After You Died Page 8

  It’s not real. It’s not real.

  When I open my eyes, she’s gone.

  I climb the stairs to my room, my throat thick with emotion. I hide Eden’s letter. I’ll have to figure out in the morning how to get it to her. I collapse back onto the bed and try to blink away the tears stinging my eyes. She’s haunting me, she’s punishing me. Guilt coils inside me. Sleep finally claims me, but the face of Olivia’s corpse is still fresh in my mind.

  Before

  Date Unknown

  The warmth of humidity embraces me. My head rests against my hand as I lean on the table in front of me. Cluttered walls of a well-lived-in shotgun house seem to stretch on forever, until the darkness swallows them. In the orange glow of the candlelight, I can see a girl across from me. Though she doesn’t look over twenty, the lines on her face, the darkness in her eyes, tells me there’s more to her than what’s on the surface. The table is scattered with maps, open books, and several daggers, carvings etched into their handles.

  “He’s getting close,” she says. Her face is shrouded, eyes focused on the table, not on me. She’s gotten so strong now, she shares a closer connection with him. I hate her for that. I spent nearly a hundred years with him, and I can barely feel him. She’s never spent more than five minutes in the same room with him.

  A tight lump forms in my throat. “I know.” The words come from my mouth, but my voice is unfamiliar, it’s deeper, rougher. Even my body feels foreign. My hands are larger, jagged and calloused. Supple leather winds its way around my chest, a vest that fits me so well, it’s nearly a second skin. Coarse linen pants hang limp off my legs.

  She slides forward on her elbows and a flicker of light catches her face. The woman before me isn’t someone I know, not physically anyway, she’s a stranger. But I feel a connection to her. She’s someone I’ve known before. Maybe I know her now. A familiar twinkle lingers in her eyes. The connection that binds us stretches across the table and pulls at me.

  “How are we going to hide it this time?” she asks as she sweeps her long black hair away from her dark eyes.

  “I’ve created other journals, he won’t be able to tell the difference. You hide one of the fakes. I’m going to hide a couple, too. But that leaves what to do with the real one...” The lie slips out easily. When you tell a lie over and over, it becomes much easier to tell. It’s so easy now, it almost feels like the truth.

  She grimaces and looks uneasy. “You know the risk we’re taking if he finds it.” Her words aren’t a question, they’re a warning.

  “It’s the same risk we’ve taken every other time.” I explain. Sometimes, I’m not sure if it’d be worse if he found the journal, or if she did.

  “If he finds it, if he figures it out though, that will be the end of us.” Her words are so low, it’s like she thinks saying it out loud may make it happen.

  “Will it though? The best we have are guesses. We don’t know if any of them—”

  She holds up her hand as she cocks her head. Her eyes tighten, and she clenches her fists atop the table. “We don’t know that they won’t work, either.” She shakes her head. “And we would lose so much if he knew everything.”

  “I know you can feel it. We aren’t meant to kill him this time.”

  Though I’m not sure how it will feel when we are supposed to kill him, I know this isn’t the time. We will get one step closer, we will prepare, and maybe, just maybe, we’ll be able to kill him next time.

  After

  The letter for Eden is heavy in my pocket, where it’s been for nearly two weeks. When I went to the office to mail it, the women working in the building laughed at me. I know there’s only one hope to get the letter to Eden, and he’s sitting across from me. Sayid shovels his breakfast into his mouth like he may never eat again. The question I’ve been wanting to ask him for days has formed a hard lump in my throat, even if I swallow a million times it won’t go away.

  I don’t want to ask him for help, I hate asking anyone for anything. Every single cigarette he gives me has guilt heavy on the smoke. Everything is another favor I won’t be able to pay back. He’s unreasonably nice to me, and I haven’t figured out if it’s because he’s too stupid to realize how dangerous I really am, or if it’s that very danger keeping me in his good graces. But no matter how much I try to build up the wall between us, Sayid manages to break it back down. There’s something between us, but I don’t understand what it is yet.

