#caffeine challenge

——————

Finger tracing the rim of your ceramic mug, you curse him for being late. There’s a difference between him giving you time to prepare and time to change your mind. You won’t, but your conviction wavers.

Then he walks in, smooth-gaited and as confident as the day you met him. Now, you think there’s a reason for that. He sits in the chair opposite yours and smiles as he takes a sip of coffee that he obviously doesn’t taste – it’s black and he takes his with sugar and a dash of hazelnut creamer. It’s another pointless test, but a part of you still hopes he’ll notice the rings you’ve been making him jump through.

He doesn’t and you promptly tell that part of you to shut up. (You don’t want this to end like last time, do you?)

He’s bubbly and animated but sobers when he sees your posture. Straight backed, lips pressed firm, eyes serious. You’re not usually this tense.

With his eyes on you, you consider letting the façade linger a little longer, wait a few more weeks before you drop the bomb. But you see a falling leaf out the window and remember November. 

No, it’s best to do it now.

——————

The next morning you are praying that he won’t notice the change in your heart, the drop in temperature, but you are also hoping that he will. If he notices, he cares, but your phone sits silent in your pocket and his heart, still sitting on the table, blackens a little more.

Today, he’s home on time and you deflate a little. He’s not lost, he’s planning ahead. He’s in this for the long haul.

So are you.

That night, after he’s passed out in your bed, you take his heart and can feel his love pouring out. You lock it in a drawer in the kitchen and swear you won’t unlock it until the end, until your hearts break and your side of the closet is empty.

You never were good at keeping promises you made to yourself.

——————

The two of you chat for a while about nothing - the weather, his raise, your hobbies. You think maybe he knows.

But the way his eyes widen as you place his heart on the table, you know he doesn’t. He hadn’t even realized that you’d left it sitting in a locked drawer for five months before that morning, like he didn’t realize you knew yours was in a drawer in his office and that the heart in his pocket wasn’t yours.

He never held your heart in his breast pocket. It’s stupid that he thinks you wouldn’t notice. You did. Maybe it’s because of experience, from the bubbly, waxen burns present on the heart you gave him, but you knew.

You know this just like you know last time was a mistake, this — this is too big to be an accident. This is a web of lies, both yours and his. Talking about nothing, your eyes linger on his soft hair and you wish it didn’t have to be this way, that love didn’t have to end in tragedy and shattered trust.

But you’ve heard the quotes. A person burned is the next to start a fire. The next to search for a fire to start.

Five months of lying and one year of love in, you hate that the fire you chose had to be him. But you’re bitter and you think having someone else burn will lessen the sting on you.

(It won’t.)

——————

You’ve been burned before, have felt the backlash of a Heart Trade gone wrong and you used to think that made you clever, but two weeks after the lying began, you’re still dancing with him, pretending nothing is wrong. The fire only made you dumb.

Last time, you didn’t know. You were oblivious and you were pardoned, but that only works once. This time, you know. You know, but you want what you didn’t get at first, you want the happily ever after you’re supposed to have. What if you can change it? What if you can undo what he did and bring him back?

It’s not unheard of for one to heal another’s heart, but it is very, very rare and very, very taxing on the soul.

Two days later you decide he’s not worth it. You want him to suffer. It’s wrong of you, hateful and bitter and cruel, but the last time you’d been forgiving, you paid a toll much worse.

A monster isn’t the worst thing you could be.

You’ve been called worse things.

——————

He’s stunned, when he sees the splotches his lies and cheating have left. His shock appears genuine. He’s naïve, like most. No one knows the marks left on a heart caused by love lost until they’ve lived through it. His naitivity isn’t the flaw here, your knowing is.

You spill the truth and watch the weight of it sink into his bones.

(Lies are heavy, but the truth can be worse.)

The weight ages him, lines deepening as he begins to get the gist of where this meeting is going. He’s wrong. You haven’t told him everything. He knows you know he’s been lying, but he doesn’t know that you know who it’s been with, that you can only find one person who wears the shade of lipstick you’d found smudged on his neck that first day.

