"Nothing remained. Nothing. I destroyed them both. The tender weight of the boy's existence vanished like it was never there. And I'll never forgive myself."
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My vision drifts into a thoughtless blur as I stand in the shower, unmoving. The cool water glides across my skin, caressing the bruises already forming on my back. My mind hides away somewhere I can't find it, and I stand in the shower watching the dust from my skin swirl down the drain.
How long have I been standing here? Did I wash my hair? I think so.
I got home before my mom. Not much of a surprise there, but it gave me time to clean up and get out of my dirty clothes. I finish my shower and wrap my body in a fresh towel. I muster up a bit of bravery and take another look in the mirror.
I pull at my cheeks, searching for any black veins, but I only find a new pimple. All normal, if normal even applies here anymore. Deep red handprints wrap around my neck, proof he was there. I need to cover them up somehow.
The front door opens and shuts.
"Mija?" Mom calls out.
"I'm upstairs," I shout back, but I don't wait for a reply. If you want to talk to me, you come talk to my face, an opinion my mother has made abundantly clear.
I grab my dad's old green hoodie. Hopefully, it covers the bruises on my neck enough to slip under mom's nose. It drapes over my body just past my hips, and the sleeves hang over my fingertips. I slip my thumbs through the holes I cut in the sleeves, then bundle the fabric and press it into my face. It still smells like him, like cypress wood and lemon. I'll never wash it.
image [https://i.imgur.com/hf7N1Kt.png]
My throat still stings with bile, and my stomach isn't very welcoming to the dry chicken and rice on my plate. Nevertheless, I force it down. I'd rather be sick than listen to another lecture on wasted food.
"You didn't wear that to school today, did you?" My mother asks, as if that's a completely normal way to start a conversation. She looks up at me from the bundle of paperwork she's been scribbling on between bites.
"No." I stab the chicken. "It's just comfortable."
"I buy you nice clothes, and you never wear them," she says as her eyes drift back to her papers. "You'd make more friends if you didn't dress like a boy."
You mean the second-hand button ups and pink polos? I don't bother to voice my rebuttal. I learned a long time ago to avoid her conversational land mines. If dad were here, he'd probably say something like, Boys can make friends too, you know. He never learned to avoid her attempts to pick a fight, but somehow he always disarmed her. I, however, do not have his ability. So, I stuff my face with a piece of dry chicken.
"How was school?" She breaks the silence.
"Fine."
She clicks her tongue, reminding me how much she hates that answer. I give her the broad details, with the careful omission of skipping study hall to break into a crime scene.
"Your grandmother called today asking about you," she says.
"Granny?" I correct her. Mom never calls my dad's mother by her preferred name ever since he died. She isn't spiteful. I think she's just distancing herself from his memory. She doesn't even go by his last name anymore. Adelina Alvarado, Greenfield's hardest working councilwoman. I'm not so willing to forget his memory.
Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.
"I want you to visit her tomorrow," she ignores my correction.
"I was already planning to. Is she okay?"
"Yes, but she's lonely in that place. Dr. Ward is very kind to take her in, but we shouldn't take his generosity for granted." She places her fork down on her empty plate, which means the lectures have begun. Luckily, I'm not far behind her.
"Okay, I will." I scarf down the last bite, pick up my plate, and take it to the sink. "I've got homework," I say through a gulp. It isn't a lie, and it will help me escape this conversation. I quickly exit the kitchen, but not before one last remark.
"And mija," She pauses. Her shoulders tighten, then drop, as if she changed her mind about something. "Fix your nails. They look awful."
image [https://i.imgur.com/H28P1Wz.png]
Sanctuary washes over me as I cross the threshold of my bedroom. I close the door and fall flat on the bed. A long sigh escapes my lungs. I grab my stuffed sasquatch and squeeze it against my chest.
My room is still. A book of cryptids lays on my nightstand. My computer desk is covered with my notes and books on hauntings and lore. The walls are a collage of horror movie posters, pictures of dad and me, and my sketches. I like to sketch some of the spirits I see. It feels like I'm bringing them back to life somehow.
My mind goes back to the Davidson house. I hold my hand up, stretched toward the ceiling fan, imagining the explosion of energy. How did I even do that?
Suddenly, a cool breeze brushes over my skin. My awareness shifts and my senses spring to alert. Then, the lamp on my desk begins to flicker, and my closet door slowly creaks open.
"Maggie, not now," I huff.
"Oh come on," Maggie's dark silhouette appears from the shadow of my closet. "I get to be a ghost, and I'm stuck haunting you."
"You could always go through your portal," I sit up and give her a forced smile.
"Nah," she says as she floats across my room. Her features are less visible in the light. Only against the shadow can I make out her soft complexion, fog-white skin, and empty eyes. "You'd miss me too much."
She floats closer to me. "Something feels off about you today," she says.
"I broke into the Davidson house," I reply as I move to my computer.
I feel her excitement as she races around the room. "TELL. ME. EVERYTHING." She demands like a cheerleader hearing fresh gossip. The lights in my room flicker wildly.
"Maggie stop it," I attempt to hush her. I quickly turn on some music and turn up the volume. The last thing I need is my mom thinking I have someone in my room.
Maggie is—was?—my age. She died about ten years ago. Then, my family moved in. For whatever reason, her portal hasn't faded, and she haunts my room. Hearing about my days is the only way she experiences the world.
"Did you talk to the kid?" She continues in soft excitement. "Where the parents still there?"
"Sort of," I sigh. "And I killed them."
"You wha..." Her mouth drops.
I tell her every detail, though reimagining the burnt corpse choking me is painful. "I don't know, I just... exploded."
"You mean like your telekinetic burst?" She jabs her fists back and forth.
"No, and I don't have telekinesis. I'm not a superhero," I groan and open up my web blog.
I don't really have anyone living that understands what I go through everyday. So, I write my story under the name Spooks92. No one follows me, but it helps. Maybe someone else like me will read it... one day.
"You can see spirits, and you have magic powers." Maggie prances around the room, lights flickering as she passes them. "You're either a superhero or a witch. Ooooh. I like that better. You cast spells!"
I ignore her excitement. "No, I just... suddenly felt every emotion. Like emotions that weren't even mine. I felt all of them at once, fear, pain, rage... and I saw his memories." I look down at my hands. "I just panicked. I didn't know what to do. Then boom. It was all gone in a white blaze. The kid too."
"Woah." Maggie's face drops into a visible stupor. "Like a spirit bomb!"
I roll my eyes and begin my blog.
"The fire was a lie,” I type. “Now I know the real reason people don’t talk about it, why no one ever claimed it. That house felt wrong from the beginning, but the boy needed help. Maybe he should have pleaded with someone else..."
I finish it up and hit post. My eyes glaze over for a moment as I remember I actually do have homework. Suddenly, a little red dot appears on my inbox. My heart skips. I hover over it for a moment, afraid it's just spam, then click it.
There's already a comment on my last post from a username I don't recognize, HannaHex. Written beneath my post is one word.
Autumn?