JACE
During dinner, I take the first lull in our conversation to excuse myself from the table. I ate enough to keep my stomach from rumbling, but there’s no need to stick around long enough to find myself in an unending argument with my pop. After clearing my dishes, I retreat to hide in my room, telling my folks a story about being tired after the long drive here. They don’t need to know I still have trouble sleeping, or that every time I close my eyes, my nightmares still find me. Every night, I still cry out in the darkness for Cyrus, running from a monster I can never see.
In the end, there was no need for an elaborate excuse. They didn’t argue, only nodded, but I blurted one out anyway. We knew the longer we all sat at the table, the closer we’d get to our polite small talk boiling over into a fight. There’s no need to rush the inevitable, so I took the opportunity to get through our first night unscathed.
My room is a time capsule, frozen exactly how I left it when I moved out after high school. It’s a monument to the person I was and won’t be again. Photos of me smiling are taped to the walls, surrounded by the friends I made after moving to Deadwood just before my senior year—friends I no longer know.Band posters, fading with age, fill the rest of the wall space. It would be endearing if it weren’t so fucking sad. Each memory is a reminder that I used to be happy, how full of light I was before I let life snuff it out.
I look at the girl in the photographs with her long, ash-blonde hair and bright eyes full of big dreams. She wanted nothing more than to get out of this holler, escape this farm and the rumors of her family’s past. I wish I could tell her not to run so fast, not to use all her energy running, hoping everything would be different just because the setting changed. I couldn’t go fast enough or far enough to escape myself, but I still tried. I was desperate to be more than Leroy Landry’s daughter, the mousy girl from Devil’s Nest.
My reflection stares back at me from the mirror on my dresser. I push my shaggy teal bangs from my eyes, wishing I had brought a bottle of hair dye with me. Maybe that girl is still in there somewhere, buried underneath everything I’ve piled on top of her. A lump bobs in my throat, and I slam the mirror facedown against the dresser’s surface. I cringe, lifting it up just enough to be sure I didn’t break it. I don’t need any more bad luck.
The cover of clouds shrouds the field beyond my bedroom window. Small slips of moonlight break through to reflect off the snow. Darkness looms ominously in the distance, keeping the secrets of the creatures lurking there. A hungry howl drifts from the direction of the tree line, sending a shiver down my spine. Brig barks a warning in return, probably running to the fence to ward off the source of the sound. At this time of year, every creature is out hunting as food becomes scarce. Our pasture full of cattle is a predator’s buffet, and Brig will put in overtime to defend it.
Moving away from the window, I shuffle towards my bed, not bothering to turn off the light. I collapse onto the mattress, theworn springs groaning in protest as my body hits the bed. The nighttime symphony of crickets and the hoot of an owl remind me I’m not the only one awake, making me feel a little less lonely. Part of me longs to be one of them, another creature out in the woods, breathing fresh air not thick with my parents’ disappointment.
The clock on my nightstand ticks monotonously. I stare at the ceiling, my mind drifting as my eyes become unfocused. As I lay there, memories filter in like a slideshow: scream-singing to my favorite songs as I dance around the room, reading underneath the sheets with a flashlight…crying hysterically into my pillow for months until there were no more tears left to cry. Just girly things.
I force myself to concentrate on the movement of the fan blades circling overhead. The light below them flickers briefly. Maybe it’s a trick of the eye from the wobbly blades or just my tired eyes attempting to flutter closed as my body relaxes, but when it flickers again, I tense. There’s a distinct chill in the room, even though warm air drifts from the vents. Goosebumps erupt on my arms, making my skin tingle. I laugh at myself and the childhood fear of being alone at night creeping over me.
