Sing Me Your Scars (Apex Voices Book 3) (4 page)

Dark grey swirled around him
as if he were wrapped in a shroud. Her hands, still resting on his chest, were
barely visible. Her palms tingled. A thick smell, like char mixed with
petroleum, filled her nose, and she felt something she’d never felt before,
something dark and oily that spoke in a language she didn’t understand, was
never meant to understand. Her breath caught in her throat. His grip tightened.

She wrenched away from his touch, and threads of grey pulled free
from the shroud with a wet tear. Mocking laughter carried in the air as she
staggered away, brushing her hands together. Tiny bits of grey dislodged and
dropped to the pavement, yet more clung to her skin, creeping across like a
legion of insects; her flesh, their battlefield.

She half-ran, half-walked the
rest of the way home. Once inside her apartment, she slammed the dead bolt shut
and stripped on her way to the bathroom. She turned the water as hot as she
could stand it and stood under the spray, her hands shaking, for a long time.
She soaped up again and again but could still feel it on her skin, a vile
coating like a sheath of sorrow. With a soft sob, she grabbed a washcloth and
started scrubbing her arms.

When she finally emerged, her skin was pink and throbbing. No
traces of grey remained that she could find, yet the strange sensation lingered,
and every time she closed her eyes, she saw the man’s empty gaze.

§

Listen to me…

Meg sat up straight in bed and fumbled for the light. She’d heard
something. A voice, a whisper. She walked
through her apartment, checking the locks on the windows and the door.
When finished, she crept back into bed, but gave up trying to fall
asleep when the edges of the sky began to lighten.

§

In the morning, one of her frequent customers came into the
bookstore with her three children. The little ones headed straight for the toy
box while their mother browsed the romance section. The youngest child pulled
several books from the shelf and more tumbled to the floor in a flurry of
paper. Irritation bloomed inside Meg like a dark rose, and her skin prickled.

The stupid little fool. And will his mother pay for the books
if he tears them? No, she’ll probably slide it back on the shelf when she
thinks I’m not looking.

Meg clamped one hand over her mouth. Shame bloomed in her cheeks.
Where had that come from? The prickling faded away. She stuck out her hands and
flipped them over. No grey. She bent down, lifted her skirt to her thighs, and
inspected her legs. No grey there, either.

She shook her head. She was imagining things; that was all. She
just needed a good night’s sleep.

§

On her way home, Meg turned down Linwood Street. The Friday
night crowd was a far cry from the previous night. The sidewalks were filled
with people standing and shouting loudly over the music bleeding out into the
night from the open doors, and a heavy cloud of cigarette smoke hung in the
air. Lust dripped in silvery streaks from hips and thighs like mercury from a
broken thermometer. Of the man in the shroud, there was no sign.  

She stepped closer, and a man stepped in front of her, blocking
her path. “Hey, lady, you look lonely. How about a drink?”

“No, thank you,” she said.

“Just one?” He smiled, moving close enough that she could smell
the beer on his breath.

Disgusting.

Her skin started to tingle. Her hands curled into fists.

If he steps closer, I’ll remove the smile from his face and
take a few teeth with it. Or I’ll dig my nails down his cheeks. Rip his face to
ribbons.

The voice was small and whispery. Hers, but not hers. Her right
hand started to rise, as if it belonged to someone else. She shoved it deep in
her pocket. Stepped back.

“Please leave me alone.”

He laughed. “Just one drink. Come on.”

Kick him where it will hurt, and when he falls—

She moved forward. A half-step, nothing more.

—I’ll kick him in the ribs.

What was she thinking? She
pushed past one of the smokers, not seeing, not caring. Why had she come here?
Behind her, she heard the man’s voice, asking her to come back. She quickened
her steps and when she approached the corner, she broke into a run. The
sensation she’d felt on her skin was nothing more than the wind.

It had to be.