He doesn’t know about November and he doesn’t know that you’re still burning, still alight with the betrayal and loss and grief.

You won’t tell him. November is a secret that dies in your grave. You lied then, too. You also bought the plot of graveyard you will be buried in, beside the old heart you’d left. You’re too emotional, too attached to what you’ve lost, too poetic in how you’ll die, but there’s a kind of romance in it. A Shakespearean tragedy known only to one.

You spill a little more, that you know the nature of his lies. You explain the way of the Heart Trade. He doesn’t notice the long pause between tellings. He confesses his lack of knowledge, that he thought you’d never know. You stonily inform him that you would have, even without his heart in your hand. You’ve been through this before, remember. The heart is simply a screaming, neon sign that you can’t ignore.

Smiling, you crack a joke or two (maybe three) about the flaws of a Heart Trade. You don’t tell him everything, keep some secrets to yourself. You don’t tell him that you were doomed from the start, that one can’t really commit to a Heart Trade if they’ve gone through one already. You can’t give your heart away twice. A part of yours — the old heart, unblemished and unburned, lays in a cherry coffin.

It’s not for the best, but you know it’s a lesson best learned from experience. He wouldn’t believe you anyway. He’d probably spout some nonsense about never loving you and that’s simply not true. The Trade wouldn’t have gone through if it was. You loved him too, at the start.

Wearily, unknowingly, he laughs along. You tell him you’re ending it here. You push his heart across the table and he sees the watercolor staining your fingers. That’s what happens when you break a deal, you explain. The other is left marked, tattooed in his failure to love only one.

Another unfair deal. You had done nothing, yet you’re the one that can never escape. Reddish-purple blotches and separate locked drawers will always haunt you and that’s okay. They can get in line. You have other demons, far bigger and scarier than neglected hearts, lies, and the shadow of a coffin engraved in your head.

You stand a little less smoothly than you’d like and make your way out. You leave the coffee you didn’t really touch and walk into the chilly autumn air.

The shocked stupor you’d left him in with the unspoken promise of never seeing him again is another demon you’ll never outrun. Your things are already packed and gone from the house you shared. Packing had hurt and so had your meeting, but not all endings are bittersweet. Some are just bitter.

The chill makes you tug your sleeves down a little, covering some of the red splotch that runs down your wrists. You’d lied to him, sort of. The mark is as much on you as it is him. It appeared when you let him stray, when you let it bleed on your hands because damn you if you didn’t still love him.

But as you walk away from the crowded coffee shop where you broke your lover’s heart and left him reeling, you swear that you’ll never give your heart away again. You’ve lost twice. You won’t risk a third. (But things always come in threes, so maybe you will.)

This time, you swear you’ll keep your word. But a locked drawer is easy to unlock and holding his heart had made you feel better, like you weren’t about to lose him, like you hadn’t already lost him.

He’s lucky, at least. You’d given him back his heart.

You never had that luxury.

*****

@caffeinewitchcraft hope it’s okay that I did this and tagged you. Sorry if not, but I think this is a decent piece? I mean, I’m not too fond of parts of it, but as a whole, I think it’s pretty cool. Hope you liked it!!!

——————

Finger tracing the rim of your ceramic mug, you curse him for being late. There’s a difference between him giving you time to prepare and time to change your mind. You won’t, but your conviction wavers.

Then he walks in, smooth-gaited and as confident as the day you met him. Now, you think there’s a reason for that. He sits in the chair opposite yours and smiles as he takes a sip of coffee that he obviously doesn’t taste – it’s black and he takes his with sugar and a dash of hazelnut creamer. It’s another pointless test, but a part of you still hopes he’ll notice the rings you’ve been making him jump through.

He doesn’t and you promptly tell that part of you to shut up. (You don’t want this to end like last time, do you?)

He’s bubbly and animated but sobers when he sees your posture. Straight backed, lips pressed firm, eyes serious. You’re not usually this tense.

With his eyes on you, you consider letting the façade linger a little longer, wait a few more weeks before you drop the bomb. But you see a falling leaf out the window and remember November.

No, it’s best to do it now.

