Into the Dark

by Caroline T. Patti

  INTO THE DARK

  Caroline T. Patti

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The author makes no claims to, but instead acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of the word marks mentioned in this work of fiction.

  Copyright © 2015 Caroline T. Patti

  INTO THE DARK by Caroline T. Patti

  All rights reserved. Published in the United States of America by Month9Books, LLC.

  No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  Published by Month9Books

  Cover and typography designed by Victoria Faye of Whit&Ware

  Cover Copyright © 2015 Month9Books

  To Georgia McBride, who wouldn’t let me run and hide from my dreams.

  “Love of mine someday you will die

  But I’ll be close behind

  I’ll follow you into the dark.”

  ~Death Cab For Cutie

  INTO THE DARK

  Caroline T. Patti

  Chapter One

  Mercy

  A TV, bolted high on the wall, buzzes in the background, the faint sound of the local news reporter’s voice robotically reciting the events of the evening. “One dead and another in critical condition … ”

  The waiting room is empty of people. Plastic chairs line the walls. Magazines are strewn about. How did I get here?

  The news reporter continues to speak. “What appears to be a suicide occurred tonight in the alley behind local watering hole, Wally’s Pub. Closed for a private party, owner Kate McCrimons had no comment on tonight’s event. Relatives of the victim, high school teacher Matteo Andreas, were not available for comment.”

  It’s all coming back to me now. The party. The alley. Seeing Mr. Andreas with the gun in his mouth. Oh God.

  “Hey, you’re awake.” Jay stands before me holding two coffee cups.

  “Did you bring me here?” I rub my temples with the palm of my hand. My head is pounding.

  “You don’t remember?” Jay’s eyes narrow and tiny creases indent his furrowed brow. He doesn’t look at all like his normal goofy self. His brown eyes are concerned and focused intently on me.

  I close my eyes and hold my head in my hands. “I feel sick.”

  “Kate is on her way,” Jay continues. He sits down next to me and sets the cups on the table. “Just a warning, she’s pretty freaked out.”

  Tiny waves of nausea roll in my stomach. My mouth is dry and parched. “I’m gonna throw up.”

  “Shit.” Jay jumps from the chair. I can hear him scrambling around the room. The noise is making me feel worse.

  Something bangs into my legs. I open my eyes just a little to see a garbage can. Jay sits back down next to me and holds my hair back as the contents of my stomach empty. My stomach clenches as I grip the sides of the can. I hate throwing up. I hate the convulsions, the acid taste that fills my mouth, and the way a single strand of spittle dangles from my lip like I’m a drooling dog. Luckily, this is happening in front of Jay so it’s only moderately mortifying. Having known him all my life, he’s seen all sides of me: the good, the bad, and the worse.

  “Here.” Jay slips a napkin into my hands. He rubs my back lightly. “Should I get a doctor?”

  Jay kisses the top of my head and I flinch. My head snaps up too quickly and I stare at him while the room around me sways. “What are you doing?” I have to close my eyes again as another wave of sick crashes over me.

  He takes his hands off me. “What?”

  “Why’d you kiss me?” I peer at him sideways.

  “I’m sorry.” He says it like a question, and then he looks at me like I’m nuts. “I was just trying to make you feel better, Ly.”

  “Okay, but … ”

  He called me Ly. As in Lyla. My best friend Lyla. “Why are you calling me Ly?” My pounding head cannot take this conversation.

  “That’s what I always call you.” Jay shakes his head. His mop of curls swishes along his forehead. He brushes it out of his eyes by raking his hands through his hair. “How much did you drink tonight?”

  I’m not quite sure.

  The smell of my own sick is singeing my nostrils so even though it makes the room spin, I raise my head to look at him. A few strands of long, dark hair fall across my face. Hesitantly, I reach up and pull a clump around so I can see it better. My eyes cross as I stare at the nearly black hair. What the hell? Frantically, I pick at it, like an addict with a fixation.

  “Lyla, what are you doing?” Jay asks.