  You could be next. I’ve almost said to him a hundred times. You should stay away from me. You shouldn’t be my friend. I don’t want his blood on my hands, or anyone else’s. But especially not his. Every time I swallow the words down, because deep down, I don’t want him to stay away.

  The words bubble to the surface again, and this time, they come out even through my clenched teeth. “I need your help,” I say. I know part of me should feel relieved that I finally said the words, all I can feel is the weight of his stare, and the silence building between us.

  He studies me, his left eyebrow droops. The speed of his chewing slows. But he doesn’t speak for so long that I shift uncomfortably. “You need help?” The words seep out of him slow, almost forced, like he’s testing his knowledge of a foreign language. “You’ve been here two weeks and haven’t asked for a single thing, color me impressed it took you this long.” He jokes, but laughter only comes from his side of the table.

  “I need to get a letter to my sister.” I pull the wrinkled letter from my pocket and slide it across the table to him, after I’m sure the guards aren’t looking—they never are.

  He snatches it up before I’m even able to blink. “Really, this is it? Just a letter?” He eyes it, like he was expecting something more scandalous. If I didn’t know better, I’d think he was disappointed.

  I shrug, and let my eyes fall to my plate. “What do I owe you?” There’s no way for me to pay him, I have nothing of value. All I could offer is taking shifts for him at the laundry.

  He laughs again, and pokes my tray so it bumps into my arm. When our eyes meet, he says, “Cheer up, it’s on me.”

  I can’t even get a breath in to argue, a loud voice cuts across the cafeteria like thunder on a silent afternoon.

  “Gather ‘round boys,” a lumbering hulk of a boy says as soon as his tray hits the table. I recognize him right away from my lovely shower, Becks. He’s so big, he looks out of place here. A kid this tall, this big, it can’t be possible. I’m pretty sure he could break the table in half, if he had a mind to. His eyes are wide, playful, he’s chewing on a thin breadstick like it’s a piece of straw. Though he’s got a playful air to his tone, his presence makes a bad feeling snake its way under my skin.

  “What’s the lesson plan today?” Sayid asks. I listen to his voice for an edge, for any hint that this kid is the bad news I think he is, but there is none. Sayid actually looks interested in what Becks has to say.

  Becks thumbs his bulbous nose and looks up at Sayid through the bushy eyebrows drooping over his eyes. “Hotwiring, never know when it will come in handy.” He blinks a few times, and I think his eyelashes may have gotten tangled in his brows.

  Sayid rolls his eyes, “You’ve already told us how to do that.”

  Becks cocks his head to the side and glares at Sayid, challenging him with his eyes. All six foot, six inches and 300 pounds of him is crouched, like he’s ready to jump across the table at him. “You eva’ actually stole a car?”

  A lump forms in my throat. But Sayid just shakes his head, completely unfazed by Becks brooding stare. How is Sayid not scared of him? Becks could rip him in half.

  “You planning to get straight after you leave here? I mean considerin’ this ain’t your first rodeo, I’m guessing not.” Becks words snap, each one hits Sayid so sharply, I expect him to flinch, he doesn’t.

  Sayid doesn’t answer, instead he stares at his food. I try to catch his gaze, but he doesn’t look at me. Instead of piling the food into his mouth quickly, now he takes slow, calculate
d bites. I think he’s avoiding looking at Becks.

  I’m not sure how or why Becks ever got into grand theft auto, he looks like he’s from a rich family. You can still tell by the way he slicks his hair back with pomade. Though I came from a well-off family, and I know my fair share of other people who come from money, Becks oozes wealth. His t-shirt is pressed, not wrinkled like the rest of ours. Even his jeans have a seam ironed in them. And I’d guess if I looked under the table, his shoes would shine.

  “Depending on the type of car, there are two easy ways to hotwire. Both ways you’ll need a screwdriver. Remove the panel beneath the steering column, pull down the wires, you’ll want to cross the red and black ones. Or, remove the ignition switch, slide the screw driver inside, turn it, and tah-dah, new ride.” He smiles, and something dark flashes across his face. “Time to pay tribute, boys.” He holds his hands out, urging everyone to fill them.

