by Nessa Morgan
Prologue
They say it feels as if you’re falling asleep—death. I wouldn’t know. I wouldn’t even remember.
If anyone were to ask me about it—about that night and what happened, I couldn’t say if I died. I don’t remember anything.
There wasn’t a white light that sticks out in my mind—nothing even close to that in my memory. No warmth that surrounded me and comforted me. I didn’t see my mother waiting for me. I didn’t see anyone.
If I died, even briefly, I hope that it was everything they say. That there is a God and he helps you through the gates, welcomes you with open arms, that I saw family members before they rushed me back through the light to life. Or maybe I was in the in-between. That little bit of limbo Dante described, waiting for my Virgil.
It doesn’t really matter.
I am still here.
Life isn’t easy; I will be the first to tell you that. It is hard, dirty, and disgusting—more disgusting and disturbing than anything else. Most of the time I want to give up. Most of the time I don’t care. And most of the time, every single damn day of my life, I’m numb and unaware.
That is how I like it.
One
Survivor—there’s a word everyone loves to use to describe me. Joey, you’re a survivor, Dr. Jett will tell me during sessions as if it makes me feel better about anything. You survived something traumatic, honey, Hilary will say when I’m freaking out and having a panic attack. I survive—I survive—I survive. That is all I hear when someone wishes to talk about it, when someone brings it up out of the blue because talking about it makes them a saint for caring and me a martyr for going through it.
Because I survive.
For a while, I believed it. I listened to every word they strung together to make me sound brave. You suffered. You’ve been through a lot. You’ve had a hard life, Joey. I believed it all. I believed I was strong, I believed I could conquer the world with one hand tied behind my back. I believed I was more than just the girl who almost died at the hands of her deranged father.
I believed it all.
I was the survivor.
I was the girl who lived. The girl who came out swinging when someone tried to throw her away. I was the little girl that wished everything would one day be the same while also wishing for everything to be very different.
I was the one that lived.
The only one that lived.
That was a heavy burden to bear for a broken little girl.
Soon, that began to sink in and I understood what it meant: I was the only one to live; I was the only one that walked away from that tragedy. Not my mother. Not my sister. Not my brother. Just me. There was only me.
I remained here, broken, alone, and lost. No family, nobody, no person I could call my own. It was just me.
And it has been just me for such a long time.
Now, the word survivor destroys me. It kills what remains inside me, what little heart I have, and I can’t move on no matter how hard I try. I can’t bury this guilt that hangs over me; I cannot find an outcome suitable for living a healthy life. I find life to be pointless almost every second of every day—but ending it is just too easy. An easy fix to a hard problem. No, I feel the need to suffer through this. I need to suffer through this, I need to feel this pain, this heavy, suffocating pain that starts deep in my bones, this pain that radiates around me, sucking the air from my lungs and the pulse from my skin, this pain that takes over every little bit of me. Because it is my fault.
My fault.
It’s my fault.
I couldn’t save them.
I couldn’t save my own mother—the woman that gave me life—from her terrible fate. I couldn’t save Ivy or Noah; I couldn’t even save myself from the rest of my life—the rest of this life of loneliness and hopelessness.
I couldn’t save anyone.
I wouldn’t even know how to do it, where to begin to change that night, prevent it from happening at all.
It plays out in my mind—the long walk to my mother’s room, the creak of my light footsteps on the loose floorboards of the hallway, the walk to her bedside, my hand reaching out for hers as it dangles from the edge of the bed. I can see it perfectly in my mind, as if watching a movie on repeat. To me, that’s exactly what it is—a movie. A horror movie I can’t and never will escape. It is so vivid; I can see it but I can’t change it. There’s nothing I can do to change it—not a damn thing.
In this movie, she will always be dead no more than a foot away from me as I stare at her hoping she’ll awaken and clutch me to her chest in a tight hug, comforting me the only way she knows how.
