LITMIR.BIZ

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I remember her. You guys were in the same grade, weren’t you?” Hannah was so close; I could feel her minty hot breath on the back of my neck. I shivered.

      “Yeah, Valerie Hutchens. I don’t really know her though. I was just scrolling through old classmates a few days ago and forgot to close out the screen.” I shrugged, minimizing the page and spinning around and around in my computer chair.

      Hannah clucked her tongue. “Yeah, wasn’t she the one you were always jealous of? I never could understand what everybody saw in that girl. Especially you, Camilla.”

      I whipped around in my seat, turning so fast that my still-stiff neck from the accident roared with pain. “I wasn’t jealous of her!”

      But I could hear the defensive spike in my voice. “I wasn’t,” I mumbled.

      I’m just lonely. And lost, I wanted to add. And having someone to chat with, someone to pretend I’m friends with … well, it helps a little. Maybe even a lot.

      “Okay, okay … no offense. I think it would be good for you to reconnect with old friends, but …”

      “But what?” I thought about the sounds in the bathroom, her shuffling through my closet and drawers …

      “Are you taking your medication as prescribed?”

       Ah, there it is. The real reason for her visit.

      My eyes narrowed into tiny slits. “Of course I am. Why?”

      Hannah held up her hands, defensively. “I’m just asking. Just worried about you, that’s all … and you’re not drinking, are you?”

      “For fuck’s sake, Hannah! No, I’m not drinking. What about you, huh? Still going out for Thirsty Thursdays with Mike?” I spat.

      Hannah’s face hardened and she didn’t answer my question. Her eyes were traveling the room again … She doesn’t fucking believe me, does she? I realized.

      “Look, Hannah, I appreciate you coming by, but I need to get back to work. Time for you to go.” I stood up and crossed my arms over my chest, waiting for her to take a hint and leave. “No offense.”

      Hannah frowned, her eyes zeroing in on mine once more. “I guess I’ll see you later then,” she huffed, scooping up her purse and seeing herself out.

      From the window, I watched her climb into the driver’s seat of her black Camry. Quietly, she sat, staring straight ahead at God knows what, for what felt like several minutes. Finally, she put the car in gear, and slowly reversed down the snaky driveway. I watched her taillights until they disappeared at the bottom of the hill.

       Screw her! She was rude to me. It was her, not me, right?

      Before I could waste any more time feeling guilty about my sister, I plopped back down in my desk chair and took a sip of flat Mountain Dew. Taking a deep breath, I clicked the refresh button on Valerie’s page and reread her brief, but kind, message.

       Chapter 3

      I slept with my door closed and the ceiling fan on high, the spinning wood paddles lulling me to sleep … but now those paddles are the blades of a helicopter.

      A spotlight beams from overhead and the whoosh, whoosh, whoosh of the heavy blades signals that help is coming …

      “Don’t worry. Help is on the way, Kid,” Chris says, reading my mind.

      Painfully, I twist my neck to the right, but then I remember … Chris is dead. I killed him … oh, Chris … it’s all my fault, isn’t it?

      I don’t want to look … don’t want to see Chris that way again … but he’s talking.

       He’s talking! I just heard his voice!

       I must have dreamed that he was dead … he’s still here … he must be because he’s talking, dammit!

      But when I look at my husband, the parts of him that I love so much—his lips, his eyes, the dimple on his right cheek, the scar where his eyebrow piercing used to be—those parts of him are gone. All that remains is a crumpled body in the passenger’s seat. A body without a head. It doesn’t even look real, like some sort of movie-set prop or clothing-store mannequin …

      And blood. There’s just so much of it …

      “Back here, Kid.”

      Moaning, I force myself to lift one floppy arm and reach for the rearview mirror. It’s slow and painful, like it’s somebody else’s arm—I’m commanding the arm to move, willing it with my mind like I’m telekinetic.

      When the mirror is lowered, I can see the entirety of the backseat.

       But where is his voice coming from …?

      Then everything comes into focus. In the rearview mirror, I come eye to eye with Chris.

       Chris’s head is in the backseat.

       Chris’s head is talking to me.

      Chris: The Talking Head, is frowning.

      “You promised. You promised me you’d stop drinking,” his lips are moving.

      “I know. I—I’m sorry … I fucked up so bad …”

      “You lied. You’re a liar … you made me bleed …”

      A new voice breaks in.

      “Ma’am, don’t look back there. Look at me. Listen, you’re in shock, but we’re going to cut you out of there. There’s a helicopter waiting to transport you to university hospital, okay? Keep your eyes on me and breathe.”

      The man is squatting down, looking in at me from outside the shattered driver’s window. His face smudgy and dark, my vision blurred … but his voice is soothing and kind. I allow my eyes to lock onto his, sucking in huge gulps of air.

      “Don’t look at either of them. Look at me,” comes a bell-like voice from my past. Slowly, painfully, I twist my neck to the right. Past the broken glass in the console, past the body that used to be Chris’s in the passenger’s seat … there’s a familiar face peering in at me through broken glass.

      “Look at me, look at me … focus only on me,” says the girl with the bell-like voice.

      The man is talking, Chris is talking, and somewhere inside my head I can hear them both pleading … begging me not to look.

      But it’s not Chris’s body in the passenger’s seat that I’m looking at. It’s the girl in the window. My gaze follows her wherever she goes …

      I can’t peel my eyes away from her shining, beacon-shaped face. That smile, so contagious …

       Valerie.

      ***

      I gave up on sleep hours ago.

       This probably happened because I took my meds later than usual.

      The dreams were always disruptive, but usually I slept at least six or seven hours before they caused me to shoot up out of bed, drenched in sweat and shaking.

      My skin was still red with heat from the dream, a cool breeze shifting through the slope of trees that lined the back of my rental property. A cold chill rushed through my hair and blew it around my face.

      I inhaled, closing my eyes as I tasted the wind.

      I exhaled, tried to push the dream out of my mind. Tried to rid my body of memories and horrors that ran too deep …

      My iPhone sat on the flimsy lawn table beside me. I picked it up and held it to my chest.

      You

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