——————

The next morning you are praying that he won’t notice the change in your heart, the drop in temperature, but you are also hoping that he will. If he notices, he cares, but your phone sits silent in your pocket and his heart, still sitting on the table, blackens a little more.

Today, he’s home on time and you deflate a little. He’s not lost, he’s planning ahead. He’s in this for the long haul.

So are you.

That night, after he’s passed out in your bed, you take his heart and can feel his love pouring out. You lock it in a drawer in the kitchen and swear you won’t unlock it until the end, until your hearts break and your side of the closet is empty.

You never were good at keeping promises you made to yourself.

——————

The two of you chat for a while about nothing - the weather, his raise, your hobbies. You think maybe he knows.

But the way his eyes widen as you place his heart on the table, you know he doesn’t. He hadn’t even realized that you’d left it sitting in a locked drawer for five months before that morning, like he didn’t realize you knew yours was in a drawer in his office and that the heart in his pocket wasn’t yours.

He never held your heart in his breast pocket. It’s stupid that he thinks you wouldn’t notice. You did. Maybe it’s because of experience, from the bubbly, waxen burns present on the heart you gave him, but you knew.

You know this just like you know last time was a mistake, this — this is too big to be an accident. This is a web of lies, both yours and his. Talking about nothing, your eyes linger on his soft hair and you wish it didn’t have to be this way, that love didn’t have to end in tragedy and shattered trust.

But you’ve heard the quotes. A person burned is the next to start a fire. The next to search for a fire to start.

Five months of lying and one year of love in, you hate that the fire you chose had to be him. But you’re bitter and you think having someone else burn will lessen the sting on you.

(It won’t.)

——————

You’ve been burned before, have felt the backlash of a Heart Trade gone wrong and you used to think that made you clever, but two weeks after the lying began, you’re still dancing with him, pretending nothing is wrong. The fire only made you dumb.

Last time, you didn’t know. You were oblivious and you were pardoned, but that only works once. This time, you know. You know, but you want what you didn’t get at first, you want the happily ever after you’re supposed to have. What if you can change it? What if you can undo what he did and bring him back?

It’s not unheard of for one to heal another’s heart, but it is very, very rare and very, very taxing on the soul.

Two days later you decide he’s not worth it. You want him to suffer. It’s wrong of you, hateful and bitter and cruel, but the last time you’d been forgiving, you paid a toll much worse.

A monster isn’t the worst thing you could be.

You’ve been called worse things.

——————

He’s stunned, when he sees the splotches his lies and cheating have left. His shock appears genuine. He’s naïve, like most. No one knows the marks left on a heart caused by love lost until they’ve lived through it. His naitivity isn’t the flaw here, your knowing is.

You spill the truth and watch the weight of it sink into his bones.

(Lies are heavy, but the truth can be worse.)

The weight ages him, lines deepening as he begins to get the gist of where this meeting is going. He’s wrong. You haven’t told him everything. He knows you know he’s been lying, but he doesn’t know that you know who it’s been with, that you can only find one person who wears the shade of lipstick you’d found smudged on his neck that first day.

He doesn’t know about November and he doesn’t know that you’re still burning, still alight with the betrayal and loss and grief.

You won’t tell him. November is a secret that dies in your grave. You lied then, too. You also bought the plot of graveyard you will be buried in, beside the old heart you’d left. You’re too emotional, too attached to what you’ve lost, too poetic in how you’ll die, but there’s a kind of romance in it. A Shakespearean tragedy known only to one.

You spill a little more, that you know the nature of his lies. You explain the way of the Heart Trade. He doesn’t notice the long pause between tellings. He confesses his lack of knowledge, that he thought you’d never know. You stonily inform him that you would have, even without his heart in your hand. You’ve been through this before, remember. The heart is simply a screaming, neon sign that you can’t ignore.

Smiling, you crack a joke or two (maybe three) about the flaws of a Heart Trade. You don’t tell him everything, keep some secrets to yourself. You don’t tell him that you were doomed from the start, that one can’t really commit to a Heart Trade if they’ve gone through one already. You can’t give your heart away twice. A part of yours — the old heart, unblemished and unburned, lays in a cherry coffin.