The scars lining my stomach and back tingle and burn as I clutch the locket in my hand, feeling the owl on the front bite into the flesh of my palm. I gasp when I squeeze tighter, feeling it click against something—a bone?—in my hand. I welcome the pain, anything to distract me from my mind—it’s always wanted, if anything. It tugs me away from the dark, painful memories, pushing me toward a recent one I can’t prevent from replaying, one on constant loop since the day it happened.
He kneels before me, his dark hair covering his face, breaking—shattering—in place. He keeps his resolve, he keeps the pieces of him together, but his eyes, once a vibrant and bright chocolate brown, are dimming to mud. His heart is breaking right before my eyes and I am tearing him apart with my words.
I can’t.
The words repeat, constantly repeats in my mind—it doesn’t stop despite how much I beg.
I just can’t.
Staring at him, at his beautiful flawless features, the apology I wish to throw at him, the explanation I wish to give him, about why—because he deserves the why—dies on my chapped lips. All he does is stare at me—hopeless and abandoned.
I have abandoned him.
Are you breaking up with me?
The answer I want to use, the word I wish to say, does not form. It is a hollow syllable, a forgotten phrase, and it’s a cough in my throat, catching somewhere else in my body before it has a chance to reach the tongue and cross my lips.
I love him. I will always love him. It’s Zephyr—he is Zephyr, the boy next door, he’s the one—I know all of this. I know every little thing there is to know about him. I know he hates the color orange; he hates even more to paint with it so he never buys it. I know he has a secret love for butterflies so much he’ll paint pictures and pictures of them just to see them when the weather is not right for them to flit through the air.
I know what he looks like angry, I know what he looks like happy, I know him excited, annoyed, sad—I know every emotion to grace his beautiful face, but I didn’t know what he looked like broken. I never knew what he could possibly look like broken and tarnished. I never knew that his usually warm chocolate eyes would dim deep dirt brown, his frown would dive deeper into his face, and he would just stop talking.
He won’t even look at me.
I never knew any of this about the boy across the alley.
Yes.
With one word, I saw it all. I watched him shatter and break into tiny, indistinguishable pieces. I watched him implode before me.
Tightening my grip, feeling the points of the silver-and-gold owl biting painfully into my flesh, I can make it all go away. The memory, the sight of him, everything, can just disappear—but only briefly.
The pain I feel—although momentary—will grow when the focus leaves my palm. When I am finally aware of the issue that is my life, everything will rush back with earth-shattering force and I will just be here taking it in, riding the wave until something else comes along.
And it will be worse. It will be so much worse.
“You’re not even listening to me,” Kennie
belts in a sing-song to be heard over the loud pop music blaring through the car stereo. Her manicured hand snaps to the radio, flicking the dial of volume to the left until the music is at a reasonable volume for discussion. My attention snaps back to reality—despite my hope I can just fade into the background and become one of those minor characters no one notices—and Kennie’s glaring at me from the driver’s seat, her thickly-lined blue eyes narrowed in annoyance. We haven’t reached the school yet. We are still three stoplights away, sitting behind a car with a busted tail light and a Go Hawks bumper sticker. It’s something to focus on. Since it’s still professional football season, I think Seattle Seahawks, but the colors are wrong—so it shows pride for my school—Home of the Hawks.
Kennie snaps her fingers in my face, an annoying habit she has picked up from someone on the cheer team—my guess: Alexia Cavanaugh—one habit she needs to stop or I will snap those pretty little fingers right off her hand. Let’s see how she likes me snapping fingers.
Rolling my eyes, I mutter, “Sorry,” before dragging my owl-imprinted hand through my frizzy hair. It’s still damp from my morning shower; my hand comes away smelling like my cherry blossom conditioner—the floral scent floating through the air. I need to change that soon—Zephyr loves cherry blossoms. He is all I can think about when I smell my shampoo. “What were you saying?” I ask, trying to feign interest but it’s hard with Kennie sometimes.
