by Sarah Tobias
“Whoa. Thanks, Wonder Woman,” Macy said, then patted my hand adoringly before taking the rest of the stairs herself.
When her back was turned, I stared down at my hands, wondrous. How did I do that?
“So, did you ever talk to the new guy? Asher?” Macy asked as she reached the last step. “Too many … vodka shots…Or wait, whiskey shots. Whiskey-vodka shots.”
I halted midway, gripping the banister. “What did you just say?”
“I lost track of you,” Macy continued, turning to face me once she made it to the front gate leading to the sidewalk. She leaned on it and the wrought iron screeched under her weight as it opened. “Sorry. When we spotted Asher, I just had to keep chatting. You know, he's a really nice guy. Too bad you left. Then he got a weird look on his face and exited the room, too. Maybe my beauty was too much for him. He's the loner type, for sure, but a hot one. Omigosh, you have to talk to him! He’s a sexy, tattooed…” She threw her hands into the air, nearly toppling onto the street. “Masterpiece!”
“That’s all?” I asked behind her. “What about … finding me? Do you remember anything about that?”
“Hmm.” Macy stopped in the middle of the road, throwing a hand on her hip. “Now that you mention it, I just kind of ran into you, didn’t I? I’m—I’m—” Her brows furrowed. “We saw each other on the … stairs? Except, what stairs?” Macy laid a hand on her cheek as she thought. “Why do I have a weird feeling we were outside somewhere?”
“Don’t worry about it,” I said, and threw an arm around her shoulders, directing her back onto the sidewalk. “You ended up finding me in the stairwell, hiding underneath my sweater from all the loudness.”
Macy rolled her eyes. “Sounds about right.” Then she straightened on a gasp. “Look! A cab! Oh man, please don’t be occupied or gross…”
As Macy flagged down the yellow car, I couldn’t shake the dread that I’d somehow psychically forced Macy to forget about not only wanting to take me to the hospital, but about everything else that happened after talking with Asher, too.
She can’t remember her own boyfriend. Glancing at Macy, I justified that it had to be because she was drunk.
Even though I did the same thing to Rob before I killed him. Or had I killed him? Monsters aren’t real. They lived in imaginations, created under beds, huddled in dark closets. Not in my life. Not in real life.
My bare feet smacked against the wet sidewalk as I followed Macy, uncaring of what disease I could contract—because let’s be honest, I’d already contracted a pretty gnarly one.
My mind raced, paused, and then raced again. I didn’t think I could survive myself if I started hallucinating bestial bodies trying to eat me daily.
An image tore into my present. I recalled the one and only time I saw my mother after they took me away from her, when I'd just turned ten and my family trauma counselor and aunt coaxed me to see her. Not even Aunt Sandy would ever speak of when my mother noticed me. Mom’s eyes, initially vacant, filled with such violent hate that I huddled against my aunt. I couldn’t run as my mother’s face twisted into a mask of horror. Her cracked, crusted lips peeled back from her broken teeth and she opened her mouth to scream.
“GET HER AWAY FROM ME!” she shrieked. “GET THAT FOUL BEAST OUT OF MY SIGHT!”
My hands trembled and pattered against my thighs as I ducked behind Macy into the cab.
What is going on with me?
Chapter 8
No. Stop.
The sheets were tight, damp, and tangled, my legs kicking against the compressed fabric, defending. But I couldn’t protect myself, not here, not while laying in bed. Because it was all happening behind my eyelids, the images as jarring as entering the light of day after cowering in the dark pit of a cave…
Trying to drown out the voices roaring in her head, she lets streams of water from the shower pound hard onto her back. It’s so hot, she can barely stand it, but she forces herself to stay in the spray and heat her skin so much, she can feel her blood bubbling underneath.
The high temperature normally calms her. Not tonight. This time, it suffocates, providing the constant reminder that she’s alive, even though her mind keeps assuring her she’s dead.
Tilting her head back, the rivulets slide down her face, framing the planes of her cheekbones before nestling at the corners of her mouth. She tastes salt.
