1.1

I awoke again to the putrid stench. Swarms of tiny bugs crawled under my clothes, in my hair, my nose, my mouth. I squirmed frantically and tried to brush them off, but of course they weren't there.

The nausea hit like a wave. I rolled out of bed, ran out of my room and down the hall and made it to the bathroom in time to throw up those useless energy drinks all over the tile floor. My head spinned. My throat burned. I slumped down and cried, not caring what I sat in. This was the third night. I couldn't take this anymore. Something was wrong with me. I was losing my mind.

It had been another Taylor dream. I'd dreamed I was Taylor. I'd suffered the usual shoves from behind and the taunts about how I'm worthless, ugly, flat-chested and whatever. Sophia tripped me in the hallway; Madison poured milk in my backpack. And of course, I ran into myself. Her blue eyes glinting with malice, she smiled cruelly as she told me no one wanted me here. I should have stayed in the mental institution.

I'd said that to Taylor last week, just after she had come back. I remember savoring her little flinch before she shuffled away. Tonight, I felt the cut of my words just as I feel everything else in the dreams: her loneliness, her hopelessness, the fear whenever she sees us, the misery that follows her like a cloud, the desperate need for affection she never gets . . . and every nightmare ends with her--with me--shoved into the locker.

I was there when Sophia used her powers to cram it full. The tampons and maxi-pads smelled gross then, but those two weeks over Christmas break turned them rancid. While Taylor was trapped in there, Sophia and I made a point to pass by between classes to listen to her muffled screams. Even through the locker door, the stink was pungent enough to make me gag and think of bloated corpses wrapped in the moldiest blankets in the world. We were there when the janitor let her out. She had been covered in bugs and black filth and was whimpering like a scared dog.

Just thinking about that now churned my stomach. I vomited in the toilet until I saw purple dots. My bile fizzed in the water as if electric.

The other day, when Taylor had been wrapped in duct tape and raving about how she wished she was dead, I knew I'd won. I'd fought dirty, poisoning the most sacred memory we shared, and I should have felt vindicated. I should have felt strong. Instead, there had been only a hollowness inside me, and I realized I'd felt that way for a very long time.

And now I was having these nightmares. I was losing my mind.

I knew I shouldn't; I knew it'd hurt. But I had to see it. I opened the cabinet doors beneath the sink and dug through the cleaning supplies and stacks of toilet paper until I found it in the back, wrapped in a trash bag. I reached inside the plastic and carefully pulled free the ruined flute.

The bathroom seemed to darken somehow, as if my grief had saturated the air. I looked at the flute through tears. Taylor had begged for it back, and I'd told Sophia to destroy it.

The silver instrument had been beaten with a brick; crusted dog shit clung to the gouges and creases. We had planned to wait until Taylor's birthday and then wrap it up and leave it on her doorstep. The idea of her being alone and crying on her sweet sixteen, that soiled memento of her dead mom in her hands, had seemed like the most hilarious thing in the world to us.

I hugged the flute close and sobbed until my face ached. Deep down, I'd always known, but now I could no longer deny the truth: I wasn't strong. I wasn't a survivor. I was a pathetic monster who ruined my best friend's life because I was too scared to hurt anyone else.

Sophia should never have been in that alley. I should have been cut up and killed. Taylor would have fallen into another depression, but she'd have recovered by now. I could see her as a melancholy bookworm with her close circle of nerdy friends. She'd get teary-eyed whenever she talked of her murdered BFF, never knowing how I would have betrayed her if I'd lived.

I couldn't go back and change things. I was too much of a coward to face her now. I felt so trapped. I could barely breathe.

I'm sorry, Taylor. I'm so sorry . . .

I might have passed out. Something had slipped my mind.

When I opened my eyes, I saw a glowing purple mist flowing from my hands to envelop the flute. Sparks twinkled in the gas, and I thought of pictures I'd seen of stars shining through faraway nebulae. The cloud spread along the floor and rose to fill the air. It had that sharp ozone smell that sometimes hangs outside before a storm, and I could hear the faint hiss of white noise. I pushed myself up from the vomit-stained rug and stood. I saw the figure floating in the fog beside me.

At first I thought it was Sophia, but the smoky, translucent form was a lighter shade than her shadow state and blurrier around the edges. Its face was a featureless cloud. It twitched in the mist, like a staticky image from an old TV. One of its slender, inhumanly stretched arms was touching the top of my head.

I was terrified, but somewhere in the back of my mind I felt I wasn't the only one. It was scared of me, but more than that I sensed its dread, its frustration and its crushing despair.

And then just like that, I knew. My dreams had been more than just a guilty conscience. Across the mist, I looked where its eyes would be.

"Taylor," I said.

Its--Taylor's--panic rippled through me. She yanked back her ghostly arm as if I were a hot stove. She wavered for a moment and melted away, vanishing like steam.

