by Shaye Easton
“You must go.”
“Go where?”
She points. A figure emerges from the darkness, wearing blood-splattered clothes. Holding a bat in one hand and a gun in the other. Blood drips from the nose. Eyes pained and pleading.
“Help me,” Sara says.
I open my mouth to speak but the flickering light has winked out of existence and suddenly I’m falling. Down, down, down. Time and space collapsing away on either side until there’s only darkness and a steady, slow whoosh…whoosh…whoosh.
Then there’s an orb of light shooting through the dark like a falling star. A dozen dead bodies, mutilated and bleeding at my feet. The sound of something sharp embedding itself in something soft and squelchy. And Lauren standing before me, crimson blood dribbling down the side of her mouth.
“It’s over,” she says, blood bubbling on her tongue as she spits out the words. She falls to her knees, her head crashing into oblivion mere inches from my feet as I scramble backwards.
Then I glimpse the large chunk of car metal in her back, still glowing red-hot from where it’s been burnt. The dead rise up behind her, jaws slack, flesh peeling off their faces. “You killed her,” they say.
I back up, terrified, shaking my head violently. “No! I didn’t, I swear!”
“You killed all of us.”
They lumber forward, wobbling on broken legs, bone poking out of their knees, out of their ribs, out of their necks. Some don’t have arms. Some have heads torn half-off. Blood sprays out of every opened wound, every orifice, and saturates the floor, pooling around my ankles.
I stumble back into something solid. Screaming, I jerk away. It’s Davion, wearing his pristine black suit. “It’s all your fault,” he tells me.
I shake my head, tears spilling in abundance from my eyes. They mix with the blood at my feet, turning it into an ocean. It rises up around me.
“I didn’t mean for any of this to happen,” I cry.
“That’s no excuse,” he says, except now he’s Sara. “You’re worse than I am,” she spits. “You’re the worst of us all.”
And then everyone disappears: Sara, Davion, Lauren, the dead clones. I’m left alone in a sea of blood. It surges up, over my head. It’s in my eyes. It floods my mouth. I choke on it. I drown.
***
I wake with a gasp, bolting upright in bed. My heart is pounding and my forehead slick with sweat. I don’t remember falling asleep last night. I remember a lot of darkness, a lot of fear, a lot of tossing and turning, staring at the ceiling, eyes wide open. But I didn’t think I’d be able to sleep.
After that dream, I never want to again.
I get out of bed. It’s a Saturday, which means doing my homework and lazing around. But all my books are still in my locker at school. I left them there after Sara collapsed and we had to carry her to Caden’s car.
When I changed out of my clothes last night, I left them in a heap at the foot of the bed. Now I pick them up. My jacket is singed and missing an entire chunk of fabric in the shoulder. Everything else is dirty and torn. But there’s an overwhelming amount of brown stains. I swallow, realising what it is.
Dried blood.
I drop the clothes and hurry over to the mirror. My heart lurches in horror. There’s rust-coloured splatters all over my face. The stuff has coagulated in my hair. If my parents hadn’t already been asleep when I got home last night, if I hadn’t woken early…
I panic and check the time on my phone, which I’d left on my bedside table overnight. It’s 7:00. They could be up at any moment. They’ll be up in an hour for sure, when their alarm goes off.
There’s no time to waste. I grab my clothes and run—as fast as I can without waking anyone—down the stairs and outside. I pull up to the garbage bins alongside the house and shove them down as deep as I can manage.
Back inside, I head straight for the shower. I strip, almost tripping over my pyjama shorts in my haste to get free of them. I don’t let myself think too much about what I’m doing, what I’m hiding, what crime I’m washing from my skin. I just do, scrubbing incessantly, scrubbing every inch of my body, scrubbing until my skin is ruddy and raw.
Afterwards, I throw my pyjamas into the wash. Then, I proceed to check my sheets for stains or flecks of anything remotely suspicious. In the end, I throw them into the washer as well. I’m just starting the load when my mother walks in the laundry, yawning and bleary-eyed.
