Sing Me Your Scars (Apex Voices Book 3)

by Damien Angelica Walters

  She kept as close to the curb as possible, but the concrete tugged at her feet, trying to lure her in with false promises of happiness in martini glasses, of conversation in slurred words, of love in a stranger’s tangled sheets.

  She sidestepped a broken patch of pavement, and someone shoved into her from behind, propelling her forward. She stumbled, arms flailing. Her palms met a hard, muscled chest, and hands grabbed her upper arms.

  She glanced up into striking blue eyes. Strong cheekbones. A cleft chin. A handsome face, but beyond the blue of his eyes, there was nothing. No compassion, no anger, only a vast emptiness. He offered a smile that held as little emotion as his gaze.

  Dark grey swirled around him as if he were wrapped in a shroud. Her hands, still resting on his chest, were barely visible. Her palms tingled. A thick smell, like char mixed with petroleum, filled her nose, and she felt something she’d never felt before, something dark and oily that spoke in a language she didn’t understand, was never meant to understand. Her breath caught in her throat. His grip tightened.

  She wrenched away from his touch, and threads of grey pulled free from the shroud with a wet tear. Mocking laughter carried in the air as she staggered away, brushing her hands together. Tiny bits of grey dislodged and dropped to the pavement, yet more clung to her skin, creeping across like a legion of insects; her flesh, their battlefield.

  She half-ran, half-walked the rest of the way home. Once inside her apartment, she slammed the dead bolt shut and stripped on her way to the bathroom. She turned the water as hot as she could stand it and stood under the spray, her hands shaking, for a long time. She soaped up again and again but could still feel it on her skin, a vile coating like a sheath of sorrow. With a soft sob, she grabbed a washcloth and started scrubbing her arms.

  When she finally emerged, her skin was pink and throbbing. No traces of grey remained that she could find, yet the strange sensation lingered, and every time she closed her eyes, she saw the man’s empty gaze.

  §

  Listen to me…

  Meg sat up straight in bed and fumbled for the light. She’d heard something. A voice, a whisper. She walked through her apartment, checking the locks on the windows and the door. When finished, she crept back into bed, but gave up trying to fall asleep when the edges of the sky began to lighten.

  §

  In the morning, one of her frequent customers came into the bookstore with her three children. The little ones headed straight for the toy box while their mother browsed the romance section. The youngest child pulled several books from the shelf and more tumbled to the floor in a flurry of paper. Irritation bloomed inside Meg like a dark rose, and her skin prickled.

  The stupid little fool. And will his mother pay for the books if he tears them? No, she’ll probably slide it back on the shelf when she thinks I’m not looking.

  Meg clamped one hand over her mouth. Shame bloomed in her cheeks. Where had that come from? The prickling faded away. She stuck out her hands and flipped them over. No grey. She bent down, lifted her skirt to her thighs, and inspected her legs. No grey there, either.

  She shook her head. She was imagining things; that was all. She just needed a good night’s sleep.

  §

  On her way home, Meg turned down Linwood Street. The Friday night crowd was a far cry from the previous night. The sidewalks were filled with people standing and shouting loudly over the music bleeding out into the night from the open doors, and a heavy cloud of cigarette smoke hung in the air. Lust dripped in silvery streaks from hips and thighs like mercury from a broken thermometer. Of the man in the shroud, there was no sign.

  She stepped closer, and a man stepped in front of her, blocking her path. “Hey, lady, you look lonely. How about a drink?”

  “No, thank you,” she said.

  “Just one?” He smiled, moving close enough that she could smell the beer on his breath.

  Disgusting.

  Her skin started to tingle. Her hands curled into fists.

  If he steps closer, I’ll remove the smile from his face and take a few teeth with it. Or I’ll dig my nails down his cheeks. Rip his face to ribbons.

  The voice was small and whispery. Hers, but not hers. Her right hand started to rise, as if it belonged to someone else. She shoved it deep in her pocket. Stepped back.

