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“What’s your name?” I asked the boy.
He had been following me since my twelfth birthday. I noticed him one day, standing at the gate of my school. He looked odd, out of the ordinary, standing stagnant in black overalls and a suit like shirt underneath. He must have been a little younger than I was. I wasn’t afraid of him. The first day at school, he watched me as I walked out of the gate and headed back to our trailer. He followed me all the way there, and I don’t know why, but I never asked him what he wanted. This went on for weeks. We didn’t speak, he would just watch me walk home, every day. Following a close distance behind me. On the sixth week, I decided to walk beside him.
Again, we didn’t say anything, I just walked beside him right until we got to the trailer, and then he would leave. To where, I wasn’t sure. Today was the first day that I had spoken to him. A stranger I had become so comfortable with, a stranger I had developed a crush on. I never noticed until today how his long lashes curled around his dark beady eyes. Or how his ivory skin was blended to perfection, or how his cherub bow lips managed to always stay in a flat line. I crushed on him, and I crushed on him hard. For six months. Now, it was time I asked him what his name was.
He stopped, just short of the trailer park gate. He opened his mouth, his eyes attempting to say the words that his mouth could not. I waited for him to speak. I had dreamed of what he might sound like. Would he have a cute voice? But he just turned and left. Clouds caved into the sky and rain started pouring down from the heavens.
That was the last time I ever saw him.
And I never got his name.
I wake the next morning, stretching my arms wide. My sleep last night was quite broken, and I don’t know why, but I found myself tossing and turning all night. Waking up at 3:05 a.m., I even went so far as to check my messages and then curl back to sleep. I never wake through the night. Once I’m out, I’m out, but something about last night had me sitting uncomfortably, even if I wasn’t completely aware of it. It either has to do with the dinner party at Hector’s, or me remembering my crush.
Noticing Micaela not doing her daily wriggle routine from her crib, I smile, whisking the blanket off my legs.
“Well at least one of us slept like an angel.”
I tiptoe toward her crib, and my smile instantly drops. Terror seizes every inch of me when I see that she’s not only not moving, but her skin has turned purple.
“Micaela?” I whisper, shock capturing my hands. In a rush, I tear off her blanket and pick her small body up, noticing how heavy she is. No, no, no. She doesn’t feel right. She doesn’t feel right. “Micaela!” I scream, cradling her to my chest. “No. No. No.” I shake my head, rocking her back and forth on the ground. “I’m dreaming. I’m just dreaming. I will wake up, this will be a nightmare.” I squeeze my eyes closed, and then open them. I’m still here, in the pool house, with Micaela in my arms. I look down at her sweet face, her lips are parted slightly, with lines circled around her mouth. Her eyes are closed peacefully, and her cheeks are swollen purple. I graze my finger over them, the old hard sensation so unfamiliar. “No.” Tears pour over my face. “It’s a dream.”
I stand from the floor, gently placing Micaela on my bed. I tuck her small blanket into the sides of her body and rush into the bathroom. Yanking open the drawers and cabinet, I search for the one thing that will be able to pull me out of this dream. This nightmare. My eyes land on the silver razor and I grab it, rushing back to the bedroom. Even in my dream, I don’t want her to be alone. It’s okay. I will wake up and my beautiful baby will be here again. The angels can’t have her. She’s mine. I press the tip of the razor into my wrist and watch as blood spills over the incision, and then I yank the blade downward, toward my elbow.
Nate
Have you had your world ripped apart so fiercely that it leaves you with nothing but the shell of the man you used to be?
Because I have.
Tillie
A beeping clock echoing off of empty walls. The sound of haunting church bells on a Sunday night mass. Pain. Empty thoughts from a vocal mouth. My eyes open, and I don’t move. The throbbing sting from my arm is enough proof that last night happened. It happened. I shoot up from the bed, tearing the lines out of my arm. Madison and Tate are curled together on a small sofa, sleeping.
