Under extreme psychological stress, some victims of long-term possession appear to revert to a state neurologically similar to active possession. Not all hosts experience this phenomenon, but the risk seems to increase with duration of possession and severity of the original trauma.
Our generous host was kind enough to leave us a couple of items to make our stay more comfortable. I was too busy running around to notice them before, but they’re here: two bottles of water, two chocolate bars, two toothbrushes, a tube of travel-sized toothpaste, a heavy gray blanket, and a five-gallon Home Depot bucket I can only assume is supposed to be our bathroom.
Peeing in a bucket is humiliating. I can already imagine the sound it will make, but maybe Nico and I are past the point of embarrassment now.
I carry the stash to a column fifteen feet from Nico—close enough that I can keep an eye on him, but far enough that he can’t reach me with his feet if he’s feelingextramurderous.
I go for the water first, but only down a quarter of a bottle because there’s no telling how long we’re going to be here or if Morrow will give us any more. He has a history of withholding food and water as a weapon.
I swish each sip around my dry mouth to draw it out for as long as possible before swallowing it.
Why would I want you?
Nico’s words have burrowed under my ribcage and lodged themselves there. There have been so many nights when I lay in bed wondering why I had to move homes again, why Tori chose another girl to hang out with again, why everyone kept adding new details to that rumor that I was the one who killed my family… I always told myself I had control over people liking me. If I could be funnier, work harder, care less about what people think, give more, be better in bed, be better ingeneral, then things would change, and people would want me around. I hate myself for feeling this way. I hate myself for hating myself, and for feeling like I’m not enough for anyone.
I barely know Nico, and it would be dumb to hold him to one thing he said while contaminated with ectoplasm. I’ve been alone since I was thirteen. I’m alone in here. I need to act like it.
But I can’t let go of the fact that if Nico did flip, that means the real Nico could still be in there, waiting for the switch to flip back. And the real Nico must be thirsty.
I cap the bottle and carry it over to him.
“I don’t want anything from you,” Nico snarls.
“You need water,” I say.
“Not your problem.”
“Itismy problem if you die before the others can get here to rescue us,” I say. “DJ will be mad if I let our team leader die of dehydration.”
The team already knows to look for an abandoned building. Hopefully, they can narrow down the search.
Nico sets his jaw in a stubborn line.Fine.
I slump back against my column and slam the water bottle on the ground next to me. I take inventory of every piece of clothing I’m wearing: a jumpsuit, a T-shirt, my favorite royal blue hoodie, Dad’s jacket, underwear, wool socks, and a pair of cargo pants. It was enough to keep me warm when moving around, but not when I’m sitting still. This cold is the kind that seeps into your bones and sets up camp.
It must be late morning, or at least daytime. I doubt we were unconscious for a full twelve hours, but we must be in the basement of whatever building this is, because no light is coming in at all.
After untying my hair, I scrape my fingernails against my scalp, imagining Mom is here to do it for me. Each inhale sends this burning throb through my ribs from where Nico crushed me with his knee, but nothing feels broken. The cut on my neck isn’t deep, but it’s still bleeding, and the blood is sticky and warm as it trickles down and soaks into my collar.
I glare across the room at Nico. He glares right back.
I get up and walk slow laps of the room until I’m warm enough to wrap myself in the blanket again. I don’t know how many hours pass before I’m desperate to pee. I spend another fifteen minutes casting glances at the orange bucket like it’s my crush at a middle-school dance before I relent and drag it behind a column out of Nico’s eye line. I cringe at how loud my pee hitting the bottom is. Turns out we’re not beyond embarrassment yet.
I start to get cozy in the blanket, then stop.
“Do you need to pee?” I ask Nico.
His head snaps up. “No.”
“Okay.” I give him a close-lipped smile. “Sorry.”
Did I tell anyone where I keep Bob’s pain pills? The bottle is in my backpack. DJ knows he’s on pain pills, but what if she can’t find them? What if his leg starts hurting and he’s suffering alone in a house full of strangers, wondering why I abandoned him?
Imagining him hurting and scared without me there makes tears well in my eyes. I need to live through this so I don’t become yet another person in that dog’s life who lets him down.
I will. I’m not buying into Morrow’s fearmongering. The troupeiscoming to get us. I just need to survive long enough for them to get here.
I close my eyes, trying to calm my breathing. Only once the silence has fully settled over us, enough that my breaths have become loud, do I begin to hear it, ringing in my ears like tinnitus.
