Page 37 of Warmer, Colder

I did this. I imploded my family with one decision, one that I can never take back. If I’d known I’d be here to see the fallout or my detonation, would I have done it?

I let the truth of it anchor me in this moment, in the solidity of my regret. There’s nothing else to do but play the role of corpse just like I’d hoped.

Chapter 16

Stasi

38 Days Dead

For the first time since I died, I feel like I can breathe. I hadn’t realized how toxic the atmosphere had become, all those pollutants—my hunger for justice I’ll never receive and her self-destruction—building up in my lungs. This distance between us has given me a much-needed reprieve from Becca’s suffocating presence. In the days since, I’ve focused on letting go of all that anger, employing the lessons I learned from Aphrodite even if I don’t have access to her anymore. It’s hard work, but I’m determined to regain my sense of self bit by bit. With every day that I avoid sneaking into her room, I become more hopeful that maybe even if I never get the closure I want, I can exist separately from her. And maybe I can heal just enough to not spend eternity chasing the things that caused me to run right off a cliff.

Unfortunately, that illusion of peace is shattered with a bloodcurdling scream that travels through the walls of the main house and straight down my spine. Before I can process what I’m hearing, I’m barging through the back door, the hook that’s sunken into my gut reeling me toward the bathroom. The symphony of distress grows louder with each step I take. Beneath all their voices, I distinctly hear Becca’s desperation. Fear grips me, cold fingers forcing me tolook. It takes a minute,but then I find her. Limbs limp, mouth gaping open, eyes unfocused—helpless to the thing that looms over her in the tub. That haunting mass of black swells a bit larger than I’ve seen before, its shape shifting ever so slightly. While it has no distinct features, I would bet money that it’s staring right back at me. But there’s something even more terrifying than that sight, the blood trickling over Becca’s slashed wrists.

She’s dead.

Her eyes meet mine. Pits of agony that threaten to swallow me, but it’s there in her self-centered sorrow that I finally see thatI was so, so wrong.

There’s no relief in her eyes, no registering how or why I’m here, only the need for someone else to witness her pain. Her dismissiveness stings like a slap to the face. Becca never cared about me; not the way I deserved. She’s never looked out for anyone but herself. It’s clear as day in the tears she cries for herself, not for me.No, never for me. They’re for her and the guilt my presence is making her feel. They’re for her and the cracked image of perfection that this stain on her soul has created. The thing that’s changed is that I don’t want to care about her anymore either. I’m done worrying about her, fawning over her, chasing after her, for real this time. My heart can’t bear it anymore.

The reminder of her pain is an obnoxious mosquito trying to feed on my empathy. Even though I swat it away, it keeps popping up any time I let my guard down.

I need to do something. Rifling through storage bin after storage bin, I hunt for the diaries Becca used to keep. If they’ve kept all this other useless junk, she definitely held onto those. Daily diary entries were Becca’s ritual once upon a time.Somewhere she could confess those thoughts that she was too afraid to share with anyone else.

If it were anyone else, I’d consider it a betrayal of trust, but given our history, I feel entitled to know what’s on these pages, especially the ones labeled 2003 and 2004 in Becca’s proper cursive writing.

The notorious floral notes ofCuriouswaft off the front page. Despite myself, a small laugh escapes me as I rub my finger over the splotch on the page from spraying too close. Thumbing through the pages, it’s mostly pretty bland—complaining about her day or humbly bragging about how she aced her last test—but I’m surprised to see it wasn’t all a walk in the park for her.

Today, Frankie M. stuck a note on my back that said, “I like girls”. Why are boys literally the worst? Thankfully, Chleo was there and ripped him a new one, but she was pissed at me after. I don’t know how she can blame me. She’s the one who got us both into this mess. She promised she’d make it go away as quickly as it started. Unfortunately for me, gossip is easy to start and way harder to squash. It’s been almost a year, can’t people let it go? I have. I’ve moved on. And obviously. I don’t like girls. I mean I don’t even have any girl friends anymore—Chleo and them don’t count; I only eat lunch with them to avoid being harassed. And I definitely don’t like any of them like THAT. I only get crushes on boys. I can’t help who has a crush on me. That’s why Ana and I couldn’t be friends anymore. I had to cut her off. She made things weird. She ruined everything. It’s not my fault that she was like obsessed with me or something.

Humiliation and then rage snakes through me in a violent torrent that sizzles and burns inside me; a storm that needs to be unleashed.That little bitch.She can lie to them, she can even lie to herself, but she won’t lie to me. It’s time she was held accountable for all the shit I let her get away with.

Standing in front of her door, my foot twitches with the need to drive into the inch-and-a-half thick piece of wood again and again until I break down the final barrier between us. And yet, I hesitate, the sniffles and sobs triggering that dormant lover we’ve both played our part to bury. And for her part, I can finally do something about it. But I stand on the precipice, experiencing her grief like being caught in a blazing fire. Mourning blossomsin thick plumes, filling their home from one end to the other. Misery heats the door handles, keeping us apart. The fumes of regret irritate my eyes, and coat my throat and nose, making me retreat instead of going further into the burning house of loss.

“Are you going to leave your best friend to fend for herself?”A whisper the consistency of smoke curls around my ear, but when I turn, no one is there. No onecouldbe there, because the voice belonged to twelve-year-old Becca. Doubt taps its nails at the back of my mind. The sensation of air on my cheek was unmistakable. Driven by curiosity and the unfortunate need to always be right, I peer down the hallway, eyes diving deep into the pitch black beyond where I stand. I don’t quite see it as much as I feel that voidstaring back at me. My throat itches with the need to call out to Becca crying behind the door, but I can’t find my words.

“We can’t be best friends anymore.”Young Becca’s voice is coming from down the hall, just a few feet ahead of me.

“You should go.”It insists, the inky depths of my unwanted companion slinking closer.

My calf muscles burn with the need to get away, but I don’t run. Slowly, so, so slowly, I walk past it with my head down back to the guest house. As soon as the door is behind my back, I make for her window and get as far away as I’m capable. Fighting the urge to flick on all the lights in the guest house, I focus on everything clearly illuminated by the white light of the moon, taking stock of all the furniture and décor until I’m positive nothing is lurking in the corners. The snick of the lock behind me is obnoxiously loud in the lonely space.

My pacing resumes as my thoughts fire off a million miles a minute. Working with deities, I’ve only dedicated a little bit of my time to learning about the other side of things—the things that try to lure you to the darkness. Entities, demons, the devil.The things that will answer your call if you’re not careful. Ishrug off that last one; I’ve never been religious. But what I do need to consider is,have I been careful?And more importantly, are the dead susceptible to other entities?

Can ghosts be haunted?

59 Days Dead

Becca’s passing and mine couldn’t have been more different. No expense was spared to ensure that Becca was enshrined in something as beautiful as she was. No cold, empty grave and certainly no mouth full of dirt for her; the golden girl was put away in a shiny case. I’m sure she made for quite the display at the wake—not that I would know.

If their rehearsals were anything to go by, Becca was laid to rest to the sound of carefully prepared speeches about how loved she was. I have no doubt that her memory will be perfectly preserved.

I should have dug up my body when I had the chance.When it still mattered.

Kept busy by all the arrangements, the holidays came and went with little notice; instead of all things merry and bright, darkness has consumed this home, and I need to get to the bottom of it. But first, Becca owes me, justice, an apology, fucking something. And until I get it, I’m going to make sure she doesn’t get the chance to rest in peace. I don’t care if it’s New Year’s Eve. Fuck that “new year, new me” bullshit.

Chapter 17

Becca

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