“You were out late last night,” she says. “Did you enjoy the party?”
I’m taken aback. Then I recall sending her a hurried text before we left Rand’s.
“It was fun,” I’m sure my emotions are as clear as day on my face, but she doesn’t seem to notice, her eyes still hazy with sleep.
She lowers her gaze to my hands. “What are you doing?”
“The laundry,” I reply innocently.
She gives her head a little shake, eyes rolling up like she’s asking some higher power what she ever did to end up with such a strange daughter. Then she walks out, leaving me alone. I breathe a shaky sigh of relief.
Later I wander downstairs and toss some bread in the toaster. Dad says good morning around the Weet-Bix in his mouth. I smile back at him, turning away quickly when I can no longer keep it up. My mind whirls with images, some from my dream, some from my memories, some from both. I hear the dead clones, blaming me for Lauren’s death. And maybe they’re right. Lauren was only harmed because I allowed her to get close to me. If I’d kept my distance, then she might still be here.
I hear Davion, telling me it was all my fault. I hear Sara, saying pretty much the same thing: “You’re the Final Prophet. Everything that happens, happens because of you. At some stage, you’re going to have to accept that everything is your fault.”
Everything comes back to me: Lauren, walking away from me at school, angry about something I didn’t understand; Lauren, at the party, happy and welcoming while I push on past. I watch her collapse to the ground over and over. Sometimes she’s in the house covered in glass from the shattered window, blood seeping out of her chest. Sometimes she’s on the road, and the metal I flung is in her back. And sometimes it’s not Lauren I see at all: it’s Sara, blaming me for how her life turned out, blood streaming from her nose; it’s my parents, terrified and bound in our living room.
I end up burning the toast, but it doesn’t matter. I’m no longer hungry. The guilt I felt in my dream wraps itself around my stomach and squeezes hard. I’m a danger to everyone around me. Why has it taken me so long to see that?
“Mum? Dad?” I say. The words leave my mouth like a lie.
“Mmm?”
I turn away from the counter to face them, sitting on either side of the dining table. My hands shake so violently I have to tuck them behind my back. “I’m sorry.”
They look at each other. “What about, honey?” Mum asks.
“I’m sorry for putting you through all this. It was selfish, and I’m sorry.”
Mum chuckles. “It’s okay. It was just one party. As long as you let us know a little sooner next time—”
“This isn’t about the party, Mum. This is about…everything.”
They both stare. At last Dad says, “Your disease isn’t your fault, Melissa. You know that, right?”
“But it is. It all is. I destroyed your lives.”
Neither moves to comfort me, and even if they want to, they can’t. I’ll burn them. I’m inconsolable. My mother stares at me like I’ve unearthed some of her deepest fears. “Melissa, you’re scaring me. What is this about?”
“I’ve been so selfish. I should have told your sooner.” I can hardly bear looking at them.
“Told us what?”
The words are there, circling in my lungs. They rise, flowing up my throat and puddling in my mouth.
The words are right there. And I know it’s a bad idea and I’m not thinking straight. I know there are better ways to deal with the weight of everything, pummelling my spirit into dust. But at that
moment, the best way I can think to carry that weight is to let it go.
So I let the words out.
“I’m not your daughter.”
Chapter Thirty-Three
The response is immediate. It’s written all over their faces. It’s written in the air. My father looks down and shakes his head.
“Melissa,” Mum sighs, all the fear rolling off her figure in an instant, “why would you even say that?”
The trees thrash outside. An engine revs. The neighbourhood grows loud and busy, as if the universe itself is conspiring to sweep me and my truths under the rug.
I won’t let it.
“Because it’s true!” I cry. “I took your daughter from you. I tore your family apart.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. You are our daughter.”
“I’m not. Please believe me.”
My mother shakes her head. “Where is this coming from? Did someone say something to you? You know better than to listen to the rumours, Melissa.” When she says my name, all I hear is disappointment.
“It’s not a rumour. It’s the truth. You have to believe me.”