It’s not for the best, but you know it’s a lesson best learned from experience. He wouldn’t believe you anyway. He’d probably spout some nonsense about never loving you and that’s simply not true. The Trade wouldn’t have gone through if it was. You loved him too, at the start.

Wearily, unknowingly, he laughs along. You tell him you’re ending it here. You push his heart across the table and he sees the watercolor staining your fingers. That’s what happens when you break a deal, you explain. The other is left marked, tattooed in his failure to love only one.

Another unfair deal. You had done nothing, yet you’re the one that can never escape. Reddish-purple blotches and separate locked drawers will always haunt you and that’s okay. They can get in line. You have other demons, far bigger and scarier than neglected hearts, lies, and the shadow of a coffin engraved in your head.

You stand a little less smoothly than you’d like and make your way out. You leave the coffee you didn’t really touch and walk into the chilly autumn air.

The shocked stupor you’d left him in with the unspoken promise of never seeing him again is another demon you’ll never outrun. Your things are already packed and gone from the house you shared. Packing had hurt and so had your meeting, but not all endings are bittersweet. Some are just bitter.

The chill makes you tug your sleeves down a little, covering some of the red splotch that runs down your wrists. You’d lied to him, sort of. The mark is as much on you as it is him. It appeared when you let him stray, when you let it bleed on your hands because damn you if you didn’t still love him.

But as you walk away from the crowded coffee shop where you broke your lover’s heart and left him reeling, you swear that you’ll never give your heart away again. You’ve lost twice. You won’t risk a third. (But things always come in threes, so maybe you will.)

This time, you swear you’ll keep your word. But a locked drawer is easy to unlock and holding his heart had made you feel better, like you weren’t about to lose him, like you hadn’t already lost him.

He’s lucky, at least. You’d given him back his heart.

You never had that luxury.

*****

Now that’s interesting. That is not the answer she expected at all. ‘Who for?’

‘My father. He died when were traveling here. He was killed.’

The golden light of the sun dims and is, in turn, replaced by the blue grey glow of the moon. It does not penetrate quite so far into the woods. The trees keep the moon away. It is dimmer now. It is more like… Like home, she thinks. She smiles and bathes in it. She undoes the little white cloak thing, she doesn’t know what’s it’s called, it isn’t quite a cape, and lets it drop to the floor. She likes to feel the darkness and the cold on her skin. Bare arms.

The grave is finished.

‘I won’t stop,’ she says, ‘You helping doesn’t change anything. I suppose it’s up to you. Are you a part of it now? Will you be here again tomorrow?’

He moves to one end of the plastic sack. ‘Can you help me move it.’ Not a question.

‘Sure.’ She helps move it. Letting it drop into the grave.

He whispers something but she doesn’t hear.

She doesn’t ask what.

‘Who were they?’ He says.

She narrows her eyes and takes in his face. It has lost all the emotion and the concern it had earlier. He has never stayed this long before. Or if he has it wasn’t a night she was working. ‘Does it matter?’

‘Not all that much. Do you now who they were?’

‘Yes.’

‘Who were they?’

‘There name was James Warleggan. Did you know him.’ Not a question. She doesn’t care and he doesn’t answer. She starts filling the grave back in. When the sack is covered, but the grave is far from full, she snaps a branch of a nearby tree and drops it into the pit. She continued to shovel the ground back into place.

How many graves are there in this forest? Nobody asks anymore. She couldn’t really say. She knows she is not the first to take up the duty. To take up the work that must be done. She knows the graves out here belong to more than just the people of the local town. Travelers disappear here. She has disappeared many of them herself. It is horrible work but it must be done.

The trees keep the moon away.

‘How long has it been you?’ he says.

‘Long enough.’

What killed his father? She doesn’t ask. But still I will tell you. His father was killed by a beast. A gnarling monstrosity of human and wolf. What should have been one or the other but instead was both. It wasn’t clear which it had been to begin with, and which it was becoming. But he killed it, when it killed his father, he killed it. And didn’t honour it with a grave. He left it to rot.

