“How do I heal when the wounds want to stay? It breaks and tears away, shifting my bones beneath my skin while I wilt with the day. Some say that time is a balm, healing over everything until there’s a settling calm. But the winds howl deeper, and the tide turns; meanwhile, I’m stuck, forever mending these burns.” With every line, my smile stretches into a Cheshire grin. I peer up through my lashes to see Dirt frozen in time. Her expression is adorable, pouty lips parted as she stares back at me in horror. I deliver the finishing blow. “It seems I grabbed the wrong notebook. I think this belongs to you.” I slap it onto her desk before leaning close. “A little edgy, don’t you think?” I walk past her and take my seat.
The room is quiet, then a few hushed whispers andsnickers.
“Um,” Mrs. Christie rocks back on her heels in discomfort. “Who’s next?”
Dirt pushes up from her chair before tearing out of the room with her head tucked. Charlie chases after her, shooting us a death glare before following her friend out to the hallway.
“Good shit,” Kairo praises.
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen her move that fast,” Roman crosses his arms with a conniving half-smirk.
As class drags on, I keep replaying Dirt’s reaction over and over again in my head. The alarm and dread rolling off of her was addictive.
It makes me wonder what she would look like asleep—her face slack and as cold as the ones that lie in my family’s funeral home as they await their service.
I’ve always had a morbid fascination with dead things. Growing up with funeral directors as parents will do that to a kid.
And I know Dirt would look perfect lying in a fucking coffin.
Chapter Eight
Rosalie
Every time.
Every time I look in the mirror, it gets harder and harder to stomach what I see. As my hands grip the edge of the sink, I force myself to memorize every feature my father claims reminds him of my mother.
The light shade of my skin, the mole that sits above the left corner of my mouth, and the dark locks that hang matted and messy past my shoulders.
And the desperation in my eyes.
The pleading cry of a girl who only wants to be set free—to abandon all of this.
Oh, what could I have become if this weren’t my reality? Would I be carefree and surround myself with friends? Would I not be scared to touch or hug them? Embracing my companions without the sick feeling that paralyzes me anytime someone gets too close?
Would I have a boyfriend?
Someone to wrap their arm around my shoulder and smile down at me like I mean something.
Or would I just not exist anymore?
Is this reality what I’m reduced to? Are there no other dimensions where there’s a perfect replica of me, yet my opposite in every way?
“I hope she’s happy,” I mumble quietly.
There’s a harsh knock on the door that jolts me.
“Rosalie!” Dad screams from the other side. “Get us a beer!”
I close my eyes. “Okay!”
I splash some water on my face, then use one of the hand towels to dry myself. My dad’s friends are over to watch a football game, and I’m stuck on cooking and beer duty. I take advantage of it because if he’s busy with them, he won’t be focused on me.
I just have to survive the next few hours, and then I can lock myself away in my room for the rest of the night while Dad sleeps his hangover off. It’s easy enough.
I walk back out into the living room, passing right in front of the three men seated on the torn sofa. They usher me back into the kitchen and out of their view of the game. I grab three beers, hand them off, and get to work on dinner.
There isn’t much around the house, but since Dad has company, he made the rare grocery run. He grabbed a few cans of tomato sauce, noodles, and ground meat, then tossed them onto the counter and instructed me to make something good.