I couldn't think. My mind reeled. I leaned forward on the bathroom counter and stared at myself in the mirror. Vomit streaked my flannel pajama shirt. Bereft of both sleep and makeup, my face was sickly pale, my usually faint freckles standing out in the purple haze that filled the bathroom, tinting my red hair blue. Tiny sparks tickled my tears. I met my wild eyes and tried to parse what had just happened.

So, I'd triggered. I was a parahuman. I had no idea what my powers were, but I could figure that out later. And Taylor was a parahuman? When did that happen? The telephone pole? No, that hideous locker had loomed so prominently in the dreams, that it had to have been it. Was she still here, invisible somewhere in the house? I couldn't know for sure, but somehow I doubted it. She'd carried a presence with her I hadn't noticed before, but now that was gone. Had that smoky figure been some sort of projection?

But wherever she was and whatever her powers, she'd clearly been attacking me. Didn't that change everything? She put me through three nights of hell! I could get her in so much trouble. The way the public freaked out over masters, she might even get sent to the Birdcage. I could be there to gloat at the trial. I could already see Sophia and me laughing about it at the Wards headquarters.

"I can't believe Hebert thought that Christmas Carol shit would work on you. You're way too evil for that."

"Yeah, yeah. The dreams weren't even that bad. But at least I got powers out of it. I can't wait to kick ass!"

These thoughts came so readily they frightened me. I stood at a fork in the road, and that path was open. It'd be easy.

But I couldn't do that to Taylor. She'd only held up a mirror to me, and I had no right to be mad if I didn't like what I saw. I'd been a monster. I wasn't going to be a monster anymore.

But Taylor probably assumed I was already calling the PRT. And I'd felt what she felt. She was broken. She had nothing to lose.

I ran out of the bathroom and back into my bedroom. In the darkness I fumbled for my phone. I had no idea if her physical body was at her house or in my backyard or hiding in my closet, but I had to try. Even after all this time, I still had her number.

My hands shook as I listened to the ring. I gibbered softly to myself. I couldn't think of what to say.  The line picked up.

"You're a cape," Taylor slurred on the other end.

"I . . . I wasn't, Taylor. I just triggered. I . . ."

She didn't seem to hear me. "They're not going to get me, Emma. I'm not going to let them."

"Tay-Taylor, I'm not . . . I'm not going to . . . Oh, god, Taylor, I'm so . . . I'm so . . ."

"Wrong number, dad!" Taylor called out drunkenly. Then, quieter, "I'm sorry, Emma. I . . . I wanted to help you. I wanted you to be my friend again."

"I will be your friend, Taylor! I'm sorry for everything. Everything I've done. I'm sorry! Please! Please don't . . . don't do this."

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"I already have." There was the ghost of a chuckle. When she spoke again, her voice croaked. "I'm sick of hurting, Emma. I'm sick of being scared. I just want it to end."

"Taylor! I'm going to get you help. Stay--"

"Fuck you, Emma! You should be happy. I'm giving you what you fucking want!" Her phone clattered against something and fell.

"TAYLOR! TAYLOR! I DIDN'T MEAN IT! I'M SORRY! I'M SORRY!"

I screamed into the phone until I was curled on the floor sobbing. The lights turned on.

"Emma, what's wrong?" my dad asked.

They stood together in the doorway, my dad in his boxers, my mom in her nightgown. With horror, my mom looked at my face and the vomit down my shirt.

"Sweetie, are you all right? I knew you haven't been feeling well, but--"

"Taylor's killing herself!" I blurted as I stood and dialed 911, remembering as I did so the last time I called that number, the night when everything in my life went wrong.

Neither of my parents were awake enough to deal with this, so while they stumbled over what should be done, I kept the phone to my ear, pushed between them and sprinted down the stairs. Sniffling and crying, I frantically told the operator what I knew--leaving out the parahuman part--giving them their phone number and street name, since even though I'd been to their house a thousand times, I didn't know their address.

But I knew how to get there. A ten minute drive, maybe.

I ran outside and crossed the front lawn in my bare feet. I was wearing shorts, and my legs grew goosebumps in the night air. When I stopped at the diver's side of our SUV, it occurred to me I didn't have keys.

As if in reply, a small funnel of mist unfurled from my palm and drifted along the door. I could see the mechanisms within, like an echo in my brain. After an electric snap, the lock released. I climbed into the seat and held my hand over the ignition switch. The engine roared to life.

My parents called to me from the front door, but I was already backing out of the driveway. I shifted gears and tore down the road.

She had been my best friend. She had been like a sister to me. I'd buried and betrayed those feelings, but they'd always been there. Taylor's dreams had only dug them up for me, reminded me of who I was. And now she was either dead or dying.

I wiped my tears as I drove and tried to stay at least mostly in my lane. I only had a learning permit, but I knew enough. It was nearly three in the morning, so fortunately there wasn't enough traffic to matter when I ran the red lights. I wasn't sure what I was going to do when I got there, but I couldn't wait at home. And if I got my parents to drive, I'd have to explain things I'd rather not.

I nearly missed her street; the tires squealed as I pulled a sharp turn. Her house was halfway down and looked somehow ominous in the night. I slammed on the brakes, bouncing up on the curb and knocking over their mailbox.

