Between Life & Death

by E K Bennett

  Between

  Life & Death

  By: E.K. Bennett

  Disclaimer

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2020 E.K. Bennett.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author's rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  Content

  Prologue: Do It, Lotty.

  She Doesn't Know How to Die

  She's in the Back of Her mind

  She's Lost

  And She Didn't Even Scream

  She's Not a Friend

  She Thinks She Knows

  Draw Me

  She's Not The Only One

  She Fights With Herself

  She Gets A Visit

  She Pays A Visit

  She Meets Someone

  She Gets Hurt

  She Dies

  They Discuss

  She Breaks

  She Takes A Break

  She Needs Answers

  She’s Wrong

  She Gets The Wrong Kind of Help

  She’s Everywhere

  She Talks

  She’s Two People

  She Draws on The Floor

  She Chokes

  She Fights

  She Sees

  She Watches

  She Lets It Go

  She’s Free

  She’s Stronger

  She’s The Homecoming Queen

  She Gets a Call

  She’s a Goner

  She Dances

  She’s Back

  Epilogue

  1. Prologue: Do It, Lotty.

  "I'm not scared..." the little girl said quietly.

  The boy next to her sighed. He obviously couldn't understand how a seven-year-old wasn't afraid of the dark. Especially this girl. "Yes, you are," he insisted.

  "I told you, I'm not!" the girl screeched at him, shooting him a glare that wasn't seen due to the pitch dark. "Now let's go home."

  "Lotty, if you're scared, just tell me and we can leave," the boy mocked.

  "I'll tell mom!" she yelled. Her voice echoed off the unseen walls.

  "Tell her what?" he stopped walking and turned toward the sound of her voice. "That you fell in the tunnel and I helped get you out? That will definitely get me in trouble."

  "You pushed me! Just....take me home, John. I'm tired and it's cold and it just doesn't feel right!" Lotty growled.

  "So you are scared!" He said matter-of-factly.

  "I am not!"

  "Then what's the problem? I can't leave until I can prove to George that you are afraid of something. Every girl is afraid of the dark." John's tone turned a bit pleading.

  Lotty's voice went stone cold. "I am not afraid of a thing, John. Now take me home or I'll...I'll kill you!"

  John laughed faintly. "Admit it. You're afraid." He was reaching her breaking point. He was definitely getting George's jar of quarters. He was going to win.

  Lotty said nothing, just kept walking.

  "You're afraid. I know it, Lodonna. You. Are. Afraid."

  "I am not afraid of anything."

  "You are afraid. You are afraid of the dark, Lotty, you are afraid. You want to go home? I'll take you home when you tell me you're afraid."Do it.

  "Honestly, John--"Do it.

  "You are afraid! Just say it! Please, I want my quarters!"Do it.

  "Pardon me?" Lotty turned around. Her eyes had adjusted to the darkness of the dank underground cave. She could make out her brother's silhouette and the roots and rocks jutting out of the walls.

  "Please, Lotty. I'm sorry, I just need that money! I promise I will buy you a new dress. Or some new boots? Don't you want that?"

  "I don't want boots. I do not want a dress. I want to go home!"

  "JUST TELL ME YOU ARE AFRAID, DAMN IT!" John yelled. Do it.

  And she did.

  Lotty wiped off her little hands on his shirt and knelt down. His face was pale and she put her hand on it. She put her lips up close to his ear. "You made me," she whispered.

  "It is time to go home, love," the lady in white smiled warmly. She had been following Lotty and John since they fell into the tunnel, and the woman was the source of Lotty's discomfort. Suddenly, though, Lotty trusted her. She took the woman's hand and started down the tunnel.

  "Wait," Lotty said. "What will we do about the body?"

  The woman shook her head. "I'll take care of it, Love. Here we are, now run on home and wash up."

  Lotty stood at the opening of the tunnel where the warm afternoon sun started to slice through the darkness. She turned around to say her goodbyes, but the woman was gone.

  2. She Doesn’t Know How To Die

  I wake up to screaming.

  Wait....It's just my alarm clock...

  I roll over and punch my pillow, cussing groggily and smacking my alarm clock all at once. It takes some time to get to the bathroom, then nine minutes to get my contact lenses in because my eyes refuse to stay open. Once I can finally see, I finish up in the bathroom and head back to my bedroom. I'm supposed to keep quiet but my hands aren't really agreeing with the fact that it's 6 a.m. and they're supposed to be doing things, let alone doing things quietly. My whole body is that way.

  I throw on some clothes and a little makeup; there's no one to impress anymore so I've given up. Without eyeliner, believe it or not, though, I look stoned. So.

  It's 6:45 so I have about eight minutes until my ride shows up because she's always late. She's my cousin, a Junior, and tries to be nice but there's always that you're-a-freshman-so-I-can't-really-talk-to-you tension going on.

  I grab a pop-tart, turn on the lights, then plop down at the table and almost scream. My sister is sitting across from me, holding her head and looking down at the table.

