Alister

  The world above me is blurred, distorted by ripples in the water.

  There's the rush of water in my ears. My hair floats like dark shadows around my face, and my lungs scream for air. I welcome it. The burn. It’s a good distraction. The pain of my body fighting for oxygen is easier to endure than the chaos in my head. Alas, every time I think this will calm me, my mind betrays.

  The memories swarm.

  Of the humiliation, vulnerability, hesitation, and most of all, her.

  Since getting home, my thoughts have been relentless. I tried burying myself in work, anything routine to scrape off the rot under my skin. To cleanse my mind, body, and soul. To silence everything. To scrub her off of me. To forget her words. Her hands. Her scent. Her heat.

  I burst from the water, coughing as air sears my lungs. Slicking my hair back until it lies flat against my skull. Then I lean back until my head finds the edge of the tub. Cold porcelain kisses the nape of my neck and I close my eyes.

  As my hand grazes over the gem, I wince. Even a light brush sends pain through me. The skin is raw and rimmed with jagged cuts. Deep grooves where I clawed when the blade felt too slow.

  The knife is still on the washbasin beside a blood soaked towel. Its tip stained with crimson.

  I tried everything. But no matter how precise, how brutal, how messy—I couldn’t remove it.

  A part of me wonders if it’s threaded deep inside like roots. If I try to cut myself to force it out, I'll end up dead.

  I sigh, pressing the ice pack to my face as my arms drape over the tub. The cold bite is a brief relief against the heat that’s lingered since the field.

  "Are you done torturing yourself yet?"

  Helena's voice drifts through the steam-drenched bathroom like she belongs here.

  I click my tongue, eyes still closed behind the ice pack. "Do you mind?"

  Of course. Modesty means nothing to a ghost—especially not the one haunting me.

  I can feel her smirk in the air before she speaks again. "Don't worry, I've seen worse."

  I lift the ice pack just enough to glare in her general direction. She stands near the sink, arms crossed. "Though, I’m not sure this is the most vulnerable you’ve been."

  The words hit deeper than I expect, dragging me back to that field. The blood-soaked grass, the stench of copper, corpses twisted and gray with lifeless eyes. I recognized every one of them. Then hands erupt from the soil, bloody and slick, clamping onto my ankles, wrists, and throat, dragging me under

  Every time I think back to that moment, I realize I’d never known real shame until then. Not until I saw myself reduced to something so… broken. When I lost grip on reality. Like a madman with no control. I wanted to shove the knife into my ears. Not to die, but to make it stop.

  And then—she came. Why didn't she leave? It's what I would have done. It's what people have always done.

  I press the ice pack harder to my face, wishing it could numb the memory out of me. She saw me like that. And somehow, that’s worse than dying.

  Still, I don’t know if hallucinations can be so vivid. They’re supposed to be tricks of the mind. But this? This was more than that. I felt them.

  "What’s wrong with your face?" She asks with a mocking lilt, like the answer’s more amusing than the question itself.

  I groan, letting the ice pack slide from my face and rest on my collarbone. "I think I’m sick."

  She scoffs, glancing sideways. "Yeah," she mutters. "I’ve got a good idea what kind of sick you are."

  I roll my eyes. "Spare me the commentary. If you’re just here to be annoying, you can disappear the same way you came in."

  She steps forward. "You're weak, you know that?"

  My jaw tightens, but I keep my eyes closed and head tilted back.

  "You’ve had so many chances to get rid of her. So many. But every time you hesitate. You freeze. You fail." Her words cut like a blade, but not in the way she means. I hear her crouch beside the tub. The proximity makes me oddly self-conscious.

  “Even with that broken knife in your hand, inches from her, you choked” Her fingers ghost over the tub’s rim.

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  Please don’t kill me for this.

  The terrified whisper echo in my mind. As if she knew what I was going to do yet still stupidly held on. That was the first time she had shown me fear. Given me exactly what I've wanted. Yet...I never want to hear it again.

  Her voice drops lower. "Is your resolve as weak as you are too?"

  I tilt my head, half-opening my eyes. "More than wanting to kill her…" I say, almost casually. "I’m more curious why you want her dead."

  She goes still, but doesn’t respond. I see the flicker of confusion in her eyes, a momentary loss of composure. "What do you mean?"

  I toss the ice pack on a small nearby table next to the petals. "You’ve been pretty pushy on the whole murdering Clara thing even before the hallucinations. Insistent. Almost like it’s personal."

  Her lips tighten, but she doesn't interrupt, so I press on.

  "You said before you wanted me to kill her just because you don’t like her… but this," I gesture vaguely, "the way you’re pushing me, provoking me… there’s more to it, isn’t there?"

  "You know why," she says, standing. "If one of you dies—if she dies—the curse might break. The gems could fall off. And then…" She glances away for a moment, as if the thought stirs something deeper, before returning her gaze. "It all ends. The chain. The curse. Everything."

