Page 51 of Light As A Feather
Hawthorne’s absence is acute. The house is quiet, holding its breath, but my anxious thoughts are loud.
Persistent, uneven breaths rake through my chest as I stare up at the black ceiling. As if there’s a projection screen, I see my dream replaying there in unfortunate recollection. Above all the ruckus inside my head, the echo of my fear screams louder.
My premature grief of my inevitable death sits heavy on my chest. The uncertainty of what’s coming stirs up nausea in my gut. I can’t allow myself to dwell on it, or I’ll lose my mind like I almost have so many times.
People always seem to think that having premonitions—the sight, psychic abilities, whatever they prefer to call it—is a gift, something one would be lucky to covet. But I know better.
It’s a curse, especially for an anxious type like me with an impeccable eye for pattern recognition. It’s no gift, it’s a life lived waiting for the other shoe to drop. Tortured awareness that at any moment, the sequence of events could be kicked off, and that’s it. There’s nothing to be done. Sometimes you can prolong the inevitable, but there’s no stopping fate.
It’s harder than ever to accept that fact when I’m back in this house. When his scent is all around me, forest and musk and wood—all things grounding and good. I could drown myself in it, that’s the way I’d love to go.
It takes everything in me to get out of the sheets, but I need to keep myself busy. I can’t afford to unravel, not when there’s so much at stake, not when Hawthorne’s life is on the line if we don’t navigate this all so, so carefully.
Doing some mundane task, like making the bed, should keep my mind preoccupied, but it’s impossible to focus on the simple task when the memories that reside in the house reach for me. I can feel him searching for me. His frustration vibratesin the floorboards beneath my feet, it stirs the dust in the air, unsettling the very foundation.
It rouses the other spirits, their uncertainty palpable, but they stay away. Some are soothing souls, filled to the brim with concern—surely this is a stark contrast to the calming and welcome energy that Thorne’s home usually exudes.
Once again, I’ve brought dreariness and hostility into this house.
A girl cloaked in gloom will be his doom.It could have just been a cruel joke by a teenager dressed up as a psychic at a Halloween party, but instead of a mockery of a prophecy, we all know it’s the truth.
As much as I could linger on the past, the restless spirits are eager to show me what I’ve missed. A flash of an office, furnished with dark wood and rich burgundy, beckons me in my mind. As I make the bed, a series of images play behind my eyes like the reel of a viewfinder. First a desk, then a drawer on the left, then a flash drive hidden in the false bottom. The green high-thread-count sheets caress my fingers as I pull them taut, then lay the comforter over them.
Anticipation and curiosity tangle in my gut as I consider what these images could lead to. Obviously, I’m meant to find something. I’m no stranger to seeing, no novice at interpreting messages I receive. If there’s one thing I’ve learned in all my years of being surrounded by the dead, it’s that they’re bored and nosy.
Finishing the bed, I follow the trail that’s been laid for me. In the hall, I pause, waiting for the taut rope of intuition to guide me in the right direction. Past the stairs, I venture forward until I reach a closed door on the left. The metal knob is cold against my sweating palm as I grip and twist.
To my surprise, the room isn’t stale; a cracked window allows the crisp autumnal air to slip in. Even though no one is home—at least living, I close the door quietly behind me. Guilt rides my shoulders as I do.
I don’t know what I’m about to uncover, but there must be a good reason the information is locked away, sunken beneath the false bottom of the drawer. Sitting in the high-backed leather chair, I pull it open with an ominous creak. Ignoring the stack of papers inside, I use the letter opener on top to lift the wood panel. Sure enough, the drive is there.
For what it’s worth, I do hesitate before opening Hawthorne’s computer. We’ve always respected each other’s privacy, waiting for the other to be ready to share, or sitting easily with the acceptance that some things don’t need to be. But this isn’t one of them.
Time is a luxury we no longer have.
My unreleased breath balloons uncomfortably in my chest as I open a folder. Selecting the first video file, I turn up the volume, and press play. It’s a bit grainy, filmed at night, on an outdated camera, if the timestamp of 2016 is correct. Despite the poor quality, the agony on a younger Hawthorne’s face is clear to see.
Groaning and strained breathing plague me through the speakers as I turn the volume up to hear better through the poor audio quality.
“We need to call it,” a man’s voice murmurs behind the camera.
“When has that stopped him?” Another responds.
“It’s going to kill him,” the first man hisses angrily. “Hawthorne, you need to stop. It’s not working.”
Thorne’s eyes remain closed tightly in concentration, his jaw and shoulders set as his head tilts back further. He lets out a bloodcurdling scream, but the voice isn’t his. None of them are. He thrashes, fists pounding into his flesh as his body jerks thisway and that. I gasp at the pain he’s inflicting on himself. When his nails dig into his skin, peeling, someone finally intervenes.
The camera tilts, the ground and quickly moving shoes fill the screen before it’s righted by whoever it’s been handed off to. Jayden kneels in front of Hawthorne and shakes him by his shoulders.
“Hawthorne, end it. Come back.” But he doesn’t respond. “Fuck.” With a quick movement, he covers Hawthorne’s mouth and nose with one hand, cutting off his air, and cups his other hand around the back of his head. In response, Thorne starts convulsing.
“Stop,” I can’t help but whisper as I watch helplessly. My fingernails dig into the wood despite knowing that he obviously survives whatever this is.
With a sharp drag of air, Hawthorne’s eyes snap open. They’re shockingly wide as he grabs at Jayden’s shoulders, his head falling into the crook of his neck. The intimacy of it takes me aback, needles of jealousy pricking me. But gratitude is a soothing balm that sweeps in. I should be appreciative that someone was looking after him in my absence. Isn’t this what I’d wanted? For him to move on?
He hadn’t, though. The selfish part of me preens. I hate her.
This video has only raised more questions without giving me any answers. I press play on the next one.
