Touch (2 page)

I picked up a dark brown charcoal and began adding long, thick lines into the branches of the trees I’d drawn for a more realistic look. I glanced up to compare the Gothic Edgar Allen Poe scene in front of me to the one I’d mimicked on a textured, cream-colored page, and that’s when I became aware of him. His stare must have gone unnoticed because of the four sets of watchful eyes already on me—but there he was, the same dark-haired boy dressed all in black from the night of the accident.

He stood at the edge of my yard, leaning against an old oak which had been dead for years, watching me in an unabashed way. Even holding my gaze, his cheeks never reddened and he remained eerily still and silent. A flurry of snowflakes began falling and a whistling wind blew across my face as I continued to meet his gaze. My eyes watered, but I refused to blink, afraid that if I did he’d disappear.

“
Who are you?” I breathed the words, barely above a whisper.

A smirk formed on his face as though he’d somehow heard my question and found it to be amusing in some way. Another sharp gust of wind stung my face, sending strands of my long, dark hair flying. A shiver ran through me, but still I refused to retreat inside.

The crows let out loud caws, which were promptly swallowed up by the wind, before dispersing themselves high into the gray sky. My eyes followed them and I felt slightly grateful they were finished haunting my backyard for the day. When I shifted my eyes back, I had no trouble meeting the boy’s stare again because his eyes had never moved from my face. The same amused little smirk still lingered on his lips, something that instantly aggravated me. I opened my mouth to repeat my question, this time louder, but he disappeared before I was able to speak.

I remained sitting outside, trying to decide how I felt about my new ghost-stalker or hallucination, whatever the case might be, until another gust of icy wind bit at my cheeks again.

I set my things on the dark granite countertop in the kitchen and went to the pantry for some Easy Mac. While I waited for the microwave to beep, I let the thoughts that clogged my mind take over. When the sixty-second cook time finished, I was still lost in thought, my mind circling around two ideas in particular.

One, I was sure somehow that the dark-haired boy and the seemingly ever-staring crows were connected.

And two, I’d inherited my mother’s crazy gene.

I ate my mac and cheese while the reality of thought number two began to sink in, tightening my chest with panic. I’d never given much thought to my future before, but now, as the certainty of becoming like my mother tainted my mind like poison, my future didn’t look too wonderful. A never-ending supply of monotone shrinks and colorful pills—this was what my mother’s life had consisted of.

When I was little I’d never realized she had a problem. It wasn’t until I was around eight that I noticed she talked to people who weren’t there. She’d tried loads of medications to help with her schizophrenia, but always seemed to stop taking them after about a week, claiming she didn’t like the way they made her feel—all groggy and drugged. Dad never argued with her about it. He preferred his wife coherent over the walking zombie she became when on medication.

It was about nine months ago that mom became a recluse, refusing to venture beyond our front door. Dad and I foolishly thought she was happier that way. At least that was how it seemed. We never questioned her motives, just simply accepted her actions at face value and went on with our lives as though her behavior were normal.

The truth of the matter was, we’d been dead wrong to think anyone could truly be happy locked inside their own self-made prison.

In the end, it was almost ironic how all the pills doctors had prescribed over the years in an effort to save her sanity had eventually been what she’d chosen to end her life with. Who knows, maybe in her eyes they’d finally done their job.

I swallowed my last bite of macaroni and wondered if history would repeat itself with me.

Two more days passed. The snow finally came to an end and sunlight peeked out from behind paper-thin clouds to kiss the ground with its warmth again. My bruises were almost completely faded away and the swelling in my nose was now gone.

I stood at the kitchen counter eating a bowl of cereal while staring absentmindedly at the piece of paper covered with chicken scratch and the set of keys that rested beside it. I’d found dad’s note first thing this morning, telling me to take mom’s Honda CRV to school until we could get my car fixed.

After rinsing out my bowl I scooped up the keys, noting instantly how wrong they felt to be in my hands, and started for the door. I crept across the remaining slush of slick, melted snow toward the gray CRV-shaped mound in the driveway. My gloved hands swiped away the heavy clumps of snow which clung to the red cover before I hesitantly began to lift it off. About a minute and a half later I had tossed the cover to the side and stood staring—there was my mother’s vehicle, a silver Honda CRV.

With a shaking hand, I reached out and opened the driver’s side door. I ducked inside and the scent of vanilla bean tickled my nose, triggering images of my mother: her silky, dark hair; her wide smile which had always seemed to be contagious; and her glittering green eyes.

Memories of driving home from the grocery store on Sunday mornings, stuffing our faces with glazed donuts, and belting out random oldies on the radio consumed my mind. Ten full minutes passed and my cheeks had become wet with my own salty tears before something caught my eye, pulling me from my happy memories.

The dark-haired boy stood a few feet away, at the base of the crooked maple in my front yard, staring at me in the same unabashed way as before. I blinked while gaping at him and then wiped my tears away with the back of my gloved hand.

“
Who are you?” I whispered after a long moment passed, my voice sounding loud in the eerie silence that surrounded me.

I watched as his lips twisted into the same little smirk from before, but it was his next move that startled me.

Instead of disappearing, this time he stepped forward.

Chapter Three

My heart pounded forcefully against my ribcage while I sat frozen, watching him saunter toward me. In the moments that ticked away between his first and his final steps, I noticed he left no impressions on the snow-covered ground behind him. In fact, he didn’t even make a sound. The absence of crunching, which should have filled my ears but didn’t, sent a shiver along my spine.

He stopped directly in front of me, his coy smile still clinging to his lips. I couldn’t look away; I couldn’t even breathe. My eyes drifted across his face as I noticed for a third time how striking he was.

