Page 6 of Ghosts of Halloween

I’m used to the phantom pain, though. I’ve saved my Oxy, hurting for weeks now. This is nothing new.

What’s new is the heavy dread filling me as I contemplate where I’ll go tonight. I haven’t been there since I was nineteen, and Noah took me to celebrate after getting me the new prosthetic. The one I still have.

He paid twenty grand for it, and I knew better than to ask where he got the money. Especially since I already had suspicions.

It’s such a pity it will go to waste, I think, running my fingers down the smooth black surface of my arm. But it was made to fit. I doubt anyone else can use it.

Pushing my way past the trick-or-treating crowd, I finally reach my aunt’s building. Janet lives in a tiny bedsit, and I sleep on the couch. It’s a bother, she makes sure to remind me every day. She needs her space so she can invite her “friends” over.

Well, tonight, she’ll have the apartment to herself. Once she’s back from the bar, of course.

I grab a change of clothes from the scratched dresser where I keep my stuff and go to take a shower. I dressed sexily for Ryan, opting for a skirt that was easy to hike up and a tight top showcasing my boobs.

The outfit I pick out now is just as daring, but in another way. I don’t usually wear it, because people don’t like seeing a lame girl dressed as gothic Lolita. It’s too much for them to handle.

The unwritten rule is that since I already stand out, I should do what I can to blend in. If I don’t, I get punished. Men catcall and whistle, and not in a way that gives me the spark. Mothers cross to the other side of the street when they see me. Teenagers snicker.

But it’s Halloween, I think when the lukewarm water, the warmest I can coax out of the pipes, falls down my body, washing off Ryan’s sweat. I can dress up for Halloween.

Tonight, I can do anything.

2

Harlow

Clean and dressed, I dig out my entire Oxy supply from a hollow behind the fridge. Janet knows nothing about my secret stash. She’d swap my meds for her brand of drugs any time, so I’ve pretended for years I don’t get them anymore.

I lie about my disability benefits, too. She demands I give over everything I get, bitching about living expenses and how much I eat. She spends what she gets from me on cheap tequila and drugs. I spend the leftover money on condoms, lube, and running shoes.

I go through a pair every few months. The condoms and lube used to run out fast, too. But now that I’ve lost the spark, I don’t need as much.

And tomorrow, I won’t need anything at all.

My hand throbs dully when I put the Oxy in my bag. It holds everything I usually bring when I go out, so tissues, condoms, a beat-up thermos with some tequila I swiped from Janet. The bottle of lube is almost full and weighs me down, so I consider leaving it behind. But no. I might have a chance to use it yet.

One last time.

I leave my keys behind, hiding them under a couch pillow in case Janet comes back early and is sober enough to notice. I don’t want her looking for me tonight. Not that she would, but I’m not taking any chances.

Everything is ready. All that remains is to walk out of the apartment. It’s not a far walk, either. I’ll get there in twenty minutes, tops. Under ten if I run.

And yet, I waver.

The pain grows stronger, pins and needles jabbing my palm and arm, fire burning my skin, hammers crushing my bones. That’s the memory I have of how it happened. That, and Noah’s frantic voice.

“I’ve got you. You’ll be fine. I’ve got you.”

I sigh and turn back to my dresser. Hand shaking, I take out a faded photograph with soft, worn edges and give it a glance.

There’s me, still whole, laughing in a swing, and Noah behind me, pushing it. I was six then. He was twelve, and already the best big brother I could wish for. When Mom lay drunk on the couch, dried vomit caking her mouth, he would always take me out to the playground. We spent hours there, doing what we could to ignore our grumbling stomachs.

This photo was taken by a woman who often came by with her son. Thankfully, he wasn’t caught in the frame, but I feel him in it all the same. His presence is cold and slimy, spoiling the memory for me.

I tuck the photo in my bag, doing my best not to follow that train of thought.Forget all about Michael.

And even though my mind is rigid and under control, there is this sick humiliation sitting in my stomach like a brick. It pushes me out the door, though, so it’s not all bad.

Anything to get me moving.

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