  A collective sigh comes from the table. The boys start to pass things to Becks, bacon, toast, whatever they have left. One boy pushes his entire tray toward him. But I don’t.

  “Newbie?” he finally says to me over a tray brimming with food.

  I say nothing, though my hand almost shakes, I hold it steady. My jaw is locked, I keep my eyes on the tray in front of me.

  “He deaf?” Becks asks Sayid, there’s levity in his voice, like it’d all be a hilarious misunderstanding if I were deaf.

  Sayid looks panic-stricken. His mouth drops open, but words don’t come out. I won’t make him choose who he betrays here.

  My eyes meet Becks’ for the first time. Despite my desire to defy him, to be the one to tell him no, I slide my tray across the table.

  “Good boy,” Becks says as he snatches the fork from my hands.

  Anger twists inside me like a knife in my gut. I wish there was something I could do to stand up to him. But Becks is nearly three times my size. I’m not sure I could do anything to him.

  “Next time I’d hand over the food a ‘lil faster,” Sayid warns.

  I nod. But deep down, I’m hoping there won’t be a next time.

  After

  The second the smell of straw, horse shit, and old pine hits my nostrils, I feel like I’m home. I breathe deep, like it’s the first breath I’ve taken in hours. It feels like coming up for air after swimming underwater. Wood covered in peeling paint stretches high above me. Bent, rusted nails curl, like overgrown fingernails, from the old splintered beams. There’s no one in the stables to greet me, just the way I like it.

  Though I’ve made a dent in the work to be done in the stables since I came to Dozier, this place has needed love for a while. My attention has mainly been focused on the horses. Cleaning their hooves, washing them, brushing them. And, more importantly, making sure they don’t fight the saddle.

  From the stacks of molded hay, buckets filled with as much feed as water, and air thick with flies—it still drives me crazy to see this place in shambles. The clipboard hangs from a rusty nail on one of the supporting posts. My tasks are neatly written out on a dirty scrap of paper, the same tasks that have been there for two weeks. The same tasks that have probably been there since the beginning of time.

  Shovel Stalls

  Replace hay - New bales in loft

  Replace water

  Brush horses

  Clean hooves

  The stables aren’t large, there are twelve stalls in all, less than a quarter of the stalls we had at home. Each stall is about twelve-by-twelve, with four stalls on each side. A long hallway about eight feet wide runs along the middle, separating the rows of stalls. With the state these are in, cleaning them will definitely take all day. I’ll be lucky to get it done. I search the small tool closet for a shovel, but there isn’t one. I walk from stall to stall, hoping no one was dumb enough to leave a shovel in with one of the horses.

  As I search the last one, there’s shuffling behind me. I turn to find Becks and two cronies. Both of the cronies look similar enough to be brothers, white dirty skin, tangled mounds of brown hair, and dark eyes. Becks holds the shovel across his body with his right hand, resting it on his left shoulder.

  “Looking for this?” he asks in a tone that makes me want to punch him. The shovel dangles from his hand in front of me, and taunts me.

  “Nope,” I lie. I’m sure I can find something else to use, in fact, I’d rather use my hands. I don’t know why he’s come here to mess with me. I gave him my breakfast, and now my stomach is suffering the consequences. White-hot anger flares up inside me, but I refuse to let it show on my face. I don’t want to spend the next five years with this kid making my life hell.

  I head out of the stall and walk around him, without so much as looking in his general direction. Becks wants me to fight. My father has made me well aware of the signs someone is looking for a fight.

  He snorts so loud, I almost mistake it for one of the horses. “You know, Asher,” he says my name like I’m lucky he knows it. “This morning I gave you a chance out of the kindness of my heart.” One of his cronies snickers beside him. Becks shoots him a look that’s laced with venom. “I go out of my way to educate you all, and all I ask is for you to pay tribute. And this morning, you took way too long.”