  "Jesus, Miranda!" I whisper-yell. "You're such a creep!"

  Who just sits in the dark all by herself at six in the morning? She just gives me a death glare and I sigh. "Morning sickness?"

  She nods. I say, "But isn't it supposed to, like, stop or something? I mean you're seven months along..."

  I think they said something about that in health class...or maybe it was in a movie I saw on Hallmark last month?

  Miranda just shrugs and puts her forehead down on the table. I eat my pop-tart in silence until I hear the car horn outside. I stuff the rest of my pop-tart in my mouth and say goodbye to Miranda. She groans and waves her hand in a gesture telling me to leave.

  Adam, one of my best friends, is waiting for me at my locker, like usual. He and his girlfriend-- also my best friend since diapers-- Sam are usually waiting for me because they ride together and get here early. Today, though, Adam stands alone.

  "No Sam?" I comment and heft my heavy bag up into my locker, dumping the contents of it to the bottom. "Shit.." I mutter.

  "Nahh," Adam says, stuffing his hands in his pockets. "I think she said something about food poisoning last night when I was talking to her on Facebook."

  I scrunch up my face. No Sam? Sounds like a shitty day to me. "Sucks..." I say. Adam's pants are sagging below his ass and I roll my eyes.

  "Weird, because Miranda was sick this morning, too. But then again, she's preggers..." I say and wrench a history book out of the locker. "And pull up your pants, dude. You look special."

  He sticks out his tongue and pulls them down lower, which only pisses me off. I punch his shoulder and he laug
hs, pulling his pants up. "You're a loser," I joke.

  He gives me a "Who, me?" look and we head up to first period.

  If there's one thing I can't stand, it's history. But who am I kidding? I can't stand a lot. It's just so boring. My teacher's a dick and all we do is take notes, so it's not like he tries to make it fun. Today, the bell rings and he immediately starts his spiel on the Industrial Revolution. Cool.

  I rip a piece of paper out of my notebook, taking these fifty minutes as my opportunity to write a note for Sam.

  Sam!

  So. I'm in history, and you're not. Screw you ;)! Well, Mr. Brown is douchey as ever, and you're missing a rousing day of history class. And art. And. English. God, Samantha! Why do you have to do this to me? I'm all alone.

  My train of thought is interrupted by a tapping sound. I hate it when people tap their pencils. I sigh and get back to my note.

  So Mrs. Furgeson was bitchier than usual today in art. I think she said something about her cat throwing up in her shoes? I kinda wanna high five that cat, not gonna lie. She ripped up some kid's project today. Said the girl was doing everything wrong, like her line of center or some shit was off and she used Arabian Red instead of Tuscan Red. I can't stand it when

  Tap...tap....tap....

  people do that. Ugh, Sammie I'm going to KILL SOMEONE! They're tapping a pencil. Leave it to me to get OCD today when you're not here. Jeez...

  Tap tap....tap...tap tap....tap...

  All right. Seriously? Who's doing that? I look around for the tapper. Ah-ha! I find her; Jessie Rowe. She's sitting on the left wall, over by the pencil sharpener.

  Sweet! I just found the person tapping! It's Jessie Rowe. She's kinda nice, I'll just ask her to stop. And, conveniently, she's right by the pencil sharpener! Bitchin'!

  I subtly pick up my pencil and edge towards the sharpener. Jessie's staring into nothing and still tapping her pencil, though it's not as loud as it was a moment ago. I tap on her shoulder and she looks up at me, a little startled.

  "Hi Jessie," I say softly. "Can you please stop tapping your pencil? Sorry, it's like a pet peeve of mine or whatever." I smile.

  Jessie smiles back and stops tapping. "Oh, sorry, I didn't even realize I was doing it! My bad!"

  "No problem, I'm just a little OCD," I say jokingly and "sharpen" my pencil. Once I'm back to my seat I get back to my note.

  Jeez, Sam, why do people have to be so nice? It makes me feel so much worse about myself. I'm kinda glad Jessie didn't give me crap, though, cuz that would have ruined my entire day. Ha. Sorta. And by sorta I mean I'd be pissed for like 10 minutes then get distracted.

  Tap, tap, tap, tap.

  JESUS! I look back at Jessie, but she doesn't notice me. And...she's not tapping her pencil anymore. I look around the room, but no one's doing anything.

  WHAT THE FUCK? I'm going insane. It's official. Someone's tapping again. It sounds like it's coming from Jeremy Mill's desk, but he's asleep. So. In fact, NO ONE is doing anything. It's frickin' annoying (Although, I'm kinda glad it's no one because I'd probably end up being called the pencil-nazi for the rest of my life). I don't know what I'm going to

  BANG.

  I look up from my note in alarm, but Mr. Brown is still talking about coal mining and steam powered engines. Tyler Bucci is staring at Chelsea Portman's boobs. Chelsea is texting under her desk while Rachel Eisel is actually taking notes for the class. Darren Iram is drawing on his desk, and Damien Vulcetic is staring at the clock. And here I am, gripping the sides of my desk like we're being bombed.

