Page 114 of Ghosted

The door clicks shut behind him, and for a long time I stand there with the blanket clutched to my chest, shaking so hard my teeth hurt. The kitchen smells like butter, garlic and horror. The broken plate sits on the floor. The tank by my desk is empty and wrong, the quiet inside it louder than anything Johnny said.

Johnny thinks he won because I chose him.

He doesn’t understand what he killed.

I sink down in front of the tank and press one shaking hand to the glass.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper.

Nothing answers. There's no scraping or sand shifting. No stupid little clink from Bernie knocking into the food bowl or Ernie hiding in the water dish, ignoring me like I’m the embarrassing one in the room.

Just quiet.

My apartment doesn’t feel like mine anymore, but the grief hardens while I sit there, pulling the sickness and shame into one clean thought.

I am done playing with Johnny Cutter.

10

JAGGER

THE BOY BENEATH THE WRAITH

It’s Friday. I should be thinking about Johnny.

The cage. The crowd.

The way his face will look when he realizes there are some things even he can’t smile his way out of. I should be wrapping my hands, stretching my shoulders, eating something I won’t throw up later, pretending this is just another fight with a better reason behind it.

Instead, I’m standing outside Alice’s apartment again, because apparently I’ve lost my fucking mind.

I tell myself I’m only here to check on her. That’s it. See her face. Hear her voice. Make sure the lock still turns right. Make sure the hallway is empty, the stairs aren’t carrying footsteps that shouldn’t be there, and my brother isn’t tucked into some shadow near her door with that sick fucking smile on his face.

Totally normal.

Completely healthy.

Not insane at all.

Fuck.

My hand lifts before I can talk myself out of it, and I knock. Not hard this time, which should probably make me feel better. Progress, or whatever bullshit people call it when they stop acting completely unhinged for five seconds.

It doesn’t.

For a while, nothing happens.

No footsteps. No movement behind the door. Not a single sign that she’s home and ignoring me on purpose, which I would respect if it didn’t make every muscle in my body pull tight enough to snap.

“Come on,” I mutter under my breath. “Just fucking answer.”

I knock again, lower this time, trying not to sound as fucked up as I feel.

“Alice.”

The lock turns, the door opens a few inches. and every single thing I planned to say fucking dies in my throat.

She looks wrong.