  I drop the pieces of hair and smooth them back. “Nothing.”

  “You’re acting really weird.”

  I’m acting weird? He’s the one who keeps calling me Lyla for God’s sake!

  “Here you guys are!” Lyla’s older sister, Kate, speaks with an exasperated tone. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you. There’s like sixty waiting rooms in this place.” She takes one look at the garbage in front of me and exhales, annoyed. Being a bar owner means Kate has plenty of experience with vomit. “You okay?”

  Slowly, I nod as I slide the can away from me with my feet.

  She sits in a chair just across from us. “I brought you some clothes.” She holds out a brown paper bag to me and waits for me take it.

  “Don’t give me any grief about what I picked. I was in a hurry.” Kate’s appearance is frazzled. Deep brown curls spill forth from the messy bun of hair piled on top of her head. Her feet jiggle up and down. Kate always fidgets when she’s nervous.

  In the bag I find Lyla’s “Crazy for Cupcakes” tee, a pair of jeans, and some flip-flops. Why did Kate bring me Lyla’s clothes?

  “Do we know anything?” Kate asks.

  “No,” Jay tells her. “We’re still waiting for the doctor.”

  “Is Eric here yet?” Kate asks about my dad.

  “Not yet,” Jay answers.

  My dad is on his way. Relief sinks in knowing that in a few minutes I’ll be able to hug him and he’ll make everything okay again.

  “You want some coffee?” Jay reaches for the cup and holds it out to Kate. He gestures toward me as he says, “I got it for Ly, but I don’t think she wants it.”

  I do not. I hate coffee.

  “Sure.” Kate takes the cup and sips slowly. She gives me a reproachful look when she says, “You drink too much coffee as it is.”

  I start to protest, to tell them both that it’s Lyla, not me, who insists on stopping every morning at Peet’s, but Kate quickly adds, “Well, go change. This isn’t exactly the place for heels and cleavage.”

  Cleavage? I look down and see what she means. I’m busting out of the seams! This isn’t my dress. This is Lyla’s dress. I would never wear a dress like this. For one thing, it’s pink. And it looks like dip-dyed ace bandages wrapped around my body. I hold the bag close to my chest hoping to conceal my heaving flesh. Wait. I don’t have heaving flesh. And I don’t have raven hair. Something is very, very wrong.

  “Okay.” As I stand to go, I teeter on Lyla’s five-inch stilettos. Jay catches my elbow and steadies me.

  “You need some help?” he offers.

  “I got it.” I think. I cannot get away from them fast enough. Not only do I feel like I’m going to vomit again, but I also feel like I’m having a mental breakdown. My hair is a different color. My breasts are like cantaloupes. I’m not wearing my own clothes. I swallow hard to push down the
panic and a touch of bile.

  Kate eyes me suspiciously. “Do you want me to come with you, just in case? You don’t look so good.”

  “I’ll be fine,” I say, hoping to reassure both her and myself.

  I don’t have much confidence that I can walk far in Lyla’s shoes. For a split second I think about going barefoot, but decide against it. Luckily, it turns out the bathroom is just across the hall.

  Lyla’s dress clings to me like Saran Wrap. I must look like Bambi learning to walk as I concentrate on putting one foot in front of the other. The carpet of the waiting room isn’t that treacherous, but the slick, overly polished hallway isn’t as forgiving. My left ankle rolls and I stumble just as I reached the bathroom door. Damn!

  The bathroom is dark. I flip the wall switch and the light flickers, groans, and burns nearly out, casting a ghoulish yellow glow of light over the room. “Great.”

  I grope my way toward the sink. It is then that my eyes adjust to the dark, and for the first time I see my reflection.

  Only it isn’t my face peering back at me. It’s Lyla’s, my best friend since the third grade. Leaning in closer, I stare, mouth agape, into the mirror. Her blue eyes are rimmed with multiple coats of black eyeliner. The red of her lipstick is faded, leaving her lips with only a hint of berry stain. My hands explore, skimming the sides of her cheek, hoping, praying that at any second the illusion will shatter. Despite my desperate hopes, the reflection never morphs from Lyla’s into mine.