  I chill out a little and try to get back to my note, but right as I pick up my pencil:

  BANG.

  I look up again, and still, the class is paying no attention. Is this all in my head? I think I saw something about this on Oprah once...

  BANG.

  I groan and a few kids around me look over, then go back to what they were doing. Why am I the only one hearing this? I look over at the window, because now it really sounds like someone is slamming against it or something.

  There is no one at the window. Maybe I'm sleep deprived... It's raining outside. I see a woman leaving the building, holding an umbrella in one hand and the hand of a little girl in the other. As they walk by our window the little girl hesitates and looks in. I swear she's looking right at me, and I get chills up my spine. I've never seen a child that young give anyone a look like that. Maybe her mother isn't giving her what she wants. Maybe she just needs a nap. Maybe.

  I look away and grab my pencil, but my note has disappeared. I look around me to see if it fell on the floor, or maybe someone is messing with me and took it? I spend the next five minutes searching for it, trying to be subtle so the teacher doesn't get on my ass for being disruptive, but it's nowhere to be found. I sink back in my chair and wonder who took it. I can't go around accusing people of stealing it because that's just weird.

  The bell rings and I carry on with my day until I see Adam. I tell him about my note and the tapping and the little girl at lunch.

  "Think she was part of the daycare center for that burn-out class?" He asks with a mouthful of pizza. "Maybe she's one of those freaky mean kids who throw chairs if she doesn't get the right color play-dough."

  I shake my head and stab my macaroni salad with my fork. It doesn't taste that bad, but there's always going to be that cafeteria food stereotype that makes me hesitate.

  "I mean, maybe it was Jessie's pencil that gave me a migraine so I went all loopy and shit so I started imagining things? That happens, right?" I suggest.

  He shrugs and we throw out our trash. I can't concentrate in math class, which doesn't do me any favors because I suck at math. Luckily, I and Adam sits across the room so I can't distract him with my nonsense, and he takes really good notes. I close my eyes and rub my temples, which is supposed to help but doesn't. The teacher tells us to open our books to some page that I could care less about; I'm too tired to care. My head hurts too much to care. I'm too skeeved out to care.

  I go to open the old book, and there's a little piece of paper sticking out of the top. I open it to that page and pull out the paper. It's ripped and there's dirt on it. Some of it has water stains on it so I can't tell what it says, but it's got about half of a page of words on it. I lay it flat on the desk and scan it for legible words.

  I'm all alone.

  Said the girl was doing everything wrong, like her

  going to KILL SOMEONE

  Everything else is ripped out, blurry from water, or covered in dirt. But I don't need to see any more to remember that I wrote this before. That I wrote this today.

  3. She’s in The Back of Her Mind

  Miranda is sprawled out on the couch when I get home, staring intently at the television set. I clear my throat, hoping she’ll notice my arrival but her gaze is still blank as she absorbs the nonsense that is reality T.V.

  I sigh and drag my book bag into my bedroom, shutting my door on the way out. My room’s a mess, mostly just clothes and the like thrown askew, and Mom will have a coronary if she sees it. We’ve already had this argument though. She said to clean it, and I told her I didn’t have time (and by “I didn’t have time” I mean “I’m too lazy, so get off my ass”). Her response was that she’s sick of looking at it, and I just told her I’d shut my door from now on. I don’t understand any of this because my room is in the back hallway. So, I now keep my door shut at all times, but sometimes Mom will “just be putting some laundry away” and wander into my room. She’s full of crap though because I do my laundry. I think she just has boring days sometimes and decides to spice it up by yelling at me for not cleaning enough.

  I wander into the kitchen for a snack, yelling, “Miranda! Do we have any food?” on the way down the hall.

  “I just bought some groceries this morning,” she responds. Obviously she’s feeling better. “I picked up some yogurt and chips. I think there are some Pringles in the cupboard.”

  I shake my head. She just went shopping a few
hours ago, and she doesn’t remember what she bought. I guess that’s the price you have to pay when dedicating your life to Jersey Shore. I dig through the fridge and grab a container of yogurt, then I grab a tube of pringles. God, how I love that shit.

  “Hey, so I’m going to Sam’s. I’ll probably be home for dinner, her mom kinda blows at cooking,” I say as I cross through the living room. Miranda doesn’t respond, so I throw the nearest pillow at her. “Yo! Me, Sam’s house! Kay?”

  She nods and goes back to her show. I shake my head and send Mom a text, just in case. Somehow I always get in trouble for “leaving without telling anybody where I’m going it really worries us all we want to know is where you are and how long you’ll be staying there and will you be home for dinner I don’t ever get to see you anymore, Lyd, it seems like you’re never home but I want you to have a good time with your friends I really do just please tell me where you’re going and it wouldn’t hurt to wear a jacket”. And usually it’s Miranda’s fault for being inattentive. So.