‘Who did it before you?’

She doesn’t answer. It was her mother who did it before her. And her grandmother before that. It was her grandmother who had first understood. Who had first heard the trees. The trees keep the moon at bay. The entire town is surrounded by the trees. They sprout up between the houses, you can’t move for them.

Silver wood trees. They aren’t normal trees. They need a special fertiliser. The trees aren’t picky. The gardeners must be. It’s the only way to live with themselves.

‘What did James Warleggan do?’

‘Hmm?’

‘To deserve...’ he gestures to the slight raise of the dirt where James Warllegan is now buried.

‘Oh.’ She laughs, because if she doesn’t she will cry. Or is weep more appropriate? If she doesn’t laugh  she will break down and end it all right here. Maybe that would be enough, she thinks, maybe the trees are picky and we just haven’t given them enough. How much blood is there on my hands? Would it be enough? ‘He was terrible,’ she says, ‘Little Hettie Jacobsen would run back to her father if ever she saw James Warllegan in the street. She would run and hide. She was twelve.’ Angry now. The words are venom. ‘She was twelve and if she so much as heard him whistling as he walked she would run away, from her friends, from the her fun, she would run away from him. That is what he did.’

‘Okay.’

‘I would kill him a thousand times. I would slit his throat, and burn him. I would pluck out his eyes. I would pull out his insides. If he sprung back to life this very moment it would be a blessing because I could kill him again.’ She stops. Panting. Breathing more heavily than she was before. It is like a redness has come down around her. Are the trees laughing? Or just rustling in the wind. Is there even wind tonight? It doesn’t feel windy, but then, at ground level the trees would break the wind, only at the tops would they need to move to it.

‘What about me?’

‘What about you? Why do you matter?’

‘Do you ever want to break the curse? Instead of just feed it?’

‘You can’t break curses.’ She feels at her wrists. Presses her fingers under the lace of her gloves. Only love can break a curse. She knows that. But she doesn’t believe in love. Not anymore.

He does believe in love. He just doesn’t understand it. ‘Can I kiss you?’

‘Sorry?’

‘Just once. Just gently. I won’t do it if you don’t want me to.’

‘You think I love you?’ No. That isn’t it. ‘You think you love me?’ She laughs. It’s ridiculous. But not like he’s the first. ‘Or are you cursed too?’

‘We all are aren’t we?’ He steps closer to her.

She steps further away.

‘Sorry. I won’t kiss you. There must be some other way.’

‘You think I haven’t tried.’

‘And you think the same of me. Did you know that Adil Bhatt has a library in his house. He inherited it, from a witch. That’s what he says at least.’

‘I did. None of it works.’

‘No. I didn’t suppose it did.’

‘What about Old Mrs Hatch? She was here the year the rats came. Older than she looks. She have anything?’

‘Old Mrs Hatch hasn’t been any use to anyone for years. Too busy looking after that little fae girl they gave her.’

‘Her cats a dick as well.’

‘It seemed alright to me.’

‘It’s a dick.’

‘Fine. I’ll believe you.’ He smiles. ‘Shall we try kissing anyway?’

‘Neither of us loves the other. And you don’t look entirely clean.’

He doesn’t. He can admit that. He hasn’t been sleeping well of late. He stays awake all night. Rarely washes. He hasn’t shaved for a couple of weeks and he’s never been able to grow a proper beard anyway. There’s dirt under his nails; but that’s a more recent development. ‘You aren’t looking so great yourself.’  Almost everything above is true of her as well.  ‘When did you last wash that dress?’

It’s never been washed. She sighs. ‘Tradition I’m afraid.’ She picks at the scruffs of leaf that have wedged themselves into the lacier parts of the dress. ‘How do you know Old Mrs’ Hatch’s daughter is a fae?’