  I rack my brain trying to piece together everything that happened tonight. It’s my birthday I suddenly remember. We were having a party at Kate’s bar. A party I didn’t want. Lyla had talked Gage into being my date. Well, more like forced. But we were having a good time. He’s really nice. I went outside; I remember that part. And my teacher was there, that letch Mr. Andreas, and he grabbed me. He kept saying all this weird stuff to me and I tried to get away and that’s when Gage came out and started yelling at him. Mr. Andreas had a gun. And he … and he …

  I remember the sound of the gun going off, and the brief second of relief I felt when I realized he hadn’t shot Gage. But then I saw all the blood. There was so much blood.

  I stagger backward knocking into the stall door. It swings open and I drop to my knees over the toilet. I heave and heave, but nothing comes up. I curl into a sitting position. My fingers knot into my hair.

  When I finally stand up, I expect—okay hope—that everything will have returned to normal, that I’ll be me again, and that seeing Lyla was just some sort of weird post-traumatic stress thing. But when I look in the mirror, I don’t see me. I see her.

  This isn’t possible. There’s no way. I must be dreaming. That’s the only explanation. This is just a dream. A very strange, twisted dream.

  But it isn’t a dream. I press my hand to the mirror. It’s solid. It’s real. This is really happening.

  “Shit! Shit! Shit! Shit! Shit!” I curse as the mother of all freak-outs rumbles inside me. What am I supposed to do now?

  Chapter Two

  How did this happen?

  I know that at some point I am going to have to leave this bathroom, but I can’t bear to face anyone. What will I say? It’s not like I can just walk up to everyone and calmly (okay, hysterically) tell them that I’m not Lyla, that I’m Mercy.

  Mercy Clare: sixteen, daughter of Eric and Molly, average grades, average height, average bust size. That’s me. I look again at Lyla’s reflection. Not this. I am not this.

  I peel off the dress. Seeing Lyla naked is shocking. Our bodies can’t be more different. Lyla is tone and fit. She has muscles and sizable breasts. I am shorter, softer, with features less developed than hers. I fumble with the straps of these stupid heels nearly falling over. My hands are trembling and I can’t make them work. Violently, I yank the shoe off and hurl it at the wall. It bounces and skids to a stop.

  I stare into the mirror, stunned and stupid. Like being buried alive, I’m trapped in a tiny space with no possible means of escape. I want to claw at her skin, to peel it from the bones.

  “Get a grip, Mercy,” I speak aloud to Lyla’s reflection. “You’ll figure this out.”

  Dressed and ready, I step back out into the hall and head to the waiting room. My dad is there. His clothes are rumpled and his hair sticks up at odd angles.

  It’s a struggle not to rush to him. I will him to look at me. Please, Daddy, please look at me. See me! Know something is wrong. Please. He does look at me, at Lyla, for a split second, but he only smiles thinly before staring at the floor again.

  I can’t just stand there gawking at him, so I do what Lyla would do: I sit next to Jay. He takes my hand, intertwines his fingers with mine, and lightly kisses my knuckles. Like a bullet I shoot from the chair.

  “What’s wrong?” Jay looks startled, concerned.

  “Huh? Nothing.” Other than the fact that he’s my best friend’s boyfriend and he just kissed my hand!

  Tears threaten at the corners of my eyes. I know what I have to do. I have to tell them. There’s no way I can handle this by myself, so why not just shout it out? Sure, they’ll think I’m crazy at first, but I’ll get them to believe me. I’ll make them believe me.

  Just as I open my mouth, a woman holding a clipboard enters the room.

  “Mr. Clare?”

  “Yes.” My father looks hopefully at her.

  “Dr. Mason would like to speak with you. Would you mind following me?”