“
Jet.”

I let out the breath I’d been holding. It swirled in front of my face like wisps of smoke before disappearing.

“
Jet?” I questioned, puzzled.

“
You asked who I am.” He grinned. “I’m telling you—my name is Jet.”

I swallowed hard. “Uh, hi,” I said, wondering if this were real.

Was I really sitting inside my mother’s CRV with a dead boy holding open the door? Could he even do that—hold open a door? Was he really dead, like ghost-dead or something else entirely? Was I hallucinating?

“
Well?” He prompted me. “Aren’t you going to tell me your name, or are you just going to gawk at me all morning?”

“
R-Rowan…” I stuttered.

Jet rolled his eyes, seemingly annoyed with my stammering. “Oh, come on. I can’t be the first you’ve seen. Haven’t you been a Link your whole life or something?”

I shook my head, confused. “Link? I’m not a link to anything.”

Jet looked at me with mild confusion before a shit-eating grin spread across his face. “You’re serious, aren’t you?” When I didn’t answer, his smile grew. “Wow, a newbie Link! Wonder what this is all about?” He chuckled to himself.

I sat up straighter, making my presence seem more imposing. I didn’t enjoy being laughed at, especially not by a dead boy, or whatever Jet was.

“
How about you stop chuckling to yourself and explain exactly what it is you think I am,” I said as evenly as I could.

Jet’s sapphire-blue eyes found mine and I fought hard to not look away from the intensity of them. I found myself wondering if they’d always been the same incredible shade of blue.

“
A Link is someone who can see the dead. A person who’s a Link between the Spiritual and Physical Realm,” he said. “Hence the term:
Link
.”

I chewed my lip, knowing he’d finished speaking, but not sure how to respond. Was this what my mother had been, a Link, or had I bumped my head so hard in the car accident that it had lined up all the crazy genes in my DNA?

I shook my head, coming to the conclusion that this was all too crazy-sounding to be believable and I must be hallucinating. I got back out of the Honda and slammed the driver’s side door shut. There was no way I was going to school freaking hallucinating.

“
Like I said, I’m not a Link.” I stomped back toward the house.

He called after me. “If you can see me, which clearly you can, then yes, you are.”

I didn’t respond, instead I continued toward the front door. Slamming it shut behind me, I headed straight to my room. I opened the door to discover Jet standing next to my dresser, waiting for me with a smirk.

“
What
are
you?” I asked, annoyed.

“
Fascinated,” Jet answered simply.

My cheeks reddened at his words, betraying how annoyed and crazed I felt by the entire situation, and I hated myself for it.

“
Fascinated by what?” I scoffed, folding my arms across my chest.

“
You,” he said.

His answer lightened my mood more than I’d expected and I felt my stomach do a flip-flop because of it.

“
You’re the first Breather to see me.” Jet’s eyes softened as loneliness swelled within them.

My pulse quickened. I replayed the word
Breather
in my mind while I slowly realized what it was he’d meant.

“
If I’m a Breather, then you must be a non-breather—you’re dead?” I trembled. Hallucination or ghost, it didn’t matter anymore because now it was official—I’d gone crazy.

“
Dead?” Jet’s voice went flat, the loneliness long gone from his eyes. “Something like that.”

I pinched the bridge of my nose between my thumb and index finger while squeezing my eyes shut, fighting against an oncoming headache. “I don’t understand, you’re either dead or you’re not.” I sputtered, blinking a few times.

“
True, in most cases.” Jet paused, bringing his eyes back to mine. “I once was alive, then I died, and now… I’m merely Death.”

I hesitated before responding, even when Jet’s eyes became intense, as though he were studying me, waiting for a reaction. I remained blank, allowing myself some time for everything to sink in—Jet’s words, his explanation, and what he’d been doing the first time I’d seen him.

It was all real, him being Death made perfect sense in some strange way.

All of my confusion, annoyance, anger, and fear melted away like the disappearing snow outside. The reality of what I was doing sank in. I was standing alone in my bedroom with Death… and he had the face of an angel.

The air in the room seemed too thick, unbreathable, as a new fear broke through to the surface of my mind.

“
Death—as in the Grim Reaper?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.

“
Yes. Well, one of many, not
the
.” He clarified his words and shrugged. “I’m actually Reaper Number 142 of the East Physical Realm.”

“
Am I supposed to die or something? Is that why the crows have been watching me?” Panic tingled through my limbs, making my chest tighten and my heart pound loudly in my ears.

“
Of course you’re going to die,” Jet said in a low voice. “Everything living does.” He dropped his eyes to the floor as a sadness swept across his features and I wondered if he’d always been a Reaper.

“
Have you always been this way?” I asked, gesturing to all of him. “A Reaper?” The word sounded just as strange to my ears as it felt coming from my lips.

Jet’s jaw visibly tensed, but his eyes remained focused on the floor. “No.”

“
How long have you been one?”

“
How long have you been a Link?” He avoided my question completely.

I crossed the room and sat on the edge of my bed. “Since the first time I saw you, I guess, the night of the car accident.” My eyes never left him. “Your turn—how long have you been a Reaper?”

Jet raised his eyes to mine for a split second. His face was blank, but his eyes were filled with a dark hatred that sent a shiver up my spine.

“
I don’t know,” he finally answered. His hands balled into fists at his sides as he buried them deep into his pockets.

Silence swelled between the walls of my room and pushed against me, crushing me with its weight while I pondered everything I’d just learned. I glanced at Jet; he stood in the same spot, unmoving, his hands hidden deep in his pockets with his eyes still fixated on the floor, lost in his own thoughts.

I wondered if he was struggling to remember bits and pieces of his life, or trying hard to forget.