  “Please leave me alone.”

  He laughed. “Just one drink. Come on.”

  Kick him where it will hurt, and when he falls—

  She moved forward. A half-step, nothing more.

  —I’ll kick him in the ribs.

  What was she thinking? She pushed past one of the smokers, not seeing, not caring. Why had she come here? Behind her, she heard the man’s voice, asking her to come back. She quickened her steps and when she approached the corner, she broke into a run. The sensation she’d felt on her skin was nothing more than the wind.

  It had to be.

  She ran until she reached the front steps of her apartment and stood with her head down, breathing hard. Laughter slipped out from an open window. Genuine, happy laughter, smelling of fresh peaches and newly-bloomed lilacs. It curled like a ribbon around the base of the streetlamp.

  When she touched the cold metal, the happiness slipped down, giving her hand plenty of room. She moved her hand. The ribbon moved, too, as if trying to slink away.

  No, oh no.

  She pulled her hand back and stared at her palms. Saw nothing. But she ran upstairs and took another long shower, scrubbing until the hot water ran to ice. When she finally climbed out, shivering all over, she inspected every inch of her arms, legs, and belly. Using a hand mirror, she checked her back, her neck, her scalp, and sighed in relief.

  There was nothing there.

  Nothing.

  §

  On Monday, the one day when she closed the bookstore, she waited until the morning rush was over and braved the coffee shop on the corner. Traces of frustration and impatience still clung to the ceiling like storm clouds.

  She ordered her coffee and took it along with a book, to the park. She planned to read for a few hours until the park became crowded with mothers and their toddlers and their strollers choking up the walkways.

  A few pages in, the smell of sour milk wafted by. She closed her book and wrinkled her nose. A homeless man approached her a few moments later.

  “Spare some change for a coffee?”

  She started to reach in her pocket, then stopped.

  The homeless are a menace. They piss on the bushes and pass out on the benches, leaving their filth behind. Someone should take care of the problem. They shouldn’t let them in the park at all.

  “No, sorry,” she said, opening her book again.

  “Anything you got will help.”

  Why won’t he just leave me alone?

  “I told you, I don’t have anything.”

  “Not even a quarter?”

  Her skin exploded with pins and needles. She dropped her book, stood up, and shoved him away. “I said I don’t have anything for you. Go away. You stink!”

  He staggered back, his toothless mouth in a gaping circle of surprise. “Why’d you do that, lady?”

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it, I—” She grabbed her book and bolted from the park.

  §

  With the shades down, she stood in the middle of the bookstore in a wash of pale half-light, her eyes closed. All around her, she felt the happiness pulling away, withdrawing deep behind the books. Hiding beneath the rug. She touched one of the shelves; the contentment recoiled as if her flesh was laced with toxicity.

  A sob broke free.

  “Please,” she whispered. “Please.”

  Stop crying. Just stop it.

  §

  Meg woke in the middle of the night and padded into the kitchen for a drink of water, wincing at the overhead light. Instead of opening the cabinet, she slid open the silverware drawer, pulled out a knife, and turned it from side to side so the light caught along the edge of
the blade.

  What would it feel like to slip it beneath someone’s skin? Would it be like parting fabric or cutting through overcooked steak? Blood would glimmer on the blade, like ruby pearls. She smiled. The knife was so sharp, it would make it easy. Her limbs flooded with warmth, with possibility.

  She thought of the homeless man. Someone like that wouldn’t be missed at all. Her hand tightened around the handle. All the breath rushed out of her lungs. She dropped the knife on the floor and stepped back. Away. Those thoughts didn’t belong to her.

  They didn’t.

  “I am a good person,” she said. “I am.”

  But she could still taste the anticipation on her tongue. Even worse, it wasn’t unpleasant. Not in the least.