Tears mix with the scorching dampness. She doesn’t quiet the wrenching sob that follows, echoing throughout the tiled bathroom.
No longer able to stand on her own, her hand splays against the slick wall and she leans heavily against it, her breath short and labored. Knees buckling, she forces herself to keep upright, but can’t do it. Falling on all fours and trembling, she curls up into a twisted ball, shivering violently despite the cloud of steam pillowing out from under the shower curtain.
And that’s how he finds her.
Clenching his hands to his sides, he looks down and feels another piece of his heart slip away. There she is, the most beautiful, wonderful, intriguing woman he’s ever met, reduced to a sobbing mass of tangled limbs.
He’s anything but disgusted. To him, she’s still beautiful—she still has his heart. But to go to her… he doesn’t know if he can. He wants nothing more than to hold her so tight she’d almost be a part of him. To kiss her temples, to hold her shaking hands in his. But he also knows that if he does, if he pulls her to him, the pain of letting her go again will fully destroy not only him, but her.
He’s done enough damage to her soul. He’s ripped her heart and mind to shreds and left her to bleed alone. He’s already out of her life.
And so, he takes one last, longing look at the only person who’s ever made him whole, and leaves her there to fight on her own. For he can no longer fight the monsters for her.
A single tear slides down his cheek as he quietly opens the door, the only visible testament to the wild storm raging inside him.
Through blurred vision she watches him leave, her heart screaming to call him back. But with one last gut-wrenching sigh, she quiets her heart. To have him back will only extend her pain.
Closing her eyes, she rests her quaking limbs under the numbing jets of water.
There, she lets go, at least for a little while, and falls asleep in a cloud of mist, praying that one day she’ll find her spirit again.
My eyes opened, my vision blurred from the tears I’d shed in my sleep. My pillow was damp with cooling sweat.
For two nights now, I’d been having this dream and waking in the same way, covered in sweat and tears. I never saw complete faces in this dream, only blurred eyes and the sharp outline of lips, but I felt their emotions as if they were my own.
Soon, the images would dissipate with the daylight, floating out of my mind like a cobweb ripped free from its shadowed corner. The mist of that poor woman’s heartbreak would disappear, the soul-cracking thoughts of the man would dissipate into the air, and I wouldn’t remember anymore.
Until the next night.
I sat up, scrubbing the sleep and stickiness from my eyes.
It was Sunday morning, almost forty-eight hours since Not-Rob made an appearance, then disappearance, and I was no closer to figuring out what was going on with me than I was that night.
I should probably book an appointment with a shrink as soon as possible, but I didn’t want to start the downward spiral my mother went through, right until the very end when she gave up. All they’d do is throw medications at me, change me, turn me into a zombie. They’d diagnose me with something best suited to my symptoms, each conclusion differing with each specialist I saw. It would be a never-ending loop; a process I’d witnessed before and refused to be part of again.
I’d fight this. Whatever it was. I wouldn’t give up the way my mother did. I wouldn’t get into my car and drive over a bridge to permanently end the suffering.
I finished the water glass on my nightstand in one gulp. I was thirstier and hungrier with every hour that passed, an
d I especially felt it in the mornings, my mouth dry and parched, my tongue thick and sticky. The rumbling in my stomach began almost immediately, pleading for me to eat. I’d tried everything from junk food to salads to protein shakes, but nothing worked. It was through sheer determination I was becoming accustomed to the pangs.
I slid out of bed, careful not to disturb Macy, and caught my reflection in the mirror above my dresser. I couldn’t help but smile. One good thing was coming out of this. My hair fell in waves just past my shoulders, practically as luscious and thick as Macy’s. My eyes sparkled, truly shined, like moonlight glinting across a dark aquamarine ocean. A light pink stained my cheeks, my lips plush with the same pale rose color.
Although … my hair was duller than it was yesterday. My cheeks weren’t as flushed, my eyes not as bright. My skin had toned down its subtle golden glow, but energy still coursed through my blood.
I tried not to wake Macy as I moved through my apartment, though my efforts weren’t necessary. She slept like the dead beside me, another night out now safely ensconced in her drunken memories.
