Page 76 of Shadows in Bloom

Hearing it echoed in my memories is one thing.

The reality of it spoken right to my face…something completely different.

Ophelia’s throat bobs, something indecipherable flickering through her darkening eyes. Like maybe she too just realized what she called me. Because not only has it been years since I’ve heard my name from her lips…but to hear her call me Winnie, not Winifred… But Winnie, like we’re still best friends… Winnie, like she called me that night, when she tempted me down a path I’d later regret so much, for so many reasons, just as I imagine she does too deep down…

Well, it hurts.

I swallow hard, and shake my head. “Not worried.”

And just like that, whatever glimpse of the girl I once knew was there a moment ago, is quickly walled off by that ever-present cold shell I’ve come to know.

And I feel sick. Knowing it’s my fault it’s there in the first place.

It’s for the best… for both of us, even if she can’t see that.

“Ssssssure about that?” a voice that is not mine rings out in my head, and I freeze.

It’s the same one from the woods.

Oddly enough, it’s at that moment that Ophelia tilts her head, gaze growing far-off, like she’s…

Like she’s listening to something.

Or someone.

Heart pounding, I whisper, “Can I please go now? You got what you wanted.”

Even before I finish the sentence, she’s shaking her head, and I expel a harsh breath.

“It’s not coming out, is it?”

I frown. “What?”

She gestures at my hand, and I’m thrown back to earlier, before class, in the bathroom. Scrubbing my hand raw with scalding hot water and soap. Desperate and on the verge of tears when I realized?—

“The black stuff. It’s coming from your pores.”

I still. “How…” When my voice fails me, I try again, no louder than a whisper. “How do you know that?” My pulse hammers against my throat, thundering in my ears.

Her lips tighten into a bloodless line. Eyes creased with a knowing sort of resignation.

I’m not hallucinating.

My stomach bottoms out as the reality slowly settles over me.

It was real.

Shaking my head, I beg Ophelia with my eyes. For answers… for reassurance… for a miracle.

But that’s not what I get.

What I get is far worse.

What I get is more questions.

What I get is a throat filled with acid.

“Because,” she murmurs, unbuttoning the top three buttons of her shirt.

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