‘Why else have a horseshoe above the door.’ Not a question. But then, why else? Even the blacksmith doesn’t bother with a horseshoe above his door. Though he’d probably insist that was because he was a blacksmith, not a farrier. He was like that. Why did Mrs Hatch have the horseshoe above the door? It couldn’t be because it worked. Cold Iron, for faeries, a gold coin for the horseman when comes knocking. No. If it worked, than Little Ava Hatch wouldn’t be able to enter her own home. But it had to be doing something.

‘Why does she have the horseshoe?’

‘You’re getting it now. Because it works.’

‘But it doesn’t. The fae just think it does. So they stay away.’

He smiles. But not for long. He trips backwards over a root which hadn’t been there a moment ago. The next voice has a similar quality as his but is not his. It is a voice from the trees themselves. ‘You must,’ it says, ‘continue to feed us. We keep the moon at bay. Keep the beasts from the door.’

And she realises. It all clicks. How did his father die? She didn’t ask but she knows now. Of course. Of course it was. She looks at the mound where James Warllegan is buried. She would have killed him anyway, she would’ve loved to. The redness comes back down and notices that it isn’t her. It isn’t her at all. But she would’ve killed him anyway. She would have. She’s sure of it. So absolutely sure.

How did mother die? She falls to the ground as the voice from the trees says. ‘We will find another.’

It works because we believe it will work.

By the time dinner rolls around, Amma’s car already far gone and it’s just the two of us at the table. Nani went to bed at some point after Amma left but before dinner. The food was prepared and set out for us, though I can’t pay it any mind as I shovel it down, eyes focused on him.

On the other hand, he takes his time, though his plate clears faster than mine. At the end, as I desperately swallow spoon after spoon, he leans back smirking.

“Careful! You don’t want to choke do you?”

There’s something about the words which twists them from chiding to threatening. I swallow hard. I have to finish. hand shaking I scoop the spoon again and lift it to my mouth. Despite being careful, I still catch a glimpse of the mouthful. It writhes.

After that, there’s a slimy feel to each bite despite me closing my eyes hard enough to hurt. I can feel his breath by my ear as he laughs quietly.

“Such a good girl, you managed to finish dinner today! time for bed. Make sure the monsters don’t get you.”

He’s gone when I’ve opened my eyes, at least I think. Because the darkness remains the same when my lids open. I loosen my fist finger by finger from the spoon and gently lay it on the table before pushing away and rising from the chair. no matter the number of years I’ve visited Nani, I can never remember exactly how her house is supposed to look by the time night falls.

Carefully, inch by inch, I make my way to where I think my room is. In the end, no matter how I move, I always end up there. It’s just a matter of how banged up I get on the way. Tonight, the house is gentle. I only trip twice and I think I’m not even bleeding. It’s no consolation. It’ll only get worse.

By the time I lay down on the bed, I feel wrung out. Stop being silly, I tell myself, like Amma used to when I would complain about my brother or about visiting Nani. Don’t let your overactive imagination ruin your relationships. Your brother loves you. Nani looks forward to you guys visiting every month.

The words have long since lost their reassuring nature, but they’re part of the ritual. Taking a breath, I grope down until I feel the comforter and pull up until I’m completely covered by the comforting bulk. As always, I close my eyes and try to drift away. It’s all a scary dream, is all.

For once, it works. Before the house gets loud enough to wake me, I’m at Nani’s house again, except it’s the right house and it’s my real Anna there with me. Dirty plates are in the sink. The lights are on in the living room, the TV a low hum. We’re arguing about who gets the Gameboy first. Nani vetoes us both.

“You’re here to spend time with me! Put that thing away. Come, let’s play some cards.”

“Ugh, no way Nani, Anna’s just gonna cheat again.”

“Excuse me, I do not cheat! You just suck.”

“Hey!”

My eyes fly open at the shout in my ear. I’m laying on damp dirt. A stick digs into the back of my knee. It’s still dark and I can feel his presence around, though I can’t pinpoint where.

“Are you okay? What are you doing out here?”

His voice sounds almost right, so close to the voice I’d just been listening to. I’m tempted to give in, laugh and cajole him into giving me a piggyback. I pinch the skin of my thigh sharply instead.

“Stop trying to be him. You’ll never be him.”

