Page 33 of Warmer, Colder

Her hand closes tightly around the photos, crumpling them further. There’s no acceptance in her eyes as her head snaps toward the mirror, toward the window, and then back again. “Why?” she mumbles. “Why can’t you just leave me alone?” Her voice is hoarse like she’s worn it out with how many times she’s asked the question. She cups her face, attempting to snuff out her emotional outburst. The destroyed photos fall through her fingers like dead petals. A sniffle escapes her followed by the tears. “Why me?” The tears rush faster as the desperation in her tone mounts. “Why me? Why me? Whymewhymewhymeeee—”. With careful fingers, she moves the distorted mementos around on the floor, seemingly trying to reunite them with one another, but it’s not long before her shoulders slump with acceptance.

Scooping them up, she sifts the pieces through her shaking hands. A nervous swallow struggles down her throat in an audible gulp as she searches her room for any other signs ofdestruction or danger. Of course, she misses the presence that’s sitting just across from her.

That reminder of my loneliness makes my heart throb.Only once, only slightly.

Dejectedly, she pulls a small trash can over and deposits the torn pictures into the bin.Right where they belong.The satisfaction is dampened by another twinge of regret that creeps in when I catch the mix of sadness and frustration in her eyes.

It strikes me that I can’t remember the last time I saw anything but misery on her face. I shouldn’t care. I don’t. Not after what she did. Not after she betrayed me again, and again, and again.

I don’t care. I don’t care. I don’t care.

But what if I just pushed her over the edge? What if she tries to hurt herself again?

She won’t. She won’t. She won’t. She might.

She can’t. I won’tlether.

Once Becca drifts off to sleep—more like gets dragged kicking and screaming, I put my plan in motion. Better her behind bars than in the ground.

Just like last time, I dig my fingers into the ground and remove a clot of dirt. But as my fingers sink into the cold ground, I stall, confronted with a fear that I hadn’t expected. In order to incriminate Becca, I’ll have to face my rotting corpse.

I don’t know much about dead bodies, but I know the decomposition process is gruesome. Can I bear to see myself like that? I’ve worked so hard to be beautiful, being able to pretend I’m enshrined that way is one of the few things keeping me together. It may seem vapid, but I’ve lost everything else.

I run a hand over the packed dirt waiting to feel some echo of myself through the earth. Nothing. I tear at the leaves of the rose bushes that surround it as I contemplate a hundred possibilities; a hundred different versions of myself I know I’d never want to meet. It’s a cruel mind game, wondering what I might looklike now. Has my hair faded? Stark and ashen, no longer the synthetic pink-platinum?Have the worms eaten my face? Has my body shrunken? Am I skinny now, just like my mom always wanted? Has my skin peeled back exposing my teeth in a permanent grimace? Am I unrecognizable yet?Silent. Subdued. Shriveling.They finally got it, the submission so many people wanted from me.

What I thought was going to be a triumph fizzles out in defeat.

I promised myself I’d never let anyone make me feel this way again, and yet, here I am, allowing Becca to strip away everything that makes me, me. She took my life. I won’t let her have this too. It’s time to let her go. Not because I forgive her because I don’t and never could. But because I’ve lost sight of loving myself in favor of her. That’s where everything’s gone wrong.

Resolve hardening my heart, I do what I should have done a week ago.

The door to their guest house opens easily. Stagnant air invades my nostrils, but it’s fairly clean and cozy looking. Everything is kept pristine other than a bit of dust. Mrs. Murphy was always that way—tidy, organized, and presentable. That’s where Becca must get it. The small space has a bed, a two-person couch, and a workspace. There’s a bunch of organizers set up, filled with all types of crafting supplies and a sewing machine sits on the desk. A thick layer of dust has gathered there, but I’d bet it still works. I’ll have to test it later. Eager to keep up the distraction, I walk over to the closet and pull it open. It’s like opening a time capsule to my childhood—ourchildhood.

The dam breaks as a flood of memories pours over me from the shelves piled high with games, boxes of toys, and keepsakes, from collectors’ items to things that hold sentimental value. An ache opens in my chest as I pull out the dolls that Becca had declared we were too old to play with since we were preteens.Embarrassment swims inside me when I remember how thrilled I’d be when our dolls kissed; her attention would be on the game, while mine would search her eyes for that same feeling reflected back at me, but my prying curiosity only made her play harder or change the game completely. All of it is so distant, those girls are a far cry from who we are today, but I can still see those moments so clearly.

Pulling down another bin, I root around in it and I can’t help but chuckle when I come across one of my personal favorites, the Magic 8 Ball. I give it a shake and slip through time. It’s easy to become that little girl with dirty blond hair in a sweatshirt that strained against my growing chest but covered up the body I was so afraid of. Back then when all my hopes hinged on the acceptance I desperately craved from all of my peers, this silly little ball held so much promise as I asked it question after question.

Will someone ask me to the winter formal?Ask again later.

Does anyone have a crush on me?Outlook not so good.

Am I ever going to stop being awkward?It is decidedly so.

Will I ever be like Becca?Very doubtful.

I set the bin down on the floor and sit next to it with my legs crossed, ball in hand. This little toy crushed my hopes so many times and yet, I still wanted to play with it every time I came over. My mom wouldn’t let me have one; she said it was “too witchy”. If she only knew that her objections only pushed me further down that path. A rare laugh escapes me as I imagine how horrified she’d be if she knew how involved with witchcraft I’d become. She might have pushed me toward it out of spite, but my practice evolved far beyond childish attempts at spells and whimsical toys; it had become my solace.It made me powerful.

There’s a deep chasm between me and Aphrodite’s favor—or any other magic, for that matter—now that I reside on the other side of the veil. But here’s old reliable. It’s absurd but, I can’tresist the instinctual draw I’ve always felt toward it. Casting the cynicism of adulthood from my mind, I reach out to my inner child for once and play along.

“Will being dead ever get easier?”Outlook good.I certainly fucking hope so.

“Is there any part of Becca that regrets what she did?”Concentrate and ask again.

“Does Becca regret letting Nate hide my murder?Yes.

“Does she ever think about me? I mean, does she think about then, when we were kids?”Yes.

I keep the other questions locked away inside, afraid to give the words air to breathe.

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