I turned on the shower. It was easiest to think here—hot spray misting over her body as she curls up in agony—Today, I would seek some answers.
Stepping into the standing tub, I twisted the water up hot—his eyes, drowning with pain—sighing in pleasure under the stream. Since Friday night, I preferred only showers at the highest temperature, my skin reddening with the scorching heat but never burning. Reluctantly, I turned off the faucet when my fingers started to prune.
Toweling off and putting on a simple pair of blue jeans and a lavender tee, I padded into the kitchen to my ancient coffee maker, pushing the ON button and giving it a good smack and nodding in approval when the water started to gurgle.
As the smell of percolating coffee beans spread, Macy grumbled and rolled over onto her back.
“What’s up,” she said, her voice hoarse.
“What’s up yourself,” I replied as I cracked eggs into a bowl. “You ready to face daylight yet?”
“Not particularly.” She sat up and rubbed her face.
I studied Macy as she stacked my pillows and curled up against the wall (I didn’t own a headboard), pulling the covers back over her legs.
After a deep breath, I put into play what I’d been anxiously debating in the shower. I just wanted to see. Maybe my mind isn’t shattering into a million tiny pieces.
Squinting with effort, I focused on Macy and thought, Make yourself a cup of coffee and drink it.
Macy groaned, stirring like a sleeping dragon under the covers, one that would only awaken if her golden treasure were yanked from underneath her body.
Other than that, the lump under the covers didn’t twitch.
Frowning, I beat the eggs harder than necessary as I thought through the problem.
Then I remembered. Eye contact!
“Hey, Mace?” I asked.
Macy lowered the covers just enough for a set of suspicious, red-rimmed eyes to peer over the fabric.
“This better be good,” she said, her voice muffled by cotton.
I caught her stare. This time, a gentle heat formed at the base of my neck, almost like a small flame illuminating my unconscious. I said, “Get up, grab the cup of coffee beside me. Drink it.”
Macy’s eyes dilated black, and she dropped the sheet covering her face. Without a word, she rose from the bed, walked past me, and picked up my cooling cup of coffee. She lifted the mug and gulped it down, trails of brown liquid leaking out from the corners of her mouth.
The whisk froze in my hand. I watched her throat bob as she drank, gulp, gulp, gulp, wondering if I could do to her what I did to Rob.
You can.
The internal voice, the one that sounded like me but couldn’t be, swirled its intention. It was so sickening that I staggered away from my friend and pressed against the wall, nearly dropping the bowl at my feet.
Yet Macy remained in a trance. The back of my throat pulsed with heat.
“Holy moly,” I whispered.
Macy kept standing, the empty mug held halfway between her lips and the counter. In the quiet, there was a steady drip, drip sound, and I realized it was the coffee running down Macy’s chin and falling to the floor.
Macy wasn’t wiping it away. In fact … she wasn’t moving at all.
Chapter 9
I fumbled with the bowl and whisk, setting it on the counter so I could wave my hand in front of Macy. She didn’t react. Nor did she blink when I snapped my fingers near her nose.
“Uh…” Think, Emily, THINK!
Swiping a hand towel from my sink, I dabbed at Macy’s chin and met her vacant stare as much as I could, considering she was staring off at nothing. I cleared my throat and prayed for that small heat in my head to become stronger.
There. A tiny burst of flame played against my molars and I hoped it was all I needed. “Macy, go back to bed and lie down.”
Without expression, Macy backed up to the mattress, her gaze still held by mine. Almost in rewind, she curled up under the covers, pulled the sheet to her chin, and nestled against the pillows.
Once she was back in place, I looked away, the heat dying down.
Macy blinked. “Ems, seriously, what do you want? What are you disturbing my hangover for?”
I startled as I was reaching for the bowl of eggs. I hadn’t expected her to come back into consciousness so fast.
“Nothing. Never mind.” I gestured awkwardly with the whisk before I went back to stirring the egg mixture.
She shrugged, preparing to burrow back into covers before she paused, burped. “Why does my mouth taste like a cat’s ass?”