  I lean forward. "Right. But let’s say Clara dies. And the gems fall off. What happens to you? What do you get out of this? How do you benefit when the curse is broken? What’s left for you?"

  She stares at me for a moment before tilting her head slightly, as if pondering something.

  "Does that mean you finally decided that I’m not just a figment of your imagination?" She asks, almost playful, as she looks me up and down. "And I'm actually a ghost?"

  I blink, realizing the sudden shift in the conversation. Am I still talking to a ghost, or is this just some creation my mind has conjured up?

  I groan, leaning back, unease crawling through me. What if she’s not real? Just some twisted corner of my mind made flesh by the gem? Then I’m just talking to nothing.

  Our eyes meet, and I ask without thinking, "What if I died instead?"

  Uncertainty flickers across her face. "I… don’t know."

  I glance down at the petals scattered across the small table, the ones I had painstakingly collected from my backseat after a certain pouting, petty gremlin had brushed them off of herself in some childish, passive-aggressive display.

  I focus on them now. "If you’re a hallucination," I say to Helena. "Then all you're doing is pulling at my darker thoughts. Encouraging me to pursue them."

  Practicing again for the third time, I lift my hand slowly, concentrating hard while my nails begin to glow silver. It’s subtle at first, but soon the petals begin to lift, just an inch or two, before hovering above the table. Energy pulses through me, and I smile. Not from triumph, but from what this means.

  I feel her burning gaze. "And if you’re a ghost," I continue, "trapped in my gemstone, then you've been hiding things from me for some personal reason or benefit. Like this ability." I nod to the floating petals. "I didn’t know I could do this. You said being near Clara triggered my hallucinations. So why did they stop after she comforted me?"

  Slowly, they begin spreading out. "Either way, whatever you are. I don’t trust you, and I shouldn’t listen to you. If you want me to kill Clara, then that's exactly what I absolutely won't do."

  Her crimson eyes flick between the petals and me. "And what if I’m only trying to help you? What if my advice benefits us both?"

  I smirk, meeting her gaze. "Then I’ll learn the hard way. I’ll investigate with her, find the gem’s owner, and figure out a solution. Or an alternative that doesn’t involve killing each other."

  Suddenly, I feel a strange, unsettling pressure rise at the back of my throat. My hand instinctively goes to my mouth, but it’s too late. I cough, leaning over the tub as blood spills from my lips onto the white tiles.

  "What the heck is this?" Rasping, I wipe my mouth, tasting copper. "Why am I throwing up blood?" I clutch my stomach, panic rising as I search for an explanation. Internal bleeding?

  She watches, calm and amused like she's enjoying it. "Why ask me? I thought you said you wouldn’t listen," she teases.

  I glare up at her. "You did this."

  She raises an eyebrow and rolls her eyes. "Isn’t it obvious? It’s that power of yours. This seems like a side effect of it."

  A side effect, she said. Like it’s nothing. Like coughing up your insides is just part of the deal.

  This isn’t just a cost. It’s a warning.

  The curse is evolving—or maybe unraveling me from the inside out. Every time I use it, is this what will happen?

  As I stare at the blood on the white tile, memories of red flash unbidden in my mind.

  The color of the thumbtacks pushed into my skin. The color I regularly saw coming from my mouth and injuries. The color of the kind teacher's tie.

  Suddenly, my vision flickers. I blink—and I’m no longer in the bathroom.

  I’m in a hallway.

  I look around, disoriented, trying to wrap my head around what's happening. From my reflection in the window, I see that I'm back to my timid kid self. There's a person walking in front of me, causing me to freeze in shock.

  "What’s wrong?" he asks gently. His red tie, vivid as always.

  I try to move, but my legs feel heavy. I try to yell, but no voice escapes my throat.

  "Come on. Let's go into the art room, and you can tell me all about that bullying you're going through." He says politely as he steps towards me. "Let me help you."

  Run.

  He stands in front of me, towering with his long frame, and stretches out his hand. I spin, finally managing to move my legs and try to sprint. But his hand grabs my arm, stopping me in my tracks.

  "Stop!"

  The hallway shatters.

  And I’m back. Back in the bathroom. My hands braced on the tub. My breath is ragged as sweat chills my spine.

  A sharp ring of my phone from the bedroom breaks the silence.

  Helens is gone now. And the bathroom is littered with petals everywhere, adding yet another annoying task of cleaning up. Clara would be so happy.

  I force my stiff legs to move, pushing off the tub and staggering upright. I grab a towel, wipe the blood from my lips, and wrap my damp skin in the white robe, cinching it tight.

  I need to start expecting these visions as a regular occurrence. A feature of my life now until we get rid of our curse.

  I have to remind myself it’s not real. No matter how real it feels, it can’t be. I have to walk through this storm without flinching. Focus onto the mission, the goal, anything else, and push the past aside. To move on, I can’t let it win.

  I limp out, numbness still clinging to my limbs, and see the phone buzzing on the nightstand. The screen glows in the dim light

  Lily.