She ran until she reached the front steps of her apartment and
stood with her head down, breathing hard. Laughter slipped out from an open
window. Genuine, happy laughter, smelling of fresh peaches and newly-bloomed
lilacs. It curled like a ribbon around the base of the streetlamp.

When she touched the cold metal, the happiness slipped down,
giving her hand plenty of room. She moved her hand. The ribbon moved, too, as
if trying to slink away.

No, oh no.

She pulled her hand back and
stared at her palms. Saw nothing. But she ran upstairs and took another long
shower, scrubbing until the hot water ran to ice. When she finally
climbed out, shivering all over, she inspected every inch of her arms, legs, and
belly. Using a hand mirror, she checked her back, her neck, her scalp, and
sighed in relief.

There was nothing there.

Nothing.

§

On Monday, the one day when she closed the bookstore, she
waited until the morning rush was over and braved the coffee shop on the
corner. Traces of frustration and impatience still clung to the ceiling like
storm clouds.

She ordered her coffee and took it along with a book, to the
park. She planned to read for a few hours until the park became crowded with
mothers and their toddlers and their strollers choking up the walkways.

A few pages in, the smell of sour milk wafted by. She closed her
book and wrinkled her nose. A homeless man approached her a few moments later.

“Spare some change for a coffee?”

She started to reach in her pocket, then stopped.

The homeless are a menace. They piss on the bushes and pass
out on the benches, leaving their filth behind. Someone should take care of the
problem. They shouldn’t let them in the park at all.

“No, sorry,” she said, opening her book again.

“Anything you got will help.”

Why won’t he just leave me alone?

“I told you, I don’t have anything.”

“Not even a quarter?”

Her skin exploded with pins
and needles. She dropped her book, stood up, and shoved him away. “I said I
don’t have anything for you. Go away. You stink!”

He staggered back, his toothless mouth in a gaping circle of
surprise. “Why’d you do that, lady?”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it, I—” She grabbed her book and bolted
from the park.

§

With the shades down, she stood in the middle of the
bookstore in a wash of pale half-light, her eyes closed. All around her, she
felt the happiness pulling away, withdrawing deep behind the books. Hiding
beneath the rug. She touched one of the shelves; the contentment recoiled as if
her flesh was laced with toxicity.

A sob broke free.

“Please,” she whispered. “Please.”

Stop crying. Just stop it.

§

Meg woke in the middle of the night and padded into the
kitchen for a drink of water, wincing at the overhead light. Instead of opening
the cabinet, she slid open the silverware drawer, pulled out a knife, and
turned it from side to side so the light caught along the edge of the blade.

What would it feel like to slip it beneath someone’s skin? Would
it be like parting fabric or cutting through overcooked steak? Blood would
glimmer on the blade, like ruby pearls. She smiled. The knife was so sharp, it
would make it easy. Her limbs flooded with warmth, with possibility.

She thought of the homeless
man. Someone like that wouldn’t be missed at all. Her hand tightened around the
handle. All the breath rushed out of her lungs. She dropped the knife on the
floor and stepped back. Away. Those thoughts didn’t belong to her.

They didn’t.

“I am a good person,” she said. “I
am
.”

But she could still taste the anticipation on her tongue. Even
worse, it wasn’t unpleasant. Not in the least.

§

Beneath the glow of the streetlamps, Meg walked without
destination. She crossed street after street, her feet tapping on the pavement.
A chill wind blew her hair back from her forehead and stung her cheeks, but she
paid it no mind. She walked through the warm pockets that lovers walking hand
in hand left behind, ignoring the way the warmth broke apart as she passed.
Strands of happiness drifting on the pavement curled away from her feet.

She held her arms wide, a smile on her face.

§

Meg woke to the sound of weeping. She sat up, flipped on the
bedside light, and cocked her head to the side, but heard only silence. A tear
spilled over her lashes and ran down her cheek. Then another. She frowned,
wiping them away with the back of her hands.

“Stop it,” she said, her voice thick. “Just stop.”