I stirred the eggs like I hadn’t been doing it for the past ten minutes while figuring out this new abnormal. “How would you know what a cat’s ass tastes like?”
“Because it tastes exactly like coffee does.”
I licked my lips before I said, “You’re the one who told the bartender last night to make ‘whatever came to him.’ Who knows what leftovers are in your mouth.”
“The jerk must’ve made something with coffee liquor,” Macy said, then snagged my water glass off the nightstand. “I hate coffee. Hate, hate, hate.”
She made a pathetic, pained noise when she realized the glass was empty.
“I got it,” I said, heading over.
I filled her glass, then cooked us scrambled eggs, all the while processing what occurred—what I’d just made occur. It was one thing to have a theory. It was a different story to have that theory turn into fact.
Better than being insane, I thought as Macy demolished the eggs while sitting cross-legged on the bed. I perched across from her, holding my plate with sudden distaste. My stomach gurgled as I surveyed the yellowed, glopping mass.
“You gonna finish that?” Macy asked through a mouthful of cheese and eggs.
I shook my head. She gestured with her fork.
I passed the plate over, wondering where my hunger went. I’d woken up with a raging, empty stomach, but now all I wanted to do was rid my apartment of all egg-like substances and smells.
“Are you okay?” Macy asked.
I met her steady gaze. “Are you okay?”
“Sure.” Macy swallowed her bite. “I’m fine.”
“You don’t … have a headache or anything?”
“Um, you mean, do I feel like a bunch of sharp knives are plunging into my head? You bet your bottom I do.”
My stomach plummeted. I’d been watching her for any side effects of my … influence, but had seen none. And the more time that passed, the guiltier I felt. “Macy, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
“Why are you apologizing?” Macy motioned with her fork. “I did it to myself. Too many shots last night, as usual.”
“Oh. Right. Your hangover.”
“Uh, yeah. What else would I be talking about?”
“Nothing.” I curled my legs to my chest, hugging them and disguising the curdling going on my b
elly. “Just making sure you’re up for the day.”
“Want to hit up the Greenmarket at Union Square?” Macy asked before scraping up the last of her breakfast and stacking my plate on top of hers. She patted her stomach and fell back against the pillows. “I’m feeling energized. Eggs and cheese absorb hangovers like magic.”
“Yeah, sure.” I realized I’d been jiggling my left knee and placed my palm on it to stop the rapid movement.
“Nice. Let me shower first.”
Macy hopped off the bed, her bare feet smacking against the floorboards as she headed to the bathroom. As she passed the coffeemaker, she curled up her lip in disgust.
I had to stop myself from pacing back and forth while waiting for Macy. Or chewing my bottom lip off. But as soon as she stepped out of the bathroom, fresh-faced and hangover free, I dashed for the door.
“Whoa, slow down, speed demon. Drink some extra coffee this morning?” Macy elbowed me affectionately on the arm as she reached for her jacket she’d tossed onto my one armchair.
“I’m feeling extra antsy today,” I said, attempting a smile.
“Well, let’s put that nervous energy to use, shall we? You can help me try to score free food from the market. Student budget and all.”
I rolled my eyes as I locked the door behind us. Macy came from money and never lacked for anything, yet she was a sucker for bargains. Even more so for free stuff. I never minded standing beside her as she haggled, since I was usually lucky enough to enjoy it.
We took the 6 train to 14th street, Macy jabbering away, and exit into the heart of Union Square. The Greenmarket was bustling, with white tents spread in rows and surrounded by tall concrete buildings, some of which still stood the test of time while others were more recently developed.
Street trees radiated out from the middle of the square, still clutching onto their leaves, the colors warming into ruby, burned orange and chocolate underneath the city’s autumn sun. The farmers’ market itself thrived with small vending stands, every space of table covered with vegetables, jams, honey, and herbs. I smelled the roasting meats as the cooking smoke gathered in the air, mixing with the scent of freshly split oranges as children scampered around, juice from the orange wedges dripping from their hands. There was also the sharp aroma of plants packed in soil as we approached the small nursery stands. My senses suffocated as soon as we arrived at the tents. I resisted the urge to cover my face and run.