  §

  Beneath the glow of the streetlamps, Meg walked without destination. She crossed street after street, her feet tapping on the pavement. A chill wind blew her hair back from her forehead and stung her cheeks, but she paid it no mind. She walked through the warm pockets that lovers walking hand in hand left behind, ignoring the way the warmth broke apart as she passed. Strands of happiness drifting on the pavement curled away from her feet.

  She held her arms wide, a smile on her face.

  §

  Meg woke to the sound of weeping. She sat up, flipped on the bedside light, and cocked her head to the side, but heard only silence. A tear spilled over her lashes and ran down her cheek. Then another. She frowned, wiping them away with the back of her hands.

  “Stop it,” she said, her voice thick. “Just stop.”

  §

  While waiting for her tea to cool, Meg sat on her sofa and grabbed the newspaper. The headline on the front page read Body Found in Cedar Park. She skimmed the article. Two homeless men had scuffled, over a bench or a bottle, no doubt, and one ended up dead.

  “Good riddance.”

  No, no matter what, he didn’t deserve to die, a small insignificant voice whispered deep inside.

  She crumpled the newspaper into a ball, threw it on the floor, and grabbed the photo album on her coffee table. She flipped past pictures of her parents in the bookstore, her grandmother’s radiant smile, and pictures of herself as a child, many of them showing her with her nose buried in a book.

  Pale tendrils the color of daffodils rose from the pages and entwined around her fingers. She frowned. What good were memories? Why had she even bothered to look at the pictures? What a waste of time. She slammed the photo album shut.

  No, no! Please.

  The tendrils withered to black. Dead stems of useless. She shook off the remnants and trampled them beneath her feet until nothing remained.

  §

  Another walk. Another night of solitude and dusk. A car came speeding around a corner, kicking up grime in its wake, and she glared at its taillights.

  She crossed the street and stopped. All around her were dilapidated buildings with broken panes of glass and weeds jutting from cracked pavement. She’d walked much further than she’d planned. The air held the bitter taste of hopelessness, and streamers of sorrow hung from the rooftops like tattered clothing.

  She smiled.

  A shadowy figure stepped into her path, one hand tucked under his jacket. His face too young to wear such menace. Such hunger. Her skin filled with heat.

  Need to leave. Need to get away!

  “Shut up,” she murmured.

  “You lost?” he said in a voice roughened at the edges.

  “No. Are you?”

  Run away. Run now!

  He closed the distance between them and grabbed her upper arm with one gloved hand. She straightened her spine. Her smile grew wider. She covered his hand with her own, digging her fingernails in the leather hard, and laughed under her breath.

  “What do you want?” she said, stepping close enough to see the pores on his cheeks.

  Please, no.

  He tried to shake off her hand. His mouth moved; no sound emerged. Her smile stretched again. He took a step back. She took one forward.

  He yanked his arm away. Held up one hand. “Look, I don’t want any trouble, okay?”

  She reached for him again. He shook his head, backed away from her hands, then spun around and took off, his feet heavy on the ground. She laughed into the wind.

  No, no, no, this isn’t right. This isn’t right.

  “I said, shut up.”

  §

  In the dark, beneath the sheets.

  Listen to me, please, you have to listen.

  Meg rolled over and punched the pillow.

  This isn’t you, and you know it. You read books to children, you love animals, you give money to the homeless, to charity, you are a good person—

  She sat up, clamped her hands over her ears, and shouted, “Shut up, shut up, shut up!”

  The voice did.

  §

  At eight o’clock on a weeknight, the grocery store was far from crowded. Meg picked up a can of peas, saw a small dent on the side, and set it back on the shelf. A young woman with a toddler came down the opposite end of the aisle, headed in her direction. At least the toddler wasn’t screaming.

  The woman picked up the dented can of peas and put it in her cart. Not very observant, was she? The toddler knocked another can off the shelf.

  “Joey, stop it!”

  The woman slapped the child’s hand, leaving a small print of red. The toddler burst into tears. So much for not screaming. The baby’s hurt, a shocking shade of bright pink, rose through the air and clung to the ceiling tiles, quivering like gelatin and trailing the smell of talcum powder.