Exhaling loudly, annoyed at my jumpiness, I slide my phone from the front pocket of my jeans. I flip it over in my hand repeatedly, the weight heavy on my exhausted wrist, deciding whether it’s worth checking or if it will only disappoint me. I slide my finger across the screen, devoid of any notifications. No missed messages; there never are. The people I previously considered friends all dropped away, one by one, while I was in the city, and I can’t blame them. I thought moving away was my big chance to prove I wasn’t just a small-town girl, but even at college, I was the weird girl. Too quiet, too poor, too much effort spent pretending to be something I’m not. My friends left in Deadwood eventually grew tired of being the first to contactme, or listening to another one of my stories pretending my voice wasn’t laced with misery. When they called me out on it, I ignored them or flat-out denied I was gradually becoming consumed by the anxiety of failing. Cyrus was the only one who stuck by my side, moving in with me that first year away like a knight in backwoods armor?—
until he left too. The life I’d fabricated for myself in the city was doomed from the start, built on a foundation of denial that eventually cracked.
Maybe I should start reaching back out. I could text Roux Danvers, tell her I’m staying at my folks’ house. Her mom lives down the road, and I remember her mentioning she’d be coming home for winter break. She’s another Devil’s Nest transplant, but we’re six years apart, so we didn’t become close until she moved to the city too. If I had a real friend left, it would be her, even if it’s only out of obligation because of our shared history. I type a quick text and then stare at the ‘send’ button, but I can’t get my finger to hit it. Instead, I delete the message and close my messaging app.
I toss the phone across my bed, going back to looking blankly at the ceiling, contemplating whether I should take a shower or at least change for bed. A clean pair of sweatpants and an oversized shirt might make the urge to claw off my skin fade slightly, but my energy for the day has been spent. After driving here and having dinner with my folks, I didn’t set aside anything for self-care. My pop’s silence and my mama’s awkward attempt to maintain small talk as she tiptoed around subjects that might lead to an actual discussion have worn down my motivation to do anything except rot in bed.
My large duffel bag taunts me from the floor. I turn my head to look at it, remembering the sleeping pills inside. I should take them, I know that, and my therapist knows I’m not going to. Well, she did the last time I talked to her, which was severalmonths ago. She brought up the possibility I was trying to ‘win therapy’, making me instantly defensive—but she wasn’t wrong. Instead of working on healing, I’ve been placing all my energy into convincing everyone I am already healed. I hoped making people believe it would make me believe it too. Apparently, recovery doesn’t work like that.
A laugh escapes my throat. I feel ridiculous. Rolling to my side, I gaze out the window again, pretending I see someone out there. Someone who sees just how badly I’m hurting and might share the feeling. Someone who carries a heaviness they can’t shake. A shadow catches my attention, and for a moment, I think I’m imagining it—until it moves again to hide behind the tree just outside the window. I squint harder, attempting to focus on it, but it’s gone, blending into the dark. I wait a few more moments to be sure, but my eyelids grow heavy, and I give in to the need for sleep. With one last sigh, I embrace the feeling of slipping away into a place that’s not reality.
4
CYRUS
The tree branches no longer scratch at my skin to carve out thin red lines of inflamed flesh. Yet, the bramble still sends little pops of electricity through me as I push past it. Running through these woods should be easier now that I’m a ghost without functioning lungs, but sprinting still winds me. High school biology class did not prepare me for this, and I doubt I still have mitochondria powering my phantom cells.
Footsteps encroach behind me, steadily growing closer as they crash through the underbrush. The tree line is within sight now, and the thing chasing me won’t follow if I can make it to the clearing. I push my spectral body faster, no longer worried about the searing sensation filling my chest as air rushes through me. Finally, I escape the woods into the open pasture. A furious howl rings through the night, lamenting its loss. I pause, leaning against my knees, fighting off the urge to look behind me. The burning set of amber eyes is surely still staring at me from behind the trees. It will wait for me to return; it always does, but for now, I’m safe.
In the distance, a solitary light in the Landry house is still on, a beacon calling to me like a lonely lighthouse calls to a wayward ship. The place is normally dark at this hour. Jace’s parents areusually in bed before the sun sets, leaving this field entirely dark. Tonight, someone must still be awake. Thinking of Jace makes my heart ache, remembering the way she used to leave the light on for me. The soft yellow glow guided me straight to her room each night I snuck in through her window. I know she’s not there now, but I still long for her to be. Curiosity gets the better of me. I move closer, winding through the herd of sleeping cattle. Some of them shift in their sleep, mooing softly as they sense my presence. Once I’m past the fence separating the pasture from the yard, I hide behind the tree closest to the lit window—her window.
