After You Died Page 5

  “Sayid, there.” He points to the left. “Asher, there.” He points to the right.

  Relief washes over me when I realize that I’ll be sharing a room with Sayid. Something tells me I’m not going to have to watch my back around him. I notice a stack of sheets atop a thin pillow. A few pairs of jeans, some more suicide-proof sweatpants, several white t-shirts, underwear, and socks are folded, sitting on the striped mattress. Despite standing a few feet from the mattress, I can see the stains marring the surface. Old war wounds. Amma could get those stains out in five minutes flat.

  “Welcome home, boys,” the guard says as he leaves, but not before smacking his hand on the door frame hard enough to make me jump. His laugh trails after him.

  Sayid takes his stack of clothes and linens and throws them onto the top bunk. He falls back onto the mattress, it groans and squeaks beneath his weight. I take my provided clothing and place it in the dresser at the end of the bed. I pull the sheets over my mattress, smooth out the top sheet, blanket, then slide my pillow into the case. I throw the pillow onto the scratchy sheets. It’s not much, but my guess is it will be more comfortable than the bed I had at the jail. I miss my bed back home, I took for granted how soft it was, the way it’d fold around my body.

  “Dinner should be soon.” Sayid watches me as I make my bed.

  I try to sit on the lower bunk, but I’m too tall. The back of my head touches the metal framing of the upper bunk. Awkwardly I lean forward, elbows on my knees. The afternoon light pours in through the window, the white walls seem to glow. Outside an orange grove grows, it reminds me of home, of her. It’s too familiar a sight outside my window. Then again, it’s a familiar sight in nearly every part of Florida. Sometimes, I think of Florida as a patchwork of nothing but alternating orange groves and swamp.

  “Not really hungry.” It’s the truth, at least part of it. Anxiety and stress fight for space inside me, snuffing out any desire I might have to eat. I’m also not in the mood to be stared at by hundreds of strangers’ eyes. I’m not good with new people, or in fact, any people.

  “Want me to bring you back something?”

  His offer surprises me, but I decline. I’m not going to get into the habit of asking favors. “Thanks, but I’ll survive.” There’s a growing nervousness in the pit of my stomach. “If anyone has a cig, I’d kill for one.” As soon as I say it, I regret my choice of words.

  “No smoking on campus.” He winks at me, another joke I don’t get. “I’ll see what I can do. If you want to keep it up, you’re going to have to make friends with a guard, and learn where to hide.”

  The way he says ‘friends’ I’m sure it’s not what he means. He disappears without another word. The house is silent and still around me. I relish the solitude. It’s the first time I’ve really felt alone since...before. Even by myself in the cellblock, I never felt it. It always seemed there was someone watching.

  I walk to the window, and peek out beyond the bunk bed, past the frayed curtain. Beneath the window, the shingles stretch over a back porch. Clinging to the dirty gutters are several abandoned birds’ nests. Even the birds didn’t want to stay. Beyond the porch, a manicured green lawn that must be at least a hundred yards. The lawn is freckled with large oak trees. Behind that, the orchard. I watch the wind whip through the rows, and I swear for a moment I see a white dress and blonde curls disappear into the trees.

  Before

  Date Unknown

  The best time to walk through the city is early in the morning, long before the sun rises and the stars are burned away. But tonight isn’t the same peaceful city I normally know. The sounds of jazz may have died, but something else fills the streets. Though I can’t pinpoint what it is, I can feel something.

  Magic still hums beneath my skin, my body alive, on edge, after the ritual. I weave the long way through the French Quarter. I know it’s unlikely that he’s following me, that anyone is following me, but something tells me I’m not alone. My eyes travel down every dark alleyway as I search for him. Something tugs at the back of my mind.

  He’s getting close.

  I turn down Bourbon Street, just as a few stragglers stumble out of a bar. My breath catches in my throat when I see startling red hair. The man turns, and I’m met with the face of a stranger. A haggard breath of relief bristles through me.