  “Oh, honey,” the woman said, her face a mask of disbelief. “I am sorry. I’m so sorry.”

  Meg shook her head. If the mother had kept the cart away from the shelf, it wouldn’t have happened. She cast a glance back and caught a glimpse of grey on the woman’s hand. Just a finger-wide streak that was already fading.

  It was my fault. Mine. I touched the can first, and then she did. She never would’ve struck her child.

  That stupid little voice again. What did she know? In private, the mother probably slapped her child at will. Meg pushed her cart out of the aisle with a smile on her face.

  §

  Come off.

  Meg blinked awake to the stink of bleach. She was sitting on her bathroom floor surrounded with soggy, rust-colored cotton balls, her left arm awash in pain.

  “What the…”

  She scrambled to her feet. The skin on her arm was bright red, covered with oozing blisters and raw spots flecked with blood. A container of bleach sat open by her feet. This was wrong. She’d been sitting on her sofa, watching television.

  No, you can’t. I have to—

  “You little bitch. How dare you. How did you…”

  With her mouth compressed into a thin line, she dumped everything in the trash can and pulled out antibiotic ointment and gauze bandages.

  Can’t you see what it’s doing to you? To me?

  “You leave me the hell alone,” Meg said.

  No, you have to listen. You have to stop this. I know you can. You just have to try. I won’t let you do this to me. I won’t.

  Meg laughed in reply, her fingers curling toward her palms. She’d have to find a way to get rid of the stupid, weak voice once and for all.

  §

  Meg stood with the morning crowd on the corner, waiting for the light to change. An elderly woman with frail limbs and fluffy white hair waited next to her, holding tight to a plastic bag. The bag hit Meg in the leg once, twice, three times.

  Meg tried to shift away, but the crowd was pressed too close together. The bag hit her again; she bumped into the man on her other side, a man in a cheap suit and a gaudy tie. He gave her a quick look. She gave a frown in return. It was his fault for standing so close. She cast glances over her shoulders. Everyone was watching the street or the light, like cows waiting for the okay to move. No, dumber than cows.

  The bag swung against her leg; she bumped into the man.
All around, she felt people shifting, a chain reaction of movement and readjustment. The light turned yellow, a collective sigh of relief went up, and the bag hit her again.

  “Dammit,” she muttered.

  And shoved with her shoulder and hip.

  No, you can’t do this. No!

  In a flash, the old woman staggered forward with a shriek. Meg smiled as the bag dropped from the woman’s hands and split open on the curb, spilling a dozen dog-eared paperbacks into the street. The old woman’s arms pinwheeled, but her upper body was pitched too far forward, and she fell to her hands and knees with a breathy shout. Strands of pale green unfurled from the books like ivy and darted across the asphalt to twine about the woman’s ankles. Meg sneered. All the happiness in the world wouldn’t save the woman now.

  Tires screeched—a car rushing to beat the light. It sped around the woman, and the air filled with the stink of rubber on asphalt.

  What have you done?

  Someone edged closer to Meg, brushed up against her shoulder, and a second later, laughed. A soft laugh mostly under the breath. And then another from elsewhere in the crowd. And another.

  “Stupid old bag,” someone hissed.

  No, I will not let you do this. I will not.

  The smell of char hung heavy in the air, thick and malevolent. The laughter grew louder. All around her, strands of grey curled out, over, around, the people.

  Please, please help me.

  The green uncurled from the woman’s ankles and moved toward Meg. More ribbons slipped down from streetlamps and doors and danced in waves across the street. All heading in the same direction.

  Meg squirmed, but she couldn’t break free from the crowd. Laughter rose overhead in dark bubbles glistening with a fiery shade of red. A thin tendril of green made its way over the curb and touched the tip of Meg’s foot.

  Yes, please help me.

  “Get away, get away from me,” she said, twisting her body this way and that.