  He nods. And nods. And nods. But he doesn’t move right away. The air in the room evaporates and my lungs squeeze together as I watch him slowly stand. He doesn’t say anything to us. He looks so much older than he did just a few seconds ago. He’s stooped and shuffling behind the lady as they disappear out of sight.

  No one speaks while we wait. I pace around the room while the clock on the wall ticks for an eternity. And then it ticks some more.

  I hear shuffling in the hall, and I know it’s my father coming back into the room. I clamp my hand over my mouth when I see him. His eyes are rimmed with red. He swallows and starts to speak, but we know. We all know.

  “They lost her.” He sobs.

  My knees buckle.

  Kate and Jay huddle around me. We join in a collective state of stupor as the reality of Dr. Mason’s message takes hold.

  Jay and Kate both cry. Two of the most stoic people I know are crumbling. Kate squeezes what little air I have left right out of me. Jay mumbles, “Oh, my God,” over and over.

  I want to tell them the truth. I want to make their pain go away. But what can I say? We are mourning the wrong person. I’m not dead. Lyla is.

  Or is she? Oh, my God, Lyla! I hadn’t even stopped to think about her. Panic sweeps over me as a million questions, none of which I can answer, torture my thoughts. Lyla, where are you?

  Did I do this to her? On top of everything else, I now feel sinking, strangling guilt.

  My attention snaps back to the moment as Dr. Mason asks my father if he has family he can call. I realize there’s no one. It’s been just the two of us since my mom died six years ago.

  I want to scream, “His family is right here!” But what good will that do?

  My feet glue themselves to the floor. Eventually, my whole body, Lyla’s body, goes numb.

  Over the next few minutes several different hospital staffers, including a chaplain, stop by to speak with my dad. All offer their condolences before handing him flyers about grief and asking him to sign documents. The last lady that comes by, a plump, squishy woman with a rat’s nest for hair, wants to discuss arrangements for the body.

  My body.

  “There’s several options available to you.” She speaks softly, but it feels like she is screaming in my ears. It’s wrong, so utterly wrong that she is calmly, casually giving my dad a sales pitch. “We have a lovely selection of caskets and there’s always the option of cremation.”

  Cremation? Did she just say cremation? Will my f
ather even consider that? The picture of myself burning and melting in a blazing fire is enough to jolt me back to life. I bolt toward the exit.

  “Lyla!” Jay calls out to me, but I am too far gone to stop.

  Chapter Three

  I run from the waiting room, down the hall, and into the stairwell like an Olympic sprinter, not stopping or even slowing until I reach the far corner of the parking lot. Lyla’s lungs fill with air as her muscles pump and tense in a way that mine never do. She is agile and the sensation of running gives life to her body. She moves gracefully, steadily, whereas I lumber when I run, held back by my short stature and tiny frame.

  The endorphins wear off and I collapse into a heap of exhaustion as the breakdown I’ve been suppressing floods forth. Black trails from Lyla’s mascara-drenched tears stain her cheeks.

  Everything about wearing someone else’s skin gives me the shivers. It’s wrong, like an ill-fitting costume. These are her arms and legs, her hands, even her tears. I don’t want to be in her body anymore. But I don’t want to be dead either. I’m not ready to let go of my life, my friends. I’m only sixteen! Too young to die. We are both too young to die.

  “Lyla!” I hear Jay’s voice calling in the distance. “Ly!”

  The thing is, Jay isn’t just Lyla’s boyfriend. He’s my next-door neighbor and one of the best friends I’ve ever had. He’s the perfect combination of sexy and dorky. Nerd chic, Lyla calls it. Jay’s the guy who trips over a bump on the sidewalk, spills drinks down the front of his shirt, but doesn’t get embarrassed by it. And when he smiles at you, it’s like no other person in the world exists. When he finds out that I’m not Lyla it’s going to crush him.

  What if he hates me forever?

  Maybe I don’t have to tell him. Maybe I can go on being her forever. It wouldn’t be so terrible. Lyla is smart, a good athlete, everyone likes her. We’ve borrowed everything from each other over the years. Is this really that different?