Grim anthology - Christine Johnson

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as he’d choked the life out of her. Kimberly, who had never left town, who had no glamorous future in L.A. Kimberly, who was probably at the bottom of a lake, or in a hole somewhere in that field I’d seen. Kimberly, who’d loved and trusted Skye like I had.

      We stood there in the woods, looking at one another, and I tried to force my heart not to beat out of my chest, tried to keep my breathing calm. All I had to do was get back to the trailer. Get back to Momma, and get away from Skye. I could do this. I could.

      And then Skye winced.

      We both looked down, seeing my hand where it still clung to his forearm. I may have slowed my pulse and steadied my breathing, but I hadn’t stopped my fingers from digging into him, hard enough to break the skin. My nails had pierced his flesh, and Skye and I both watched as a single drop of blood welled up just over the teeth of his key tattoo.

      His eyes met mine, and I knew there was no lie I could tell that would convince him that I hadn’t looked inside his mind. That I hadn’t seen. That I didn’t know.

      I was in the woods behind my trailer with a boy who’d killed the last girl who loved him. I could look off to the horizon all I wanted, but no one was coming to save me. Maybe I couldn’t tell the future like Momma, but in that instant, I swore I could see it. When her reading with Milly was done, she’d come out and find Skye sitting there. Maybe there’d be dirt on his knees, and he might be breathing a little hard. He’d tell her I’d left. Maybe I headed out for track practice early, caught a ride with a friend—no, he wasn’t sure who. And then maybe later, he’d come back to this quiet place in Woodland Hills, and by the end of the night, I’d find myself lying next to Kimberly McEntire, wherever she was. For just a second, I thought of taking one more peek, trying to see what he had done with her. But I was too afraid to look again, afraid that anything I saw might break what was left of my mind.

      Skye’s hands were tight around my wrists now, and I could feel that same dark anger I’d sensed earlier pulsing through him. Oh, Momma, I thought almost from a distance. You were wrong. I’m not going to track practice today.

      But as the bones in my wrists creaked and popped, I remembered what Momma had said.

      You are gonna run and run today. Fast.

      A laugh nearly gurgled out of my throat, high and hysterical. “You’re damn right I am,” I muttered. I reached out.

      I shoved.

      I ran.

      * * * * *

      FIGMENT

      by Jeri Smith-Ready

      It begins, as always, in darkness.

      I awake in transit, amid the clamor of voices and the clatter of trucks. Then a steady jet-engine roar lulls me to the edge of sleep.

      If I’m waking, it means that someone believes in me again. Maybe it’s the man, woman, boy or girl I’ll soon befriend. Maybe it’s a person close to them. Or maybe it’s only my ex-friend’s employee who took this padded envelope I’ve been trapped inside and put it on a plane.

      All that matters is that someone, somewhere, believes.

      * * *

      A woman’s soft footsteps accompany what I hope is the final leg of my journey. Her hands hold my envelope level before her, not swinging casually at the end of her arm the way the deliveryman carried me. It reminds me of the way Gordon’s butler used to deliver his vodka and pills on a silver tray.

      “No more tears,” she murmurs. “He wasn’t worth it.”

      But I’m not crying. I never cry.

      She sniffles, then takes a deep, slow breath. “No more tears,” she repeats.

      Ah, you weren’t talking to me. Never mind. If she can’t hear my thoughts, that means she’s not the one I’m meant for.

      She stops and knocks on heavy wood—a door, likely. I hear the muffled voice of a young man, a begrudging beckoning over the strum of guitar.

      Hinges creak. The guitar grows louder, doesn’t pause while the woman who carries me stands still at what must be a seldom-crossed threshold.

      “Eli, your father is dead.”

      The guitar doesn’t stop, but it hits a sour note. Then Eli continues to play, picking up where he left off. “So?”

      “He left you this.”

      The guitar is set aside with a soft gong. Eli takes my envelope and squeezes it, crushing my face. “It’s soft. Is it a big fat wad of cash?” he asks with a mixture of harshness and hope.

      “Just open it.”

      Eli tears the sealing strip, letting in the first light I’ve glimpsed in...I won’t know how long until I see a calendar.

      “What the hell?” He clamps the envelope shut, smothering the light. “Mom, is this a joke?”

      Pull me out. Please don’t let me stay in here.

      “There’s a story behind it,” his mother says. “It’s rather interesting, actually. Your father—”

      “What did the others get?”

      “I—I don’t know.”

      “Never mind, I’ll look it up online. It’ll be in the news. One-hit wonder Gordon Wylde, 45, dies of— What did he die of?”

      “A boating accident. They said it was instant. He didn’t suffer.”

      “Good for him.” Eli’s voice cracks, causing me to wonder how far past puberty he is. His hands are large and strong, squeezing me tighter than ever, so perhaps the voice-crack is...sadness? Anger? I wouldn’t know.

      “Eli, if you want to talk, I’m here.”

      “I know you are,” he snaps. Then his voice softens. “Thanks, Mom. I’m sorry—I mean, if you’re upset he’s gone.”

      “Not really.” She gives a wistful laugh. “Your father’s always been gone.” Her footsteps come closer, then a kiss, muted, laid upon hair instead of skin. “I’ve got a roast in the oven, but how about pizza tonight instead?”

      “That’d be cool. Thanks.”

      She retreats and closes the door. Eli takes a deep breath—as would I, had I lungs—and pulls me out of the envelope.

      Amber eyes examine me, the same color as the streaks in his disheveled black hair. Eli pulls in his lower lip, brushes his tongue over the silver ring there. He could be as young as sixteen, but the piercing makes me think he’s closer to eighteen. “I don’t get it,” he mutters. “I do not get it.”

      Eli tosses me on the bed—faceup, luckily. The ceiling features a wood-and-green-metal fan, currently off, as well as a poster of a brunette girl with wide blue eyes. The right edge is torn, the poster ripped in half to eliminate her partner. At the bottom it reads “she &” in a whimsical cursive hand.

      He pulls a note from the envelope, the folded sheet of paper I’ve been lying on for...a long time, I think. I don’t remember how long, or even what form I’ve taken. It must be the same form as when I was Gordon’s friend, because vessels contain our spirits until they disintegrate (the vessels, that is). I never forget disintegration.

      I am eternal. I can never die, only sleep. My kind has existed since humans first drew pictures on cave walls and told stories around campfires. We were born at the dawn of imagination.

      “Call Tyler,” Eli says in a flat voice. It sounds like a command, but not, I hope, for me.

      A tinny male voice emits from a cell phone speaker. “Eli! What’s up, bro?”

      Eli

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