“I was talking about Duke,” she replies matter-of-factly, flipping back her blonde hair. “We have this visit planned for this weekend. I feel like—”
And now I am tuning her out again.
As much as I love her—and I honestly do—I cannot listen to her talk about her boyfriend. Not right now. Not when my heart has snapped in half, irreparably snapped in half. She and Duke are good to go for marriage down the line, as weird as that is to say about a couple that met in high school, but they could do it. I have never seen a couple matched quite like them. Well, not until Harley and Avery. That was a pairing I never saw coming. But now it makes so much sense when I see them together.
With my two best friends in so much love, it’s sickening, it’s unbearable to be around them. It’s annoying to hear them speak of their boyfriends with so much awe, so much devotion and happiness, it is even more unbearable to see it—thankfully, Duke is away at university over two-hundred fifty miles away. I would lose it if I was constantly flanked by couples as I walked down the halls. It’s hard enough to be around Harley and Avery during their honeymoon stage.
If I have to see one more public display of affection the way they do it—it’s adorably gross the way they nearly vacuum each other’s faces off—I might just snap and live up to the lie that is my future.
“—so understand?”
“Huh?” I ask Kennie as she pulls her Mazda into her parking spot near the front of the lot. It’s closer than Jamie’s assigned spot but Kennie’s a cheerleader, she was graced with priority when selecting spots thanks to Alexia and her ass-kissing ways.
“Joey, you’re a thousand miles away,” Kennie whispers. Her car is still running meaning her radio is still too loud for me to hear her. But I do. And her words cut right through me, straight through my already damaged heart. Blue eyes cast over me with pity, something I don’t need or want right now, so I unclick my seatbelt before she even parks the car—prepared to jump headfirst into traffic to avoid whatever conversation she wishes to have. “Look, Joey, I’m sorry, I’m just—we’re all just worried about you. You’re not here anymore.”
“What do you mean, I’m right here.” I force a laugh, tugging my ponytail over my shoulder out of nervousness, feeling my drying-frizzy curls tickle against my arms. A jacket felt like overkill this morning despite the crippling cold seeping through the thin fabric of my clothes—I tossed it in my backpack for good measure. It’s the middle of January in Washington, I’m not that big an idiot.
Though, I could use the sick day.
Kennie releases a long, drawn out sigh. “You know what I mean. You’re off in your head most of the time, it’s like you’re just vacant.”
It’s like I’m vacant. I have been nonexistent for the past few weeks now; I already know this. I’m a hollow shell. The ghost of a girl.
But she has a point. Harley and Kennie aren’t the most observant people in the world but they aren’t stupid—I refuse to talk these days, I refuse contribution to conversations. I never really have anything to say to them, not while they are so freaking happy all the damn time. I don’t want to be that crappy, jealous friend who has to rain on their happy little marching parades. I eat lunch alone in the library—if Kennie doesn’t want to keep me company or has better plans, which she usually does because she has a life—because Zephyr’s still at the back table I once claimed as my own and it’s too uncomfortable to walk into the cafeteria and sit down with an apple. It’d also be rude to kick him away. He has every right to be there as much as me and I can’t stake claim to a place I no longer go.
But I keep my mouth shut.
I know where she’s coming from—I completely understand. I have been a crappy, non-existent friend, and she wants more, Harley wants more. Kennie and Harley both deserve better and more from me as their best friend.
“We all miss you, Joey,” Kennie whispers.
I know exactly what she means. Everyone. Herself and Harley miss me. Even Ksenia, and I barely know her. Jackson and Avery, I’m sure, are included. And Zephyr. I know she means Zephyr most of all and that makes this conversation even harder and more heartbreaking.
I look at her, seeing the sadness in her blue eyes, the sadness covering her usually happy, perky face. It isn’t a normal thing, seeing her so upset. I hadn’t the slightest idea this affected her, or anyone else so much. I thought… well, I’m not sure what I thought. I didn’t know—I didn’t see it.
