Page 35 of Warmer, Colder

Guess I can cross twins off the list.

That last one is punctuated with a sadistic symphony of laughter. A trio of blurry faces taunt me as my drooping lids struggle to remain open.

Don’t touch me. Don’t touch me. Don’t touch me.An offbeat chant in my head. Something even I can’t quite understand comes out between numb lips, coated in thick saliva that clings to every syllable.

But searing pain in my mouth disrupts the mirage of suffering that’s been a loop in my mind for months. My throbbing cheek roots me in reality as I put distance between myself and those things I don’t want to remember. The problem is, they’re ravenous and they’ve caught my scent, they feel the lure of my fear. They’ll find me again; that’s why I need to go where they can’t find me. That’s why I need to stay focused.

With great effort, I drag my gaze from the floor where it’s been anchored for months—I nearly pant with the exertion to reel it upward—and meet my reflection. When my eyes meet in the mirror, all my muscles go taut, on alert. A looming blackness creeps into view at the corner of my vision. Blinking, I try to dispel the gauzy presence that brings a familiar heaviness with it. But it remains persistently at my back. I don’t dare stare. Instead, I shift my attention to the shallows of my gaze, where I see a familiar figure drowning. I might be able to save her; she’s still flailing. I watch as waves come in, rolling, stacking, growing. It’s now or never. But then three sets of strong hands slither over her—clawing up her legs, latching around her wrists, choking around her throat—so I back away. I’m no match for them. I wasn’t in June and couldn’t be now in the bitter cold of December. Still, my feet stick in the dark, sucking sand. She parts her lips on a scream but it’s just a gaping void of emptiness; I see myself there, in her sore, hollowed throat. Even still, I don’t move to help her, and the opportunity is lost as a hand claps over her mouth, stifling her calls for help for good. We stare at one another wide-eyed and filled with bone-deep sorrow for several seconds as she sinks down, down, down into the murky waters.

With a shuddering sigh, I turn away. I’m already too cold; no sense in getting myself wet when it won’t do any good. Instead, I do her a different kindness; I prepare the body for its final rest.

I reach for comfort as I prepare for the end with death’s eyes heavy on my back. I slip on a pair of denim shorts that close easily over my hips where the bones are sharper than they were the last time I wore these. Next, I pull a white tank over my head, running my fingertips over it, smoothing down my torso where I can feel my ribs if I put too much pressure. I finish the outfit with Aiden’s black and white flannel; it’s always been a bit oversizedbut it’s much airier than before. Regardless, in its embrace, I’m safer than I have been in months.

Focusing on my task, I pick up the black brush on my desk—not bothering to clean out the dead strands that clog the bristles—and run it through long, tangled hair. My teeth grind as I rip through knot after neglected knot, but I persist until it’s smooth once more. I go for the straightener next, forcing the strands into the sleek silkiness that appears naturally effortless. When I’m finished, chestnut brown hair gleams.Perfect; just like the mane of a prized mare.

Next, I sit sideways at my desk and unzip my makeup bag, the contents are foreign to me after all these months. The brushes fit awkwardly in my fingers at first, but thankfully, muscle memory takes over.

As I proceed with the practiced motions, I’m careful not to look into the intent milky gaze of the drowning girl. Instead, I focus on the individual parts starting with the eyelids, carefully blending the varying shades of nude to create a soft, neutral look. The brush sweeps on foundation, and then a subtle blush to the cheeks; forcing a smile to apply it is uncomfortable, the awakened muscles groaning as they stretch. Down-turned lips are lined in nude and topped with a light, low-stick gloss.The girl next door never wears too much makeup.

Walking over to my jewelry box, I lift the lid and assess all the beautiful pieces collected over the years. My fingers hover over my favorite pair of earrings, the ones with the dangling butterflies, but I pass over them—those are too special to tarnish with my touch now. Instead, I select mismatched sun and moon huggies—the ones that remind me of my brother and me; two of a kind but so vastly different. Absentmindedly, I stroke the many other studs and tiny hoops that adorn my ears at all times as I look for the ring my parents gave me for my sixteenth birthday. I haven’t worn it forever but I don’t want to leave it behind. Islip it on my middle finger, admiring the smoky quartz heart on its braided gold band. To finish it off, I layer a set of thin gold necklaces around my slender neck.