  “I’m sorry,” the lie tumbles out, the words bitter in my mouth. This kid is never going to be anything to me other than a menace. I could sense that from the moment I saw him. And I know what will come of these interactions, he’ll probably pound my face into the concrete. I wish he’d get it over with so I could get back to my work.

  “You don’t sound very sorry,” Becks says as he takes a step toward me.

  Though his size terrifies me, I keep my attention on my work. I force my face into a stoic mask. He may scare the shit out of me, but I won’t give him the pleasure of seeing that.

  I stop sweeping to look at him. “Well, I am.”

  I cross my arms, leaning against a stall wall and wait for them to leave. Every cell in my body aches to run. Get as far away from here as you can. But I don’t move. I don’t listen to the voice in the back of my mind. Giving in to the fear will only make it worse next time.

  Becks and his cronies walk toward me. I think they’re going to walk past me, slink away in defeat. I’ve never been that lucky. The two cronies grab me, each taking one arm. They pull me back, and slam me into a support post. My teeth clink together, and my head thuds against the wood. A sharp pain radiates from my teeth all the way through my skull. My shoulder blades ache as the wood digs into them; it’s hard enough to know I’ll bruise.

  Becks cocks his head to the side, and smiles when I wince. He looks down at his right hand as he steps closer. Then he backhands me with his palm open. My face burns in response. Every breath breathes fury through me. But I steady myself. Stay calm. This isn’t my first fight, it won’t be my last. If there’s anything I can do, it’s make it through a beating.

  His knuckles bite into my cheek, teeth. The force of the impact disperses through my entire face. I force myself to keep quiet. I won’t moan, I won’t cry, I won’t show any weakness to this asshole. In fact, after he steps back, I smile at him.

  His eye twitches. The veins in his neck rise to heights I never knew possible, like a pulsing snake trapped beneath the taut skin. The flesh on his face glows red. He pulls his lips tight. His massive brow nearly swallows his eyes. I tug, and try to free myself from his cronies, but I can’t get free. The more I struggle, the tighter they grip me. Blood pours from my arms where their nails dig into my flesh. Becks lumbers closer, towering above me. I decide to stop fighting. Instead I slump, looking off into the distance. If I can’t fight back, I will make him as angry as possible. Maybe he’ll give himself a heart attack.

  “Look at me.” Spit hits my face as he throws his words at me. The words are a monstrous growl.

  Ignoring him, making him scream at me, it gives me a sick pleasure. It’s the first time I’ve actually been happy since Olivia. When I realize it, a fist of guilt twists inside me. It
hurts worse than my swelling face. Warm blood pours from my eyebrow, down my cheek.

  He doesn’t speak again, instead he drives a fist into my jaw. It aches, and throbs, but he clearly doesn’t have much experience with his left hand. I look at him, almost smiling, daring him to hit me again.

  “Can’t you do any better than that?” I challenge. “I’m pretty sure my sister could punch me harder.”

  He snorts, knuckles split my lip.

  Come on, hit me.

  “Are we done here?” I ask, trying to sound like this is nothing but an inconvenience. The swelling has the benefit of making it easy to keep my face straight. Or maybe it’s my experience taking a beating that makes it easier.

  Knuckles burst my forehead open, blood drips into my eye. Another punch. I taste more blood. A laugh slips from my lips, but it’s so foreign, so deep, it doesn’t sound like it’s mine. At the sound of laughter, Becks snorts like a raging bull. He’s a shade of red I’ve only seen on tomatoes.

  He hits me again and again, until my head hangs slack and his knuckles are swollen and purple. Over and over, until I finally black out.

  After

  When my eyes finally open, I swear I hear trumpets and smell the scent of something sweet on the wind. The sun bears down on the stables. It’s so hot, the air burns away in waves. My face aches, I pull myself up from the floor, and dust the straw from my shirt. A hunk of horse shit clings to my pants. I feel my face, it’s swollen, but not as badly as I expect. Blood clings to my hand, I wipe it on my jeans, and pick up the shovel.