  As I course my way through the city, my thoughts are scattered and frayed, I’m not sure if it’s the ritual, or something else. The gas lamps cast a shimmering glow on the cobblestones. The address I seek was listed in my journal, the one that’s taking me longer and longer to find each time I die. Though my memories have begun to unravel, I know the man inside has answers. Something tells me he may know more about myself than I do. More importantly, some part of me knows the dagger will be safe with him.

  When I knock on the door, a small uniformed man with a hunched back answers. He looks at me with a tired, uninterested stare. Yellow rings encircle his brown irises, his mouth is creased into a deep perpetual frown.

  “I’m here to see Alaric,” I say as the man glances over my shoulder to the alleyway behind me.

  His eyes narrow at the name, and suspicion clouds his eyes. The way he looks at me, I’m not sure if using Alaric’s name was a mistake.

  Another man saunters down the hall, a red velvet jacket hugging his gaunt frame. He looks different from the remnants of my broken memories, but not enough to turn me away. This is Alaric. His pace slows as he approaches the door. He cocks his head to the side and waves me into the house.

  “Really Abner, where are your manners?” he says as he sweeps the doorman to the side. He grabs my shoulder and kisses me on both cheeks. “Devet, I’ve felt your presence for months, what kept you?” An accent bleeds onto his words, but I can’t place it.

  My brows furrow. “Devet?”

  He cocks his head and flashes me an apologetic smile. “Devet is a joke, you used to think it was hilarious. I guess that part of your memory has failed you.”

  I nod. The journal mentioned Alaric, but I didn’t realize he and I were close enough to share jokes. What else did we share? How much information has he given me that has been discarded by my broken mind?

  He shakes his head and looks at his feet. “Shame,” he says as he grabs my arm and pulls me inside.

  The walls are lined with intricate burgundy and gold floral coverings. Paintings of people that are almost familiar hang on the walls. The living room is filled with ornately carved wooden furniture, bold curtains, and ancient dusty knickknacks. A painting of a tree with seven branches stretches along the longest wall, golden apples hang from the branches. I’m drawn to the painting for so long, Alaric walks over and faces me.

  He brushes my arms, and grips them, holding them out. “Let me get a good look at you.” He cocks his head as his dark eyes travel my body. When he lets me go, I sit on his couch.

  “I liked the last one better,” he says with a chuckle.

  “Maybe the next one will suit me more,” I say with an edge to my voice.

  He shakes his head. “You never have even an ounce of optimism.”

  I lean closer to him, resting my elbows on my knees. “Would you?”

  “Touché,” he says, and his accent bleeds through. A flash of déjà vu hits me so hard, it nearly knocks the wind out of me. It’s a sign this is where I should be. I should have come sooner.

  “You look different than I remember,” I say.

  “I’m surprised you remember at all.” He looks down. “Sometimes, it seems your memories are crystal clear. Others, it’s like they’re held together with thread. Every time you disappear, I expect it will be the last time.” His voice trails off, and his eyes darken.

  “Me too.”

  He rolls his eyes at me. “So, what do you need?”

  “Getting down to business so quick?” I say as I rest my arm on the back of the couch.

  “Always.” He takes a slow sip of amber liquid from a crystal glass. “I may have all the time
in the world, but you sure don’t.”

  I swallow my pride, I’ve never liked asking anyone for favors. “The dagger, I need to keep it here.”

  His eyes narrow, and his lips twist. “I don’t want that thing in my house.”

  “It’s not like it can bring any harm to you,” I argue. Everyone I’ve shown the dagger to treats it like it’s far more deadly than it is. But no one will tell me the truth about it. If you ask me, the biggest danger is having it end up in Dominic’s hands again. Alaric is immortal, even if I stabbed him through the heart with this right now, it wouldn’t do a damn thing to him. Or, at least I don’t think it will.

  “A curse is a curse. I have staff, I won’t risk it. I won’t cast life aside as easily as you.”