§

While waiting for her tea to cool, Meg sat on her sofa and
grabbed the newspaper. The headline on the front page read
Body Found in
Cedar Park
.
She skimmed the article. Two homeless men had scuffled,
over a bench or a bottle, no doubt, and one ended up dead.

“Good riddance.”

No, no matter what, he didn’t deserve to die,
a small
insignificant voice whispered deep inside
.

She crumpled the newspaper into a ball, threw it on the floor,
and grabbed the photo album on her coffee table. She flipped past pictures of
her parents in the bookstore, her grandmother’s radiant smile, and pictures of
herself as a child, many of them showing her with her nose buried in a book.

Pale tendrils the color of daffodils rose from the pages and
entwined around her fingers. She frowned. What good were memories? Why had she
even bothered to look at the pictures? What a waste of time. She slammed the
photo album shut.

No, no! Please.

The tendrils withered to black. Dead stems of useless. She shook
off the remnants and trampled them beneath her feet until nothing remained.

§

Another walk. Another night of solitude and dusk. A car came
speeding around a corner, kicking up grime in its wake, and she glared at its
taillights.

She crossed the street and stopped. All around her were
dilapidated buildings with broken panes of glass and weeds jutting from cracked
pavement. She’d walked much further than she’d planned. The air held the bitter
taste of hopelessness, and streamers of sorrow hung from the rooftops like
tattered clothing.

She smiled.

A shadowy figure stepped into her path, one hand tucked under his
jacket. His face too young to wear such menace. Such hunger. Her skin filled
with heat.

Need to leave. Need to get away!

“Shut up,” she murmured.

“You lost?” he said in a voice roughened at the edges.

“No. Are you?”

Run away. Run now!

He closed the distance between them and grabbed her upper arm
with one gloved hand. She straightened her spine. Her smile grew wider. She
covered his hand with her own, digging her fingernails in the leather hard, and
laughed under her breath.

“What do you want?” she said, stepping close enough to see the
pores on his cheeks.

Please, no.

He tried to shake off her hand. His mouth moved; no sound
emerged. Her smile stretched again. He took a step back. She took one forward.

He yanked his arm away. Held up one hand. “Look, I don’t want any
trouble, okay?”

She reached for him again. He shook his head, backed away from
her hands, then spun around and took off, his feet heavy on the ground. She
laughed into the wind.

No, no, no, this isn’t right. This isn’t right.

“I said, shut up.”

§

In the dark, beneath the sheets.

Listen to me, please, you have to listen.

Meg rolled over and punched the pillow.

This isn’t you, and you know it. You read books to children,
you love animals, you give money to the homeless, to charity, you are a good
person—

She sat up, clamped her hands over her ears, and shouted, “Shut up,
shut up, shut up!”

The voice did.

§

At eight o’clock on a weeknight, the grocery store was far
from crowded. Meg picked up a can of peas, saw a small dent on the side, and
set it back on the shelf. A young woman with a toddler came down the opposite
end of the aisle, headed in her direction. At least the toddler wasn’t
screaming.

The woman picked up the dented can of peas and put it in her
cart. Not very observant, was she? The toddler knocked another can off the
shelf.

“Joey, stop it!”

The woman slapped the child’s hand, leaving a small print of red.
The toddler burst into tears. So much for not screaming. The baby’s hurt, a
shocking shade of bright pink, rose through the air and clung to the ceiling
tiles, quivering like gelatin and trailing the smell of talcum powder.

“Oh, honey,” the woman said, her face a mask of disbelief. “I am
sorry. I’m so sorry.”

Meg shook her head. If the mother had kept the cart away from the
shelf, it wouldn’t have happened. She cast a glance back and caught a glimpse
of grey on the woman’s hand. Just a finger-wide streak that was already fading.

It was my fault. Mine. I touched the can first, and then she
did. She never would’ve struck her child.

That stupid little voice again. What did she know? In private,
the mother probably slapped her child at will. Meg pushed her cart out of the
aisle with a smile on her face.