Scary Out There (10 page)

without the duels, balcony

confessions, kissing and sex.

Zero sex, although we did talk about it.

We talked about what we liked.

(I made everything up. All the sex

I've ever had was in my imagination.)

We teased each other with fictional

scenarios of what we'd do to each

other when we finally met.

On this side of death, anyway.

We Also Talked

Often late, often long, about

the other side of corporeal death.

I asked if he was certain about

an afterlife. He didn't hesitate.

How could you doubt it? The body

is a vessel, and inside it, the essence

of existence. Some call it the soul,

and it can't be extinguished.

I'd only recently considered it,

had no clear sense of a hereafter.

“But what comes next? Heaven?

Hell? Something else completely?”

He paused, and I could almost

hear him shrug.
We can't be

certain 'til it happens, and that's

half the fun of it, you know?

Uncertainty never sounds like fun

to me. I was more confused than

ever. I asked if he thought people

had sex after they died. He answered

with a question,
Why would

the spirit rely on the physical

for pleasure?
I figured it was

rhetorical. But then he continued,

Without the constraints of flesh,

energy is free to do what it will.

Imagine the rush when separate

energies collide. Totally orgasmic!

I Thought He Was Enlightened

So when we started talking

about being together forever,

sans flesh, I wasn't scared

at all. I was intrigued.

Anyway, what did I really

have to lose? Not like this life

was taking me anywhere special.

Not like this life had brought

me anything but massive clouds

of sorrow, from my father's death

when I was twelve to my best

friend's, not so long ago.

Cam took charge of planning how

we would do it. He wanted to go

out in style—via bullet or rope,

so people would remember.

I preferred something a little less

dramatic, not to mention painful.

Pills for me. There are plenty in

the medicine cabinets—Mom's,

and mine. The one thing Cam

was adamant about was going at

the same time, so the exact same

door in the continuum would open

for both of us simultaneously.

I believed him in a way. But,

personally, I was discussing

abstractions. Anyway, my M.O.

has always been more talk

than action. Did I swear I'd do

the deed at the precise moment

he did? Yes. When he asked,

Do you give me your solemn word?

I vowed that I would swallow

those pills right before he stepped

off the desk in his room, noose

around his neck jerking tight.

I swore I would, but when Cam

jumped feet first into the forever

night, I had only taken two

Valium with a tumbler of Wild

Turkey. I got buzzed. Cam died.

It Is Late Afternoon

By the time I get home, shadows

deepening toward evening. Silence

swallows the house, and I'm grateful

for my mother's usual Saturday

afternoon bowling. I go into

my room, drop the blinds, hang

a sign on the outside of my door:

Taking a nap. DND.

She knows the code: Do Not

Disturb. She's seen it hundreds

of times, and unless I'm already

waist-high in manure,

she respects my right to be weird

in private. In semi-darkness,

I flop down on my bed, close

my eyes, consciously relax

every muscle, begin to drift

toward a gentle rose-colored glow.

Closer. Closer. The light grows

brighter. Darker. Red. Blood

scarlet. I jump back into awareness.

I'm in my room, and it's black

in here, except for . . . a red light.

Flashing. Flashing. Flashing on

my computer screen. No, not just a light.

Words. Hard to read from here.

I get up, cross the floor. Five words.

Flashing, red:
What would you die for?

My Entire Body

Goes rigid, morgue cold.

“Turn it off!” screams my brain,

and I lean toward the computer,

but suddenly I don't want to

touch it. Mustn't touch.

Mustn't look. I turn away,

flip on the lamp. Soft copper

light scatters the darkness.

Chloe!
I jump at the sound,

but the voice that falls heavy

in the hallway belongs to

my mother.
Dinner's ready.

Dinner? Yeah, I'm starving.

But I answer, “Be right there.”

Some masochistic sliver

of my psyche makes me

turn back toward my desk.

The monitor no longer blinks.

A single word remains,

a steady crimson glow:

die.

Every Molecule

Of air is sucked

from the room. Run.

Run or follow through.

Follow through and die.

Run. Try. Can't. Stuck.

Rooted to the rug. Move!

I move. Stumble. Fight

to reach the door. Breathe.

Can't. No oxygen. Vacuum.

Door. Almost there. Reach.

Something. Pulling. Tugging

me backward. Scream! Can't.

No air. Need air. Hands. Clawing.

Hands? Can't be. There's no one here

but me. Knob. Reach. Turn the knob . . .

The Hands

Let go suddenly, and when the door

jerks open, I almost fall, face forward

against the far wall. “Goddamn it!”

A brew of emotions

simmers inside.

Fear.

Anger.

Curiosity.

Hands? (Claws.) No

way. My room is empty,

right? The words on my computer,

written by a dream. Right?

Spooked or not, I turn around,

suck in breath.

Two steps, I'm at my door.

I switch on the overhead

light. It floods

the room with stark

white and nothing

is amiss. No hands.

No red glow. No

words. Just a blank

black screen. I reach

for the power button, erupt

a cold sweat beneath the hair,

lifting on the back

of my neck.