  A curse? I clench my jaw. My normal hiding places aren’t going to cut it, not anymore. It’s too much of a danger. I need to be sure that next time I come here first. Alaric has answers I’ll need. Eventually, he might tell me everything. Or maybe he already has, but the memories are lost to me.

  “You owe me,” I challenge him.

  He laughs and leans back against the armchair. “I owe you nothing.”

  “Once I’m gone, she’s gone, you know you’ll be next. You’ll be at risk. And if he gets this dagger back, it might end us all,” I explain. Alaric and everyone left like him, they’ll always have a target on them.

  He looks away and frowns. The silence between us grows, but I know not to push it any further. “Fine,” he relents. “I’ll have to hide it somewhere safe.”

  “Thank you,” I say. “There’s one more thing.”

  “There always is.”

  “I need to know how to break the connection. It’s taking too long to rid myself of her influence. No matter what happens, we always end up finding one another.”

  He shakes his head. “There’s no fix for that. And the longer this goes on, the worse it will be.”

  “So what do you suggest?”

  “Add another piece to the puzzle.” He smiles. “After you do, bring the dagger here.”

  I say my goodbyes to Alaric, knowing the next time I see him I’ll have no time for pleasantries. When I leave, the sun is breaking the horizon. I’ve been gone too long. Because of my meandering path, it takes me nearly half an hour to make it home. She waits for me, her attention on a book. Though her long, black hair shrouds her face, something tells me she’s not actually reading. She’s got her knees pulled up to her chest, a fire at her back. Something about her feels familiar. But I can’t quite place what it is. A prickle at the back of my mind tells me I know her, but the void in my mind puts me on edge.

  “Where have you been?” she asks without looking up.

  The lie is bitter in my mouth before I tell it. She’ll know it’s a lie. But I can’t tell her the truth. “I had some things to attend to.”

  She looks up from the book, her dark eyes flashing, and her eyebrow perks up. Her mouth twists as she stares through me as if she can see the truth etched on my soul. “You need to be more careful. You could lead him back here.”

  I nod, because there’s nothing else I can say to her. Instead, I head to the back room to retrieve my journal. There’s something I need to figure out before he comes for us. The earliest entries give us clues, but it’s not everything. There are hundreds of years—hundreds of entries— missing. It’s lost knowledge we may never get back.

  I run my hand across the cover, energy hums from it. I flip to the final page where I scrawled, “Don’t trust her.” My eyes follow the curves of the letters again.

  After

  “Wake up, Asher, we’ve gotta get breakfast before class,” Sayid says, kicking my bunk.

  I peel my eyelids apart and groan. My heart is heavy, strange dreams haunt me. Dreams so real I can smell the strange scents of cities I’ve never visited. The thoughts prickle at the back of my mind. They always leave me feeling disconnected, like I woke up somewhere I don’t belong. Before Olivia died, I never had strange dreams. I barely dreamt at all. Eden was the dreamer.

  “Are you coming?” he asks, and looks back at me from the doorway. He sweeps his long black hair back, and it nearly reaches the collar of his white t-shirt. Sayid’s eyes travel down my chest, and my cheeks burn. I rub my bleary eyes, and I swear I see a hint of a smile curve his lips.

  “Yeah.” I nod and take a couple seconds to put on my shirt and jeans, the uniform. I follow him, even though the thought of going into the dining hall makes my hands tremble. A cold sweat coats my neck, and I tug on my collar. It’s been so long since I’ve eaten, my stomach is eating itself. After weighing the possibility of awkwardness in the cafeteria with the new kids, against feeling like my stomach is dissolving all day, I’ll take the awkwardness.

  “Sleep okay?” Sayid asks.

  “Yeah,” I lie. Since Olivia died, I haven’t slept well. Most nights I’m thankful if I don’t see her corpse in my dreams. But I don’t feel like explaining. It frightens me lately, lies have become so much easier than the truth. None of the guilt I expect follows. I don’t know this new me, and I’m not sure I want to.

