Page 8 of Deviant

I close my eyes and press my forehead against my best friend’s door, allowing myself to pretend that she’s waiting for me on the other side. I tell myself that if I opened the door, I’d find her getting ready for a girls’ night out or in her pink-and-black skull pajamas, scrolling through her phone or binge-watching one of her favorite animes. I pretend that Nora is still alive while inhaling whatever lingering jasmine scent I can find, her fading essence like a warm balm to my aching soul.

But I don’t dare open the door.

That would be inviting too much pain into my heart.

I’m not that strong.

On the contrary.

I’m weak.

So fucking weak.

Hot tears start blurring my vision as I gently tap my forehead on her door, the tiny tinge of pain doing very little to ease my misery.

“Aidan? Is that you?” I hear Emily, Nora and Aidan’s mother, call out from the living room.

Fuck.

I wipe my tears in a hurry and stand up straight, schooling my features to ensure I’m well-composed before heading over to her.

“No, Mrs. Larsen. It’s me. Rowen.”

“Rowen, how… lovely… to see you,” she slurs, gifting me a loving smile from her wheelchair when I enter the room. “I didn’t… know… you… were here,” she adds with a sparkle in her eyes.

“I was just hanging out with Aidan,” I reply with an automatic shrug, sparing her the specifics of why I came over tonight.

With a few hours to kill before picking up my dad from work, the idea of being alone with only my thoughts felt excruciating. Letting her son fuck me into a dull, apathetic coma as a distraction seemed preferable to that alternative.

I doubt she’d appreciate such honesty.

“Well… that’s nice. I’m so glad… you two… have each other… to lean on.” She continues to smile, though the taint of sadness in her green eyes is even more prominent than her sluggish speech.

Ever since Nora’s death last year, her health has been declining at a rapid speed. Her ALS is mercilessly eating her up from the inside, stealing whatever light or life might still dwell inside her.

“You… have no idea… how happy… I am… that I still get to see your face… every once in a while. It’s like… a bit of Nora… is still here… in this house… whenever… I see you.”

I swallow dryly, my heart racing at her words as pangs of guilt and shame stab at my chest. I must go pale because her light expression—so similar to her youngest son—turns concerned.

“I’m… sorry. I shouldn’t… have said that. I didn’t… mean… to make you… feel uncomfortable.”

“You didn’t,” I lie with a straight face that churns my stomach. “I’m glad that my visits offer you comfort. Truly, I am. I’ll try my best to visit more often… if I can.”

A sincere, grateful grin illuminates her face, making me feel that much shittier.

I’m a fucking monster.

“I… uh… should get going though. My father’s expecting me.”

“Of course. Go. Don’t… let me… keep you… dear. I’m sure… that Hank… wants to spend… as much time… with you… as he can… considering… the season… that’s close… upon us,” she replies, out of breath.

All I can do is smile and nod.

I mean, what can you say in reply to something like that?

She’s right.

Most parents want to spend as much time as possible with their children before the Harvest.

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