I guess I didn’t want to see it.
“I know,” I say, averting my eyes
With that, I push open the passenger door, thanking her again for the ride to school while also promising to see her later, and leave her where she sits, walking directly into the school and straight to my locker. The halls are empty minus the random teacher passing by or the random choir kid running to the auditorium. This is earlier than Jamie usually arrives so I won’t see Zephyr in the halls anytime soon. It doesn’t matter; he avoids any place I’d be anyway. I never see him until he steps into first period the very moment the bell chimes overhead. To be honest, I don’t expect anything different. I do the same. Everywhere I know he’ll be, every place I know he needs to go, I stay clear. If I know he’s walking in a similar direction to his class I’ll walk to mine—easy when we were dating, not so much now—I take a longer route. It’s getting pathetic. But being in the building this early gives me a little leeway, a little free time to roam and wander without worry of bumping into him or any of his supportive friends.
So that’s what I do. I slowly meander through the halls, happy to be in my own world, and think about pointless topics so my mind doesn’t dwell—what’s to watch on television tonight, what’s to do and search on the internet after school, what homework is due next week—I just keep my mind busy and occupied.
It’s becoming an art.
But before too long, my mind is back, my mind is reaching that little bit of reality I refuse to touch. I’m right back in that closet nine years ago, I’m a little girl and I’m so terrified, my hands shake uncontrollably.
I still don’t know why I was in the closet on the floor instead of in my own bed that night. I don’t even know if that’s the same night. I don’t know if my mind is just pasting random memories together or if any of what happened in the bedroom in my mind actually happened in reality.
I see him—I see my father searching for me. I see him angry; I see his features twisted and malicious. I see the bloodied knife in his hands—it has to be that night. It has to be. It’s just that a part of me—a tiny little piece of me—doesn’t believe it didn�
�t happen like that.
I sit on the top step of the back staircase, my chin in my hands as my mind goes there, wanders back to a place I never wish it to dwell. I will everything inside of me to remember—just remember—anything that can help me understand.
The knife—the closet—the knife—my father—my mother—the knife—it’s always the knife I see, always the knife dripping with blood that comes screaming back to the surface of my mind. Sometimes it’s my blood I see. I can’t tell when I see it, I just know because I’m looking up at him, I’m watching him tower over me before I black out and disappear into nothing. A faint voice tugs at my mind when I think these things and see these images. I can never hear what the person is saying; I just know someone is saying something nearby.
Why can I not just remember?
It drives me insane.
When the first person climbs up the stairs—their steps echoing off the brick of the corridor, passing me, I stand and make my way to my class. I don’t want to be around a bunch of half-awake zombie high school students fueling themselves with large amounts of caffeine and sugar. Over-caffeinated teenagers are a bit frightening if not handled in the correct manner, and around here, Starbucks courses through their blood—no, correction, their blood is Starbucks and whipped cream. Maybe sprinkles, too. Only an x-ray can confirm that.
Passing a girl holding the familiar green-and-white cup—a large one at that, I duck into the dim, empty classroom. Mr. Cheney isn’t in the room yet. The room is empty but the door is open—a good sign. I flick on the lights, illuminating the shadows.
Setting my bag in the neighboring seat, I plop into my chair, hearing it creak with my weight as I settle. Feeling a chill, I tug my black jacket from my backpack, along with my binder, and slide my arms into the sleeves, zipping it up to my chin and lifting the hood to cover my hair.
Invisibility is a lovely thing.
Too bad, I’m anything but invisible around here.
Some random brunette with horrible blonde highlights turned orange pops her head through the door. She’s not in this class. In fact, I think she’s a freshman. She certainly has that annoying fresh face and wide eyes thing going for her, much like a baby deer fresh out of the womb. Ugh. But dark eyes land on me, recognition flashing across her face, and giggles erupt before her head disappears and I hear laughter boom from the halls.