Disgust is sticky in my throat as I stand in front of the mirror.

There she is, their little doll once again; all bright and shiny, just like new.

“Don’t look so sad, Becca. You’re going to feel so much better. Come on, we have to go.”The sweet voice that tickles something at the back of my mind encourages.

With a deep breath, I prepare myself to leave. On quiet feet, I begin picking things up, putting them in their place; my mother shouldn’t have to deal with it, not on top of everything else. Sheets and blankets are pulled tight and smoothed over. Pillows are stacked just so. My book is set at the foot opened to the page I left off on. With straining arms, I collect the mountain of laundry I’ve long neglected and shove the heaping pile into the now-overflowing basket in my closet. And finally, I line up my notebooks, stick my pens and highlighters in their holder, and stack my dusty textbooks so my desk is tidy just like I used to keep it.

Everything is as it should be. With a click of the remote, I turn off my sprawling fairy lights, plunging the room into darkness.

There we have it, a lifetime made into a museum.Becca Murphy forever enshrined.

On my way out, I trail my fingers over the surfaces of my nightstand, my bedspread, my desk, letting the memories that have settled in the dust coat my palms. It clings to me like everything I need to forget.

Carefully, I open my bedroom door, the string of butterfly charms that hangs from the knob tinkling quietly. I freeze, my worn heart in my throat. The maddening thumping makes it difficult to hear movement in the house as I peer through the crack. My eyes dry as I watch vigilantly. When sixty secondspass with only the blackness at the end of the hall watching me in eager anticipation, I close my door behind me, diligently maintaining my focus on the bathroom as the heartbreaking melancholic cries of young girls emanate from it. Every instinct within me urges me to get as far away as possible. But my mind and my heart are on different pages.

Magnetized by some greater force—the one that circumvents my careful planning and any regard for self-preservation—I find myself resting against the door to my brother’s room. There’s no telling if he’s actually in there or in the bed of his latest hookup, but I can smell two-plus decades of him sealed into the wood—a playful mixture of paint and that warm, citrusy gender-neutral perfume he loves.

If I could be enveloped in the safety of that scent now, maybe I would feel a little less lost. Hovering around the knob, my hand quivers. There’s a tug on the string of fate knotted around my heart; that bond urging me to stay.

But this isn’t a thing love or family can fix, even a twin. There’s nothing left to salvage. I’m not a sister, or a daughter, or a friend, or anyone—I’m a ghost of my former self and she haunts me relentlessly night after night. I get glimpses of the girl I used to be, but there’s nothing real, nothingtangible. I’ve become detached, floating untethered, roaming further and further from that golden girl. I don’t even recognize her anymore; I question whether she ever existed. I’m hollowed, shallow, void. Nothing but echoes of threats between teeth, the friction of dirty sheets against my back, and the weight of bodies baring down on mine. I long for something else,anything else.

It’s like they say, nothing gold can ever stay.

I need to be melted down, the essence of me to be made into something new. There’s only one way to do that.

In a silent goodbye, I apologize for not making more time for him. He was a good brother, but I had my reasons. Musclememory moves my fingers across the door making the shape of one of the few words I remember from our childhood secret language. The one we both understood before our paths diverged at the crossroads of adolescence. Before he was Aiden said on a sigh and I was Becca said with reverence.

None of that matters anymore. My path has ended in a cliff and there’s nowhere to go but forward. Off. To the other side.

Goodbye.It’s a whisperon the wind; I hope the sincerity holds when the echo reaches him.

“Becca,” that reassuring little girl’s voice calls to me, leading me onward.

With a heavy sigh, I take the final steps to the bathroom. Once inside, I catch my breath, savoring these remaining moments with me and my lungs and the way they work to defy me.

“Hurry, Becca. You have to do this before they catch you. They won’t understand.”That sentient void looms ever-close behind me, creating shadows where there shouldn’t be any.

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