1.2

The public restroom was white, sterile and empty. A bleach smell overwhelmed the antiseptic background that dominated the hallway.

Leaning close to the mirror, I dabbed the tea tree oil over the small blotches on my cheeks and forehead and then rubbed them with anti-fungal cream. They were noticeable, but makeup would only aggravate them. I hoped they would clear up soon. I had considered using fudge mix instead of the real thing, but Taylor's powers might be able to tell I was lying. If my two gifts were to mean anything to her, she had to know I was sincere.

I'd been dreading this all day, facing her, apologizing, but part of me was relieved. I had to get out of the house.

My parents weren't mad about the SUV, but while I was gone they found the ruined flute I'd left on the bathroom counter. Even without, Annette Rose Hebert, inscribed on the side, my mom would have recognized it. She and Taylor's mom had been good friends.

I'd had no choice then but to come clean about the bullying. That was hard, seeing their disappointment grow into horror as I described all the ways we hurt Taylor. By the end, my mom was sobbing as much as I was. My dad was furious, but he mostly blamed Sophia, saying she was a bad influence on me. This was true, but I admit I played it up as being more her idea than it really was. I'd even hinted I was afraid of her.

A little dishonest, but if I was going to cut Sophia out of my life, turning my dad against her was the first step.

Earlier this evening, I sneaked out and rode the bus to the hospital. And now here I was. I looked myself over. My eyes were wet and red, and there were the blemishes on my face. But at least I hadn't thrown up in a while, not that I'd eaten much.

I needed to settle my nerves, so as I washed my hands, I released purple wisps into my palms. The water hissed and spat, mini-lightning streaks lacing and arcing amid the splashing. I concentrated, and a few droplets levitated in the luminous mist like tiny electrical planets before boiling away. I breathed in the steam and ozone and sighed. Watching my power relaxed me, but I'd been putting things off long enough. I evaporated the light show and left the restroom.

Taylor's room was just down the hall. The door was open. Her bed was reclined forward so she could sit up, though her head was slumped back on her pillow. An overhead lamp shone down on her with weak, yellow light. Her black curls were a mess, but she didn't look as pale as she had at the house. A laptop sat on her foldout dinner tray.

I was glad about the computer. It'd have more impact if I didn't have to show her on my phone.

I don't think I made any sound as I walked up, but as soon as I stood beside her bed, her large, dark eyes flicked open. They were already gazing directly into mine, and I realized her ghost had been watching me. Had she just witnessed me crying in the restroom? Had she been sitting beside me on the bus? Strangely enough, I didn't find either of these possibilities as unsettling as I would have thought.

"You saved me." She made it sound like an accusation.

I opened my mouth, but my breath caught. No, you saved me, I wanted to say. Instead, I just nodded.

Her stare was piercing, yet fragile. "When did you become a parahuman?"

"It happened in my bathroom, when you were . . ." I trailed off, took a deep breath. I had to warn her. "Taylor, I haven't told anyone about what you did. And I'm not going to. Ever. I swear. But you can't do that to anyone else. I'm serious. You could get into a lot of trouble, and I don't want that to happen to you. I . . . I know you might not believe that. I know I've been horrible to you, and I'm so sorry--"

"Why," she demanded. "Why did you turn on me?"

I hesitated, but she deserved to know. I closed the door, sat in a nearby chair and told her everything. Her eyes widened when I described the attack in the alley, with the knife in my face and the order to 'pick,' and how Shadow Stalker would only save me after I fought back. I told her how helpless I felt afterwards, how I was scared to leave my room.

Taylor's mouth gaped when I revealed that Shadow Stalker was in fact, Sophia Hess, and then her expression turned stony when I explained Sophia's philosophy of how the world was divided into survivors and victims, predators and prey. When I told her that I'd chosen to be a survivor, to be strong, I had to flinch from her wounded glare.

"So all this shit you put me through, making me miserable, making me want to kill myself . . . it was because hurting me made you feel strong?"

I looked down. The excuse was on my lips: I didn't want to hurt you, but I had to prove to Sophia you were a predator and not prey, and then we could have been friends again . . . . But I think I always knew that wasn't the real reason. And now, after whatever scouring Taylor's dreams had done to me, I couldn't believe the lie anymore than I could believe in the Easter Bunny.