My voice is gravel on gravel. It hurts to speak after so long, and I swear I can taste something bitter.

“Oh?”

He sounds joyful. Of course. I’ve finally given in. Not all the way, but for the first time I’ve spoken to him. Acknowledged him.

“Well, I’m certainly open to feedback.”

I grit my teeth. I won’t slip any further than this.

“I have to say, two years is a long time to be stubborn. Come on, you’ve already spoken. What does it hurt to say a little more? Don’t you want to know what happened to him? Where he went that night?”

My nails dig in and in. I try to make myself breathe.

“It’s been so long. He probably thinks you’ve all forgotten about him.”

A sound comes from my throat then.

“He’s right here, you know. Ever since then, he’s been waiting in the woods for you to find him.”

I can’t take it anymore, I can’t ignore him. Two years of work, of fear, of pain, all down the drain. I stumble to my feet and run in the direction of that voice, anger burning through me. How dare he taunt me like this. Like I don’t know the truth. Like I don’t know that my brother is right there, that he’s been eaten up until there was enough emptiness for something else to nest.

Though my first swings are wild, I finally manage to land. The sting of my knuckles are a comfort and I don’t let up, raining blows. His laughter rings around me, only getting louder no matter how hard I hit.

I hit and hit, until all that’s left under me is the soft, wet, dirt.

“Is that all you’ve got?”

His voice whispers from behind me and I lash out, catching on nothing whatsoever.

When I finally come out of the dark, I’m back in my bed. My knees and palms are scrapped up, but my knuckles are bloody, my jaw sore. I stumble down the hall to the bathroom. He’s sitting on the closed toilet lid, looking identical to yesterday, and the day before, and the day before that. Smiling.

“Did you get a good night’s sleep?”

I ignore him like there’d been no change in the state of things. When I gargle and spit, blood comes out. I gargle some more until the water finally runs clear before washing my face. When I lift the towel away, he’s gone. I shut the door and shower as quickly as I can. Maybe I can catch Nani for the short time she’s awake, convince her to let us visit town. people always make him quiet down.

But I can’t find her anywhere. Of her room. It seems to have disappeared from the building. Gritting my teeth, I grudgingly make my way to the kitchen. There’s a bowl of something on the table, across from my brother who’s happily munching down on some cereal. Nothing will happen until I choke it down, I know. Today’s breakfast tastes like dirt and little legs, still skittering. no water to wash it down of course. There never is, here.

As soon as I empty the bowl, I’m out of the cottage. He’s following me, of course, though I can’t see him. I keep walking, into the trees. I still remember how to get to our rock, mine and Anna’s. It’s huge. When I was little, he would have to help me climb up there. Now I scramble up easily. There at the top are our names. Property of Ajay and Arthi, Keep AWAY!

I trace the shaky words and ignore the figure standing a few feet away. We’d been here that day, when Anna had heard something scream further in the woods. He’d always been a nice person. He told me to stay put and disappeared. Sometimes I’ve wondered what would have happened if I’d run after him anyway.

Well, maybe then my parents would have two monsters for kids and they’d both be long dead. I take a deep breath. Maybe I hated myself for speaking for last night, but now I feel refreshed. I’m done with this bullshit.

I look up and meet his eyes. He looks a little surprised before his grin stretches wider. But he doesn’t come closer until I jump down off the rock. His hand reaches for me. My hand wraps tighter around the thing in my pocket.

It only takes a second. In the light of day, I can see everything. That’s what’ll make it stick, I’m sure. I half wish I hadn’t already showered since I’ll have to again anyway.

It takes a long time to dig out a big enough hole with just my hands. I never take my eyes off of him. If I do everything might just never have happened in the first place. It takes some effort but I manage to tuck him in, half under that rock. By the time I fill it in, his wide eyes and wide grin the last things I see, the sun is setting.

The five minutes back to Nani’s house seem to be the longest five minutes of my life. As I come out from the tree line, the cottage is lit up. I can see Nani’s shadow in the kitchen. There’s the faint sound of music. My eyes are wet. But then again, so’s most of the rest of me.