Mum sends a withering look to my father. He exhales. “You’ve had a long night, Mel. How about you go back to bed? Get some rest? We can talk about this when you’re feeling a little better.”
I feel like tearing my hair out. “Don’t you understand? I don’t need rest. I need forgiveness! I put your lives in danger and then I lied to you about it.” I drop my head. “This is all my fault. Everything’s my fault.”
Mum puts her mug of tea down on the table. The sound of it is like a slap. “I don’t know where this is coming from, Melissa, but you need to cut it out. Please listen to your father. Get some sleep. I don’t want to hear it anymore.”
My heart cracks, the weight piling back on. They don’t believe me. They’ve taken my pain and rebranded it a fault.
I rush upstairs. I’m a dreadful mix of guilt, grief, fear and rage. I’m feeling all these things at once which means the only thing I really feel is pain.
Intense emotions, I find, are indistinguishable. Joy and sorrow. Rage and fear. They all just weld together into one mega-emotion, a wave of indescribable feeling rushing up from the heart and consuming the body. It usually involves tears.
Today, it involves packing.
I dig around in my closet until I find my old Country Road duffle. I splay it open on my bed and begin stuffing as many clothes as I can in, pushing them right into the corners of the bag. In the bathroom, I swipe up a collection of toiletries and shove them on top of everything else.
As I’m zipping up my bag, my eyes snag on a photo sitting on my dresser. It’s of my parents and me, standing in front of the farmhouse from my childhood. It’s strange to think that after everything that’s happened, the people in the picture are still smiling—still young and carefree, immortalised that way. Surely those smiles should have faded by now. Surely a memory like this can’t exist in the world I live in.
A more sentimental version of myself might have packed it. But in my state of pain, I slam it face down.
I sling my bag over one shoulder and leave the room. Caden was right. I’m all alone here. I can’t bear it.
I run into Dad at the bottom of the stairs. “Melissa?” he says, stepping into my path. “What are you doing?”
I step around him. “Leaving.”
Mum materialises by the door. “No, you’re not.”
“Yes, I am,” I reply, reaching for the handle, swinging the door open.
“Melissa, please,” Dad begs.
“It’s for your own good.” I step out and stride down the path.
Mum’s not having it. “Don’t be ridiculous. Come back inside.” I don’t reply. “Where will you go?”
I swing open the front gate. And maybe the anger wears off just a little. Or maybe I was never angry to begin with. But for whatever reason, I stop and look back at them, one dressed in annoyance, one in confusion, and both in concern.
“I’m sorry,” I tell them. “I’m sorry for doing this. I’m sorry you got me as your daughter.” I close the gate and look down, adding softly, “It should have been Sara.”
Then I’m off. I don’t allow myself to look back.
***
Half an hour later, after I’ve sent him a hurried text, Caden finds me a couple streets over, pacing.
“What happened?”
I shake my head. “I’ve messed up, Caden. I-I’ve ruined everything.”
“Melissa,” he says firmly, stopping before me, “tell me what happened.”
I can’t think. I can’t breathe. I claw at my chest, wanting more than anything to yank out my heart so I can no longer feel it. “I hurt them again.”
“Hurt who?”
“My parents,” I choke out. “I told them and they didn’t believe me and I got angry and . . . and . . .I left them. I just left them there, even though I knew I was hurting them. I was just so . . . so–”
“Okay, Melissa, you need to slow down. What did you tell them?”
“Who I was,” I whimper. “Who I am. That I’m not their daughter.”
Caden exhales. “It’s going to be okay.”
I shake my head. “No, it’s not going to be okay! I keep hurting people, Caden. I hurt those underwalkers at the party. I hurt that man on the road. I mean, I killed him. I impaled him. Oh god, I—” I take a gasping breath. “I hurt Lauren and now she’s dead. She’s dead because of me. She’s dead, Caden.”
“None of that is your fault.”
“Don’t you see? It’s all my fault! I’m the Final Prophet! I’m the reason all of this is happening!”