"Yes," I admitted finally, my voice hollow. "It made me feel in control. Less afraid. Whenever I . . . I felt bad about it, I pushed the feeling down. I didn't want Sophia to think I was weak. I didn't want to backslide to my old self. And . . . and hurting you became like a habit. Something I had to do . . ." My words guttered against the growing lump in my throat. Everything I said was true, but it wasn't the whole truth. It didn't explain why I'd chosen her. And by her silence, I knew she knew I was holding back.

I curled inward like a cowardly animal and broke into heaving sobs. I didn't dare meet her eyes because I knew I'd see the same pain from that afternoon when I told her to go home, that I didn't want to be her friend anymore.

Please don't make me say it please don't make me say it please don't make me say it . . .

There was betrayal, and then there was soul-searing evil. How could I tell her: You were finally recovering from your mother's death, finally becoming your old self again, but I was afraid the tables had turned, that you were stronger than me. So I kicked you down and made you small and weak so I could feel better about myself.

And I never did feel better. I'd destroyed her for joyless little rushes, like a junkie hawking heirlooms for another hit.

"I'm sorry . . . I'm sorry . . . I'm sorry . . ." I croaked as I rocked myself in the chair and wept. I don't know how long this went on. My eyes were blurred and burning when I felt the hand on my shoulder.

Taylor was sitting on the edge of the bed, her long, ungainly legs allowing her bare bony feet to rest flat on the floor. Slowly, I looked up. Her wide eyes were tight with concern. The IV in her wrist snagged as she handed me a box of tissues. I sniffled as I tugged one loose. I wiped at my tears.

"When I was . . . inside you, Emma, I could feel you were hurting. I could taste it. I didn't know why you betrayed me, but I knew the old you was still in there. So I  . . . whispered to you, and I touched you, and now . . . you've woken up." In her teary eyes, her pupils were shiny like black onyx pebbles. She gave my shoulder a reassuring squeeze. "You've hurt me. A lot. But you're the only friend I ever had. I want to forgive you, Emma. I want you to be my friend again."

I just stared at her. She should hate me. She deserved better. And I wasn't even sure if it'd be healthy for us to be friends now. But if it weren't for her, I'd still be that broken monster. If she wanted me back, I couldn't deny her.

Finally, I took out my smartphone. I sent the prepared attachment and nodded at her laptop.

My face ached from crying, but I made myself smile. "Check your mail."

This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

She raised an eyebrow as she pulled the computer into her lap. She put on her glasses which rested on the tip of her nose. I watched her face as she found the message and clicked on the download link.

"Hello, my name is Emma Barnes . . ."

She watched the video with a sort of blank bewilderment. When it was finished, she said, "So . . . you smeared shit on your face."

"Dog shit. From our corgi."

Her wide mouth pursed as if she were about to ask, why? But the word never came out.

"Look at the text," I said. "Those are my Facebook and email passwords. They're yours. I'm not going to change them. You can post the video on my page. You can mail it to my friends. Upload it on Youtube, if you want . . ."

She shook her head. "Emma, I want you to be my friend again. I don't want revenge."

"But I . . . I . . ." I'd betrayed her secrets; I'd spread lies. I threatened anyone from being her friend. Her high school life had been nothing but a series of escalating humiliations. Everyone at Winslow thought she was a joke, the loser 'locker girl' who existed only to get shit on. How could I even begin to make up for that?

"This is not what I want, Emma."

I tried not to sound desperate. I forced a little laugh. "Oh, come on, Taylor. Admit it, you've wanted to see that for a while."

For the first time in forever, I saw her grin. It was big and broad and showed teeth. I knew then that the rashes were worth it.

"Okay," she admitted. "Maybe a little. But . . . " She held the laptop so I could watch as she deleted the email, dumped the video file into the recycle bin and then emptied it.

"I appreciate the gesture, but you shouldn't do that to yourself. I mean, look at that stuff on your face."

"We did worse to you."

She tried to hide it, but I'd said the wrong thing. Her eyes stared off into nothing, and for a few seconds she seemed to freeze, though I could detect her faint shudder. I remembered the locker from the dreams with the bugs and the filth and the darkness and the smell, and I knew for her that toxic nightmare was always swimming just below the surface. When me and Sophia filled the locker, we intended only to gross her out, not . . . hurt her like this.

I dug through my purse for my second gift, and then placed the small box in her long thin hand. There were faint red scars crisscrossing her fingers and palm that hadn't been there before the locker. I tried not to look.

The box was gift-wrapped, a little red bow on top. She pried open the lid with a fingertip.

"A cell phone," she said.

