make air quotes with my left hand.
“Mom’s just worried you’re going to end up broken-hearted again.”
I cast my eyes down and away, and follow the seam of the quilt pattern Mom had sewn for me when I was nuts about faeries. Now I hate faeries and don’t have the heart to tell her.
“Just be careful, okay, Em?”
“I promise.”
“Good.” He fishes in his chest pocket, and produces my pain meds. “Mom figured you’d need these.”
Even when I’m a jerk, and shout back, Mom’s still watching out for me. Guilt fills the place indignation had burned out and I want to cry. I don’t, I scrub viciously at renegade wetness on my cheek. “Thanks. Tell her I said thank you, too, please.”
“She figured you’d say that.” Dad pats my head like I’m two again, and a pat and a kiss on the cheek would make everything better. “Get a hot shower, kiddo. You’ll feel better.”
“That’s my plan.”
I toss the pill into my mouth, swallow some water with it, then stand when Dad walks out. The siren call of Daniel’s old comfort is too strong to resist. I gather his sweat shirt into my arms, noticing the contrasting color and fabric of Alex’s shirt encircling it. From there my gaze lurches to the blood beneath my fingernails, and staining the whorls of my fingerprints. Heaving a sigh, I grab a pair of flannel pajama pants and tip toe to the bathroom.
On
ce upon a time, a hot shower could make everything better.
No amount of hot water will wash away the things I’ve seen, or purge the thoughts I’ve had. Things are not right with Alex Franks. And I can’t stay away from him.
Chapter Ten
Cemeteries, broken, bleating deer and two dead boys haunt my sleep.
Daniel’s always out of my reach, drifting between the graves. Mud slips beneath my feet as I run and reach for him, but he passes like mist through my fingers. Eroded mausoleums jut from the ground, compound fractures of granite and stone. A shovel handle trips me, the world lurches up to swallow me, and I land with a wet crunch on a rotten corpse.
Worms wriggle in the snout of the doe, her eyes dilated and fixed on me.
No matter how I struggle, I can’t get free of her mangled limbs. My feet break through her ribcage, tangle in her deflated lungs. When I look down, the doe is nothing but ground meat, tuffs of hair and that dead eye watching me.
An raptured sigh draws my gaze up. Alex stands at the head of the grave, every one of his scars open. Veins dangle in waves of dripping red lace from his arm incisions, intestines spill from his abdomen but his eyes are feverishly bright.
“You’re perfect, Emma,” he says.
His odd left eye pops from its socket, and blood gushes from his mouth and nose. Laughing, or sobbing, I can’t tell with the fluids pouring from his throat. Whatever noise he makes, it precedes Alex, the sour stink splashing on me before he buries me alive in death.
I scream myself awake, arms flailing to throw the weight and warmth from my chest. Renfield hisses and bolts from me, a white furbearing missile aimed for the safety of the hallway. He lands in the puddle of light outside my door, spins on his haunches, leveling a scathing, indignant cat glare on me before tearing a path for the first floor.
Points of ache burn beneath my collarbone, almost at the hollow of my throat, where Renfield used me as a launch pad. Pulling down the neck of my t-shirt displays groups of angry red puncture marks, sticky and shiny with blood.
My parents’ bedroom door flies open and Mom hustles into the hall, her hair standing on end and slippers on the wrong feet. Dad’s voice issues muffled from their darkness, but she waves away his offer to check on me, and ties her robe like she’s girding her loins for battle. Her gaze searches my face as she pushes against the wall I built between us. Sniffling, I reach for her, and the wall comes down.
