Page 24 of Together We Rot

“What the hell?” Wil asks, and I don’t want her to look at me. I don’t want her to—

“Dude, are you okay? I heard screaming.” Her eyes catch on my slicked hair, and she twists away with blooming cheeks.

I trace the curved path of my jaw and feel around for any monstrous qualities hidden beneath the skin. Nothing. The room has gone back to normal, too. The wallpaper has glued back to the wall and the tiles beneath me are grimy but relatively intact. Swiveling around, I search my reflection in the mirror. I see nothing out of the ordinary. No more bulging, buggy eyes or sharp pincers.

Everything is back to the way it was. Just like last time. “I—I’m sorry. I thought...”

“You thought?” she prompts, but I only shake my head. “What? That the world was ending?”

Yes.

“I-it’s nothing,” I insist, and I marvel at the sound of my own voice. So very human. “I—I don’t know.”

She furrows her brows. For a second something strange crosses her features, but like the vision, it fades just as easily as it came. “God, Clarke. You’re not supposed to take a shower when you’ve got hypothermia... Whatever. Here, I snagged some of Dad’s clothes for you. Put something on, for Christ’s sake.”

She offers me a wad of clothes and I use what little energy I have left to change into them. I lift my arms through the sleeves and pull on the pair of too-loose sweatpants and a hoodie with Bass Pro Shops on the front. “Th-thank you.”

I try to follow her back into the room, but my legs have grown weak. They barely feel like they belong to me. Left foot, right foot, left—

I hit the ground face-first. The pain comes in an explosive, short burst. I grimace, cradling my nose and hissing against the pulsing flare of heat.

“Dude, what is with you today? You’re weirder than usual. Are you still drunk?” She gets close—too close—and her nose scrunches like an alcohol-detecting bloodhound.

With her face inches away from mine, I catch all the little things I missed before. The clump of mascara, her lashes sticking in odd places; a tiny mole in the middle of her cheek, another one grazing the skin of her jaw; sharp teeth, a few of them bent inward. Things that shouldn’t be endearing but are.

“No, I don’t think I am.” I shake my head and marvel at how normal my fingers look. “Something’s wrong, though. Really, really wrong.”

I don’t realize my knee is trembling until she grips it tight. “Tell me.” No longer a question but a demand.

My mouth is unbearably dry. The only thing I taste is the sharp bite of blood. “I turned into a bug,” I confess. “I thought I did, at least, but I shifted back.”

She squints. “You took something at the party, didn’t you?”

“No! I—I know how it sounds, but it happened, I swear. I’m not on drugs. This isn’t the first time. I threw up at the party, Wil.”

That breaks the silence. “A keg stand will do that,” she quips, offering me a hand so I can get off the grimy floor.

I take it with another desperate shake of my head. “No, not like that. I threw up a moth.” Anything she had planned to say dies on her lips and she clamps her mouth closed. “And now in your bathroom I saw my... my skin peeling and...” The words aren’t coming, so I mimic pincers with my fingers.

“I’m going to stop you right there, wonder boy.” Wil hisses in a deep breath and nods for me to sit down on the bed and shut up. “I don’t know if you’re hallucinating or tripping or what, but I can promise you that you didn’t turn into a praying mantis in my bathroom.” She sets a mug beside me on the bedside table. “Here, drink this and sober the hell up. I figured I’d brew you something warm. It’s coffee, sorry. I know you hate it, but it’s all we have. I dumped the last of our sugar in. You’re welcome.”

I cradle it in my hands and shiver against the heat.

The first sip is brutal, but I barrel through it. Dad drinks a cup every morning.

He allowed me a sip once. It took all of my focus and concentration to even get it down in the first place. He snorted at my sour expression, drawing it back for a hearty gulp. “You can soften it with cream and sugar, but that would make it into something it isn’t. It needs to be harsh to rattle you awake.” My father grimaced down into his cup then. “You don’t need to like it; you just need to drink it.”

I swallow a bitter gulp.

Wil settles on the bed beside me. Her inky-black hair barely grazes her shoulders. When we were younger, back when I knew her, it fell down past her waist. She’d twist it into a tight braid, and I’d often be responsible for picking out the twigs and leaves caught inside.

I still remember the way it felt twisting around my finger. I swallow.

A dozen studs and hoops litter each of her ears. She only had three last year. I would know.

You don’t know her now. She’s become someone else. Before her sneer, I remember the smile that stretched cheek to cheek. The subtle indent of dimples on both sides. I remember her laughter—soft and lyrical and at odds with everything you’d expect from a girl so tough.

She pulls a face, her brown eyes narrowed.

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