It was a cheap one. I hadn't wanted to spend too much. The repair shop was still working on an estimate for the flute.

"If you ever feel . . . upset or you just want to talk, I want you to call me," I said. "It doesn't matter if it's during school or the middle of the night, I'll answer. We can talk about whatever you want. You . . . you shouldn't have to go through this alone."

She stared at the phone and flipped it open. I saw a smile.

"I'm going to go to a therapist," I went on. "I think you should too. They can help you."

She didn't quite wince, but I picked up on the irritation. I felt stupid. Therapy cost money, and Mr. Hebert was poor. This stay in the hospital was probably eating what little savings he had.

"I'm going to make sure you get that help, Taylor, I promise." I had no idea how.

"Thank you." Her voice was reedy; tears ran down her cheeks. "I'm glad you're back, Emma."

I opened my arms, and she practically melted into my hug. I knew from the dreams that hugs held an almost mystical power for her. I don't think she ever got them, not even from her dad.

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, "I said as she clung to me. "Things are going to get better. Everything's going to be all right."

We held each other and cried for a long time. We talked for a little longer after that. She was going to be kept for a week for psychiatric observation, and then she would come back to Winslow. I told her to call me and that I'd visit her again soon.

When she was snoring softly, I tucked the sheets up to her chin and brushed black curls out of her face. I don't know if it was depression or a side effect of her powers, but since the locker she'd become very prone to falling asleep, a fact which we'd exploited mercilessly. I wondered how I was going to get my friends to lay off her.

"Goodnight, Taylor," I said, speaking to the ghost who may or may not have been there. I closed the door behind me.

I had a lot to make up for, but I also felt as if I'd shed a burden I didn't know I had. Taylor had given me a second chance. I didn't deserve it, but maybe I could earn it. She'd fixed me, and now I could fix her.

And afterwards, maybe  . . .

As I rode the elevator down, I idly played with a handful of purple. I hadn't fully tested my powers, but I seemed to be a short range shaker that could work as a striker and brute. Maybe a short-range blaster. And maybe a low-rated thinker rating too, since the mist let me see through objects.

I hadn't won the lottery like Eidolon or Alexandria, but I was happy with the card I'd been dealt. I could be strong. Really strong, not a pathetic bully. I had no reason to be afraid of gang members with knives in alleyways. My powers were cool.

But they had nothing on Taylor's.

Taylor couldn't blast holes in walls or mass taser crowds, but she could change monsters into people. Was Sophia like me underneath all that hate? And how about major supervillains like Lung and Kaiser? Were they a week of bad dreams away from turning themselves in? Working from the shadows, could Taylor dismantle the gangs and make Brockton Bay a nice place to live?

I liked the idea, but there were two problems.

First, Taylor would have to be kept secret because the public would never accept a cape whose power could best be described as 'nightmare demon.' My parents felt bad for they way I've treated Taylor, but if they knew what she'd done to me, they'd reach for their torches and pitchforks.

The second problem was Taylor might accidentally out herself. Just by context, it had been pretty easy for me to figure out who was behind the ghost--I mean, who else could it have been? Madison?--but even if I hadn't known who Taylor was, she'd still left clues. I had no idea how her power worked, but maybe she could practice keeping certain things out of the dreams?

But I could worry about that later. I hadn't even doodled a costume yet.

***

That night I dreamed of the time when Taylor and me were kayaking. We were both twelve; it was about a year before Taylor's mother died. My family was visiting my grandparents, and Taylor had come along. There was a small lake near their house. Or at least we thought it was small. There'd been a recent flood, and piles of unearthed trees and bushes had made a wooded labyrinth of the water. As we rowed around one foggy bend and then the other, we soon found ourselves lost in what seemed a half-sunken forest from an old fairy tale--the scary kind, the ones with gray skies and lots of mud and that typically ended with the children in witches' cauldrons.

But we were big girls. And we'd brought picnic baskets. We beached our kayak, and on a tiny sandbar we ate a lunch of sandwiches and glass-bottled root beer. Cricket chirps filled the air, and I thought I saw an alligator. Taylor hummed the Jaws theme, but it was just a drifting log. Alligators didn't live this far north.

In the end, Taylor climbed a dead tree to find the way home. By the time we rowed to shore of the house, it was night, and my parents and grandparents had been worried sick.

We talked in the dream, but I don't remember what about. But I know we laughed. We were happy.

When I woke up I was crying, but I didn't mind.