“You can’t help who you’re born as. That’s not something you can control.”
“That doesn’t change anything! I’m still the reason everyone’s getting hurt. Sara said it herself. I’m to blame for everything. And I can’t . . . I can’t bear it.”
“Sara doesn’t really blame you; she’s just hurt. She’s had a rotten life but that isn’t your fault. You didn’t do that. The underwalkers did. Davion did.”
“Because of me!” My sight blurs. I can’t see him. I’m alone and gasping for air. “He did it because of me.”
“Melissa, you’re panicking. Please. Just take a deep breath.”
But I can’t. I can’t focus on anything but the thoughts and images in my head, all rising like ghouls, all with fingers pointing towards me, mouths bloody and agape. All bashed in skulls and burnt flesh. All impaled bodies and seeping chests. All screaming I’m to blame. It’s my dream again. I’m drowning in blood. Only this time, I’m awake.
My stomach lurches.
Caden takes my face in his hands, forcing me to look at him. I recoil at the touch, fearing that I’ll burn him. But he’s wearing his dark leather gloves. Of course, he is. It must be freezing.
“Look at me,” he says. “Melissa, look at me.”
Finally, I comply. Eyes like ink. Eyes like a clear, starless night. Eyes like the calm, undisturbed water of a lake at midnight. Eyes like a void; I tumble headfirst into the rich and comforting darkness. “You’re going to be okay,” he tells me. “You’ll get through this. I’m going to help you get through this.”
I take a deep breath. In and out. The blood is gone. It’s just his eyes.
“You’re going to be okay,” he repeats softly. “I won’t let anything happen to you.”
And even though it’s crazy, even though no one has that sort of power, the sort that can save me from harm, save me from death, save me from fate, I believe him.
Intense emotions are all the same. It’s just one rush of feeling, one overwhelming sense that your heart has gotten too great, too heavy for your body. I get that sense again now. It sweeps me off my feet and knocks me into him. I collapse into his arms.
And I cry.
***
At nine I’m sitting on Rand’s couch, hands cupped around a cup of steaming tea, watching the TV on mute. Caden and Rand are b
usy in another room. It appears they’ve been up for hours.
I’ve somewhat calmed down since this morning, but I’ve learned to fear closing my eyes, to avoid inoccupation. Moments of quiet and stillness have become a nightmare; they’ve become a channel for the blood, an open door letting it all sweep back in and suffocate me.
The screen changes. Suddenly I’m seeing footage of Kira’s house. There are police cars, ambulances, news reporters, a whole host of concerned neighbours and passers-by, and officials swarming the place. Along the bottom is scrolling text that reads, Breaking News: Massacre in Corven Lake. I grab the remote and turn on the sound.
“…found late last night. Police have yet to release the identity of the victims, but have confirmed a total of twenty-six dead and two missing in what appears to be the latest and most horrific incident of gang violence this year.”
The screen cuts to an interview with a brunette girl I barely recognise from school. “We heard gunshots and then everyone was screaming. I just remember running. It was crazy. I don’t think anyone knew what was going on. We were just running.”
“The local residence was thrown into turmoil when a party took a dangerous turn,” continues the news reporter, various shots of the house and witnesses and police tape looping on the screen. In the morning light, the house looks like a different place. “Partygoers fled the scene after initial gunshots evoked mass hysteria. There were no reports by witnesses of any sightings of gang members; however, investigators speculate that the early gunshots were merely a scare tactic to clear the area before they arrived. The massacre is believed to be the result of two warring gangs butting heads.”
“One teenager, missing since the incident, is thought to be crucial to understanding what happened late Friday night. She has been identified as Lauren Archer, a student at nearby Southlake High. Peers report she was friendly and popular, and deny that she was involved with gangs. It is currently suspected that drugs were involved.”
“Twenty-five of the twenty-six casualties were reportedly killed by blows to the head, while the remaining was shot. No murder weapons have been found; however, police are still combing the surrounding area.”