Mandyâs death. Memories of blood in the bathroom. Even Chrisâs presence, touching on wounds I didnât want to feel. Too many wounds. Too many aches. Too many reasons I shouldnât even be here. I pressed my palms to my eyes and prayed into the spray, wash me clean, wash me clean . But I knew I couldnât get clean, couldnât run fast enoughânothing would cleanse me, not the water or my tears. I didnât deserve to be clean, to mourn. Mandy was dead. Dead. And even though Iâd heard Muninâs warnings, I hadnât known enough to stop it.
Cold wrapped around me in spite of the burning heat. The darkness wasnât a comfort. Not now. I wrapped my arms around my knees and pulled them close to my chest. I felt Brad behind me, wrapping his arms around me, kissing the back of my neck. Whispering that it should have been me.
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After the shower I felt empty, but that was better than the alternative. I didnât look in the mirror after drying off. I didnât want to see Brad there, staring back. My moment of weakness was over. Now wasnât about me. Now I would focus on Mandy and those who knew her. My phone blinked with a dozen texts from Ethan and Oliver, all asking if I was okay, though Ethanâs escalated from Are you okay to Please tell me youâre not dead to if you are dead, please donât text back, I donât want to behead a zombie-kaira to holy shit if you donât text back Iâm going to sneak from my dorm room and find you and you know I live on the second story and canât climb. My paralysis is on your shoulders .
I sent him a text first. Iâm fine. And I hope youâre not in the bushes outside Rembrandt with a broken spine .
A second later he texted back. Moderate paralysis. I expect cookies.
I chuckled softly, careful not to wake Elisa. The room was lit by my little desk lamp, and I settled onto my papasan chair with a blanket over my legs. For some reason, Ethanâs humor didnât feel sacrilegious or an affront to Mandyâs memory. It was a reminder that my support network was still there, that life was still moving forward.
Despite what Brad had told me years ago, there were people who cared.
Oliverâs texts were much more his calming style: I heard about Mandy. I hope youâre okay. and Call if you need anything. Any time.
I thanked him, then set my phone to silent and leaned back, staring at my cluttered desk and wondering what to do with this insomnia. I didnât want to sleep. Even with Momâs crystal, I didnât want to risk the shadows.
Mason jars with charcoal sticks and colored pencils and fine-tip markers lined one corner of the desk, while a stack of papers and folders was piled haphazardly in the other. My bulletin board was covered in snippets of paintings and inspirational quotes, pressed leaves and feathers, and a few photo-kiosk strips of Ethan and me at the mall.
I sighed and tore my eyes away. There was no way I was going to try to do work tonight, so I quietly slid out the drawer under my bed and grabbed a tiny cloth bundle. My Tarot deck.
The cards were warm and soft as I slid them from the bag. Four years of nearly constant use had worn the edges smooth and the cardstock supple, almost velveteen. The deck was the traditional Rider-Waite, with the primary-color images and geometric sky-blue card backs. Not my favorite style of art, but there was something to be said for the simplicity, the easy symbolism. It had been a gift from my mom the first day of freshman year. Because the gods know a young girl needs more guidance than her mother can give. Those had been her words when she handed it over, and a similar quote was written on a tiny notecard inside the bag, her handwriting perfect and looping in black ink. I envied my mother many things, but her handwriting was among the top.
I wasnât too worried about being quietâElisa had long grown
Marc Cerasini
Joshua Guess
Robert Goddard
Edward S. Aarons
Marilyn Levinson
Xara X. Piper;Xanakas Vaughn
William Tenn
Ward Just
Susan May Warren
Ray Bradbury