  We trace through Madison cottage, down the stairs and across the rubbery boards of the porch. I’m thankful I’ve got Sayid, otherwise I’d probably hide in my room and starve to death, rather than face the school alone.

  “We’ll eat, then go get our schedules. Are you going to sign up for any sports?” he asks as we cross the lawn toward the dining hall.

  I shrug. “Wasn’t planning on it. Not really good at any sports.” Gym has always been pretty much the most embarrassing hour of my day.

  “Me neither,” he commiserates.

  “How does this all work?” I ask as I watch several groups of boys run across the campus to the dining hall. There always seems to be so much going on. I can’t help but notice how few guards there are. Those who are around don’t seem concerned at all about the boys who dart across the fields. A few hundred feet from us, two boys disappear into the trees. I’m the only one who sees them apparently, or the only one who cares.

  “It’s a lot like a regular school, for the younger kids. There are teams, extracurriculars, the usual stuff. If you’re over sixteen you’ll be assigned full time work detail unless you need training for the job you pick,” Sayid explains as we walk. “The kids who are in classes only go for half a day, the rest of the time, they’re in work detail, too.”

  “What are the options for work detail?” I imagine five years with my face in a toilet, nose dyed blue from urinal cakes.

  “Depends on what’s available. Jobs come and go as we do. Typically, the younger kids get more of the grunt work. Cleaning, that shit. There should be a short list to choose from,” Sayid says as we walk. “Usually, there’s farm work, laundry, kitchen, electrical, library, or clerical. If you hate the options, you can convince a young’un to switch with you.”

  “Do we get paid?” It’s probably a stupid question, but I can hope. After all, there isn’t exactly a steady stream coming from home anymore. Even if my parents tried to give me money, I’d refuse it.

  “Technically, no. Working gives you commissary credits though.”

  “Commissary?” I ask. I’m thankful even though I’ve asked a thousand questions, he doesn’t talk to me like I’m an idiot. Embarrassment at my naivety twists inside me.

  “It’s like a general store. Shampoo, soap, toothpaste, magazines, candy, that sort of stuff. If your parents haven’t disowned you they can also load your account with cash,” he says. “However, if you want to skip the commissary all together, I offer most of the same items, and others. I take trades, in lieu of cash, if you don’t have any,” he says with a hint of a grin on his face.

  I’m not really sure where I stand with my parents. But I’m not about to write home and ask for money. There isn’t anything I need, or will need, that bad.

  “What do you take in trade?” I ask, though there really isn’t anything I have to offer. Not yet, anyway.

  “I
t depends on what you need. Usually cigarettes, magazines, comic books, that sort of thing. You can also help me out in the laundry, if you don’t have anything to trade,” he says, nudging me.

  I’m never going to have anything to offer, but I nod anyway. I’ll learn to live without. After crossing the street, Sayid leads us toward a long, narrow building. The windows are caked with dirt, some of the shutters lie amongst the dead plants lining the flowerbeds. The Florida sun has boiled the paint around the windows and roof, it bubbles and peels away.

  When we get inside I’m surprised how big the building is. There must be enough room to feed five hundred. Today it’s barely half full. Along the back of the room is a line, and a cafeteria-style setup. Sneeze guards, chrome plating, only where the lunch ladies should be, there are boys in hairnets.

  Rows of wooden tables fill the room. Each table has an uninterested guard standing watch. I’m surprised when the door groans and slams shut behind us no one even looks our direction. If a new student walked into lunch at my old school, everyone would have noticed. Then the new kid would be pelted with about five thousands questions. My shoulders fall, and I let out a shuddering breath, relief.

  I follow Sayid, and pick up a tray after he does. I’m handed plastic plates covered in pancakes, sausage, eggs and toast. Amazingly it’s an even bigger spread than Amma used to give me. I grab a large glass of orange juice, trying to balance it with my tray full of food. I’m relieved when Sayid picks a table close, it’d be just my luck to drop all this on the floor. Though I’m not quite as relieved when I’m sitting amidst eight people I don’t know.