I ran up the walkway and tripped on the wooden steps. I pounded my fists on the front door, screaming Taylor's name. Stupidly, I tried opening it, twisting and pushing with all my strength. The purple mist sprayed out around my hand, tingling my skin. Blue lightning crackled through the basketball-sized cloud, and the door swung in, the doorknob and bits of the surrounding wood smoking on the front hall's floor.

I pushed in. The last time I was inside Taylor's house we'd been friends, and seeing it now in so much darkness felt eerie, as if I intruded on the tomb of a memory. But I couldn't reflect on that now. I raced up the stairs.

Mr. Hebert stepped out of a doorway, a baseball bat in hand. Without thinking, I raised a purple pillar between us, flooding the hall with a magenta glow. Mr. Hebert backed away and squinted at me blearily. His thick glasses sat crooked on his nose.

"Emma? What . . . what are you doing?" He poked at the mist with his bat; sparks danced along the wooden tip. "You're a cape?"

I ran past him. Taylor's door wasn't locked, but it wouldn't budge. My mist gushed out, and with another lightning flash the door crashed inwards, knocking the chair that had been braced against the doorknob across the room. As I entered, the ruined door felt hot against my bare feet. I flicked on the lights.

Taylor lay unmoving on her bed, her thin, pale face lolled to the side. In her arm she cradled an empty prescription bottle and a nearly empty bottle of whisky. Alcohol reeked over the scent of smoldering wood. I was almost too scared to check, but I knelt, took her wrist and tried to do what I'd seen in movies and on TV. My fingers may have felt something. It didn't seem very strong.

"Taylor!" her dad called behind me, and then he was by my side.

"Taylor! Taylor!" he gasped more than said. He shook her shoulder, and she groaned and opened her eyes sleepily. Both of us sagged with relief.

When we pulled her out of bed, she mumbled something and threw up a boozy mess along with over a dozen white pills. Only a quarter of an hour had passed since I talked to her on the phone, so probably most of what she'd taken hadn't had time to absorb into her system. Not that either of us were doctors.

Mr. Herbert still seemed in shock, but he had enough presence of mind to retrieve a fire extinguisher and spray over and under the scorched, splintered door smoldering into the carpet.

While he was doing this, I sat with Taylor on the bed, keeping an arm around her to hold her up. She was awake, if not lucid. Her delicate, bony shoulders hunched forward, her skinny arms curling around herself in an insecure hug. I felt her shiver. I also felt her ribs. She'd always been slender, but at school she cloaked herself in sweatshirts and loose fitting jeans. Seeing her now in a t-shirt and shorts, she looked scarily frail.

Wide, dark brown eyes met mine, and then darted skittishly away. I brushed long, black curls out of her face and leaned close to a round ear peeking out from the curtain of her hair.

"I won't tell, I promise," I whispered. "Everything's going to be all right."

I gave her a hug. She seemed to relax a little and leaned into me, her head touching mine. I managed to hold down my sobs.

By the time we half-carried, half-walked her outside, the ambulance had decided to show up. The paramedics agreed with us that she was going to be all right, but because of regulations they wouldn't let Mr. Hebert ride with her in the back.

Mr. Hebert took one look at the SUV straddling his mailbox and said that I probably shouldn't drive home. I said I wanted to go with him to the hospital; I felt like I should. He just nodded as he slipped a jacket on over his undershirt. His eyes were lighter than Taylor's, but otherwise they bore the same owl-like intensity, the same perpetually harried expression.

I called my parents and evaded most of their questions while not lying too much. Then I rode shotgun in Mr. Hebert's car.

Neither of us spoke at first. Through idle curiosity, I held up my hand and gloved it in glowing purple. I made a thought and sent the mist swirling around my fingers, the sparks licking my skin in the miniature storm. I blew into my palm, but the mist wasn't disturbed.

Mr. Hebert stared at the spectacle before turning his eyes back on the road.

"So, you're a cape."

"Just a parahuman. My parents . . . they don't know."

He didn't reply. The silence opressed the air inside the car. My throat hurt, I was thirsty, and I felt faint. But I still felt like I needed to say something.

"I'm sorry about the door. And the mailbox."

His laugh was more like a huff. "After all you've done, I think I can forgive a little property damage. If . . . if you hadn't . . . "

He trailed off, and I saw there were tears running down his cheeks. I sunk in my seat and hugged myself like Taylor had done.

"She called me, and I . . ." The lie died in my throat, replaced with a growing lump.

He nodded as if I'd explained everything. "I think the bullies are still giving her problems. That's why she . . ." He sighed and shook his head. "After . . . after the locker, the school said they'd look out for her, but she's been getting more distant lately, and . . ."

We stopped at a red light, and he wiped a sleeve across his eyes. He doesn't know, I thought dumbly. That's why he never confronted my dad. But how could he not know?

He looked at me and smiled weakly, his wide mouth so much like Taylor's. "Thank you for saving my daughter, Emma. You've always been a good friend to her."

I cried all the way to the hospital.