Craning my neck around one side of the tree trunk and then the other, I search for the best view of the room. My hands shake and my vision spins as I see the gorgeous creature lying across the bed. If I still had a beating heart, it would stop in its tracks. It’sher—my Jace has come home. The woman I’ve ached for every moment since my death is in her bed, only feet away. Emotions explode inside me, everything at once like fireworks shooting off inside my chest. Emotions I thought were as dead as I am.
Her jeans and sweatshirt are slightly oversized for her small frame. The fabric pools around her as if she’s melted from the heated air inside the house. Faded teal hair fans out across her pillow, the shaggy ends fading to white. Her wispy bangs frame her frowning face, bottom lip quivering as though she’s about to cry but is adamant not to. She stares unwaveringly at the ceiling, barely moving. Something in my body stirs, yearning for her. I’m desperate to be near her again, the hollow parts of me filling with hope.
I’ve never seen her so sad. In life, I was the melancholic one, the storm cloud to her shining sun. What pains her so much, grief seems to spill from her? My arms twitch, wanting to wrap around her and hold her close as she cries against me. I’m franticto do something, anything, to take her sadness away. Guilt rattles me, knowing I might be the source of her anguish, even after all this time. I never got the chance to say goodbye, or tell her I never meant to leave her.
I hope she’d found a way to move on, even though it’s painful to admit. She deserves to be full of joy, even in my absence. I’ve heard nothing about her since the day I left our apartment to come check on my pop, leaving her in a moment of angry silence so I could collect my thoughts. I expected to come back to Deadwood for the weekend, sort some shit out, and be back, apologizing profusely, by Monday—but man makes plans and God laughs, I suppose. Needless to say, I never made it back to her.
Jace’s old man, Leroy, still comes around my father’s house occasionally, but he never mentions her. I held out hope he’d bring her over one day, but he never did. The few times my pop brought her up, the conversation was quickly shot down, as if Leroy’s ashamed of her. He’s always been a man of few words, but anger still coils inside me at the memory. Words I wish I could have said to him while I was still alive are at the back of my throat, full of repressed rage and ready to spring out in Jace’s defense. If Leroy has blocked her out too, no wonder she’s so fucking sad. Besides me, her family was all she had left. Then again, if I had a daughter, my pop is the last person I’d discuss her with. I convince myself I’m reading too far into it until my anger only simmers on the surface. Jace and I had our differences, but we’ll always have at least one thing in common: shitty dads.
Her head rolls towards the window, her honey-brown eyes becoming saucers as they appear to look right at me. Jace’s eyebrows shoot up, disappearing under her teal bangs. Her muscles visibly tense under her oversized clothes. For a moment, a flicker of fear lingers beneath her sadness. Can shesee me out here in the dark? Her wide eyes and fragile but determined spirit have always reminded me of a newborn deer, struggling but eager to stand on its own. She’s every bit as beautiful as the memory of her I’ve clung to.
I want nothing more than for her to see me, to jump from the bed and throw open the window, but I still shrink behind the tree. A ghost peeking through her window in the middle of the night isn’t exactly the reunion I have in mind. I’m not sure she even knows I’m dead. My memories right after death are fragmented, but I’m positive my pop didn’t give me a funeral. I count to ten, pausing between each number. When I dare to look out again, her eyes are closed, and her chest slowly rises and falls. I wait a few more minutes to be sure she’s fully asleep before creeping to the window. My hands press against the sill, ready to open and climb inside out of habit, but I resist the urge. I’m on a different timeline now, one that doesn’t include her.
While I was alive, I should have given in to my hunger to be near her instead of pushing her away. The intense duality of my feelings wars within me. Uncomfortable possibilities slide through my mind as I decide what to do next. The reality that if I leave now, I could never see her again is terrifying. The notion of her slipping through my fingers again sinks its teeth into me, filling me with the venom of indecision. What if she’s only visiting, helping her parents with a few tasks before winter really hits, like we used to? She could leave tomorrow and disappear—like I did years before. Will I be forced to wander these woods for the rest of my afterlife alone, only remembering she exists?
No. I shake my head.No. I can’t. Ishouldn’t.
