#callmeanytime

He knew, then, that this would be the end. Had known it from the moment he’d surfaced from the bottomless well he’d kept drowning in whenever the shadow took over, which was pretty much always.

But he just hadn’t been able to stomach the thought of the girl, who had touched his face so tenderly, to die the same gruesome death he’d condemned the others to.

He sees them all the time, it’s like their faces are burned onto the inside of his closed lids. Men, women, children. Every single one he had fed to the shadow. God, there are so many of them. And they are surrounding him, their mouths open in silent screams, their eyes full of fear and rage and hatred, cutting into him sharper than the monster’s claws ever had, tearing him apart.

And right in the front: Heather.

He cannot bear to meet her gaze. She’d been worried about him, and look what it had gained her.

But it’s not an entirely new development, that. All he’s ever done was hurt the people around him. Even before the shadow. Max. Her friends. Harrington.

A whine escapes his throat, tearing the soft tissue on its way out. He squeezes his eyes shut but the tears escape anyway, burning salty trails wetting the hair at his temples.

So no, he doesn’t wake with a start, but slowly, gradually. And, frankly, he thinks he shouldn’t be waking at all. Because by all rights he should be just as dead as them. Still, they are gone and he’s not. So he decides that, no, maybe he really doesn’t deserve to be dead. Death would be too easy. 

The first thing he feels is the sun on his face. Something he had never expected to feel again. A soft breeze caresses his face, slightly cooler where the tear tracks are drying.

Where is he? It can’t be the mall, but he has no recollection of getting out (but he remembers dying, remembers it vividly).

His lashes are clumped, his lids heavy when he tries to open his eyes and squints when painfully bright light drills a direct path into his brain, making his whole head throb and pulse. Bile floods his mouth, bitter and sharp, and he rolls over retching, curling in on himself.

A voice that sounds eerily like his father’s sneers: “Look at you, can’t even die like a man, huh? Spineless pussy.”

It doesn’t hurt like it used to, which, he supposes, is a good thing. And when he finally manages to open his eyes, it’s not Neil he’s seeing, but the gentle, smiling face of his mother.

“M-Mom?”

Soft, golden light surrounds her head like a halo, the wind plays with the sun bleached strands of her hair. It makes her look angelic. Ethereal. 

“My darling boy.” She cups his face, still smiling and his heart swells with emotions he can’t even begin to decipher, when suddenly her eyes turn sharp and her fingers dig into his cheeks, holding him still. “What a grave disappointment you are. Getting rid of you was the best decision I’ve ever made …”

And then she starts to laugh and Billy reels back, eyes wide in terror.

He wakes with a start.

*