Page 33 of Deranged Imposter

From her reaction to the news of Zico’s death, I was right to give her the anklet.

“Not all the time,” he whispers, face twisting uncomfortably.

That woman is obnoxious, and she’s so far up her ass to take the rejection. Persistence works on optimistic reluctance; otherwise, it’s harassment.

“You think I don’t stand a chance,” he says, anguish gouging his downcast eyes.

“No,” I utter with a pointless reminder to besympathetic. “You never had one.”

“Oh.” His shoulders sag, and blood sucks out from under his skin.

He blinks and laughs emptily, scratching his head as regret joins the weary aura. Nate looks anemic with the lack of color on his face.

“That felt like a death blow.” He chuckles, clutching the center of his shirt between wobbling fingers.

“She’ll be lonely,” I state, thinking it’s probably not the best idea to destroy the remaining pieces of him. “Friends don’t leave each other. She goes where you go.”

He merely nods and goes back to the cabin with his feet dragging heavily. I slip into the dark shadows, following the signal from her jewelry and clicking my tongue at the overgrown roots.

The bulky stems take me back to Zico.

He was found in his secret place, a forested spot that wasn’t on our family’s land. I would know because brothers share secrets.

Zico was so close. And no one ever knew.

Isa won’t be alone, not with me there for her—like Zico to her family’s death. Months down the line, she’ll accept that Zico is gone, and then we’ll start a new chapter of our future without his silhouette behind planes of uncertainty.

I accepted a future without Zico the week after his disappearance; it wasn’t a revelation, simply because I didn’t have to share Isa anymore.

Was it normal for children to be unconcerned about their sibling’s disappearance? The possessive desire to own Isa didn’t come out of thin air, and I was too young to connect the dots.

I filed it under eccentricities.

One year of friendship versus ten years of our brotherly bond. She takes his death harder than my apathy allows me to grieve. Even as a skeleton, he’s still taking a part of her with him.

I sigh and watch the dot blink at me. I’m standing on top of the light, but I don’t see her, and the low visibility deteriorates as clouds engulf the moon.

A tiny whimper tiptoes somewhere near my right side, then another sound mimicking a delicate cry follows. My eyes adjust to the streams of moonlight as I walk toward a slope.

She’s at the bottom, scratched up and frightened. Her tearful eyes, so damn pretty, lift to mine as we merely stare in silence. The hand on her ankle, the same one with her anklet, seems red and swollen.

To satisfy the violent itch in my soul, I don’t extend a hand, nor do I give her relief with my voice. One tragic bit of news, the dedication of her past and future, and theMikahI built are all disintegrating.

“Mikah,” she cries, glimmering tears streaming down her dirty cheeks.

Isa wipes them from her red-rimmed eyes and peers up, beautiful like a sacrifice for divinity. It’s relief, I suppose, instead of anger.

“Help me,” she pleads, voice broken from heart-wrenching sobs. “I’m scared.”

Whether it’s a blessing or a curse, perhaps a combination of both, I hide the smile. It’s a phenomenal feeling to be wanted by her; for help or support, I’m here for her.

As I’ve always been.

I search for the least steep angle to stop unnecessary momentum. I scrutinize her injuries and sigh out a pleased huff when I don’t find blood on her clothes.

Her timid gaze drops to her lap, shoulders drawing to protect her neck, and more teardrops splash on the back of her hand.

Is she crying for Zico, the fall, or my rescue?

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