The computer

is already off.

Mom Screams

From the kitchen,

Chloe! Damn it! Dinner!

“I'm coming!” I insist

loudly, but have to take

several deep breaths and

dig my fingers painfully

into the opposite biceps

so I can try to quit shaking.

Mom would want to know

what's wrong, and what could

I tell her? That my Mac seems

to have a mind of its own?

Okay, none of that crap

happened. It all rolled straight

out of my burial-fueled

nightmares. I stuff it inside,

go to share Mom's table

and make her happy,

though I'm not sure why.

She should feel as miserable

as I do. But no. She's humming.

Singing some old eighties

crap under her breath.

When she hears my footsteps

scratching the floor,

she turns, grinning

like some demonic clown.

Hope you're hungry.

I bought too much Chinese.

The sweet and sour is gag me

sweet, and the chow mein

noodles remind me of worms,

but I stuff them into my mouth,

try not to choke when they squiggle

down, and hope Mom's post

bowling, carb craving appetite

keeps her swallowing

instead of talking. Right.

Like that's going to happen.

Blah, blah, blah. Blah, blah,

blah. What did you do today?

I could give her my usual,

“Nothing much,” but then

she'd feel the need to pry

information from me. I

shove another forkful

into my mouth, chew slowly

while I consider a lie.

Screw that. Too much

work. I shrug. “Went to

a funeral. Burial, actually.”

She cocks her head, curious.

You don't say. Like, whose?

“Just this boy I know—knew.

And to save you the trouble

of asking, he committed

suicide. Hung himself

until dead.” Shock value.

All she says is,
Oh.
Then, after

some thought,
Are you okay?

My shoulders jerk up and down

again. “Sure. I didn't know him

all that well. Just weird. One

second he's here. The next,

poof
. Wonder where he went.”

If he took his own life, he went

to Hell. You should know that.

I'm sure that's what her pastor

would say, but Cam pretty much

convinced me there's no such

place as Hell, or Heaven, either.

“You really believe that, huh?”

Well, of course. Don't you?

She stares like I'm a stranger.

“I don't know. I just wish

I could be sure that there really

is something more.” I think

for a minute. “Hey, if I died,

where do you think I'd go?”

Zero hesitation.
You're a good

girl. Good girls go to Heaven.

Am I good? I suppose for

the most part I am. I don't

cause a whole lot of trouble.

Treat my mom okay, go to

church with her on Sunday.

But sometimes I think dark

thoughts, and that was especially

true when I connected with Cam.

Does simply discussing suicide

lock you out of the Pearly Gates?

I wish the definitive afterworld

manual wasn't written thousands

of years ago. Surely the rules

have changed by now. Or maybe,

like Cam said, all that garbage

was made up by men thirsty

for power. Mom offers two

fortune cookies, allows me to

choose first. As I unwrap mine,

she opens hers and reads,

You will receive good news

from a long distance.

“Hope it's money,” I joke,

then immediately turn serious

when I crack open my cookie.

A broken promise leads

to an unexpected encounter.

Goose Bumps Erupt

“I've got a headache,”

I claim, and it's the truth.

“I'd better go lie down.”

Take an ibuprofen right away.

You don't want that to turn

into one of your nasty migraines.

I get them sometimes, usually

induced by stress. “Will do.”

But there's something better

than ibuprofen stashed

in my underwear drawer.

I return to my room, where

Valium, Percocet, and Wild

Turkey lay in wait. I saved

them up for over a month,

sneaking Mom's painkillers

here and there to augment

my personal collection—

some bought at school, some

traded for, some prescribed

by my personal therapist, Paula.

Okay, I have a few issues,

including anxiety and panic

attacks, as well as intermittent

insomnia. I do want to sleep

tonight, so I pop a single Valium,

plus a Percocet, wash them down

with a small glass of whiskey.

I don't want to get sick, just

messed up enough to tumble

straight down into a darkness

dreams dare not invade.

It doesn't take long. I'm sinking . . .

I Hear

The door knob turn, lift my eyelids

as far as they'll go, try to discern

who has crossed the threshold and

owns the footsteps creaking the floor.

I see nothing. I try to sit up, but have sunk

so low into my bed that it holds me

in place. “Who's there?” It's a lame

attempt to exhale words. They lodge

in my throat, a huge wad of fear-flavored

gum. Closer. Whoever it is has almost

reached my side. Still, I can't see him.

I've no clue how I know the intruder

is male, but I sense he has something

unsavory in mind as he moves into place,

and now the mattress depresses beside

me. He wants me. Wants to touch

my nakedness, sleep-warm beneath

the covers. “N-n-no.” It's a soundless

stutter, and the invisible he is weighting

me, pushing down on my body. I know

what he wants and try to scream, “Help,”

but all that escapes is a breathy hiss.

He buzzes in my ear,
Don't fight.

It won't hurt. Imagine the rush

when our energies collide. You broke

your promise, but I'm patient, and

since you wouldn't come with me,

I decided to visit you. Just relax.