Page 20 of Kill Me Again: Psychics

I kept backing away, not stopping until the opposite wall prevented me from going any further.

I was hot. I was cold.

I wanted to laugh. I wanted to cry.

My body felt like a skin I wanted to shed.

The solid ball in my chest had grown so large it clogged my throat. Any bigger and I wouldn’t be able to breathe.

And all the while Lake just kept staring, the slight furrow on his brow saying he didn’t understand what was happening here. I wanted to read his mind and find out what he really thought, but I didn’t have the control over myself to do that. Not and keep breathing at the same time. “You don’t understand,” I choked out.

“So tell me. I’m here to listen.” The extreme calm in Lake’s voice made it worse, making me feel like I was being hysterical.

The pressure built and built until it was explode or die. I exploded, words tumbling out of me like water stuck behind a dam that had finally found an outlet. “I died,” I said, “years ago. Only it wasn’t death, really. It was something else, because I got to come back. I had this link with Calisto, something to do with him being a necromancer and having one foot in both worlds. Neither of us understood it then, and we’re no closer to understanding it now. I could talk to him. I could follow him, but no one else could see me, so it was a kind of half-life. I missed touch. I missed taste. I missed the feel of the sun on my skin. I missed being hot. I missed being cold. I just missed. There was nothing I wanted more when I was dead than to be alive again.”

I wrapped my arms around myself, more for comfort than for warmth. I knew I should stop talking, but rational thought had ceded control to pure emotion. “But now I’m alive again, everything’s so hard. How do you get over being murdered? How do you get over losing nineteen years of your life?”

I let out a laugh. Well, half laugh, half sob, if I were honest. “You think you’re too old for me. That’s hilarious.” I jabbed myself in the chest. “This body might be twenty-four, but do you know how old I should be?” I didn’t give him space to answer. “I should be forty-three. Forty-three.”

I started to pace, the movement helping slightly. “Calisto was the only friend I had for nineteen years. He wants to help. I know he does. And it’s Calisto. He’s the nicest person you could ever meet. He doesn’t have any intentions that aren’t good. But I just can’t let him in, and I don’t know why. Maybe because I was always the one telling him to keep it together, to do this, to do that, to live his life. Or maybe I blame him for bringing me back. But if I tell him that, he’ll feel bad, right? So I avoid him. I ignore his calls and messages. And I know that makes him feel like crap, but I can’t break the cycle. I drink and I have sex. Anything so I don’t have to face up to how fucking difficult it is to have to wake up each day and be alive.”

Tears were rolling down my face now. I swiped at them angrily with my sleeve, but it was pointless, more taking the place of those I’d eradicated within seconds. “I want to sleep for a night without nightmares. Just close my eyes and sleep, like millions of people do the world over. Is that too much to ask? But I relive what happened to me… Every. Single. Night. And at least before today, I had a job. Work colleagues to talk to. I had something to distract me, even though they only gave me grunt work. But I fucked it up. I was given a second chance, and all I’m doing is frittering it away. I know that, but I can’t stop it. I’m a runaway train careening down a track. And I know there’s nothing good at the end, but I just can’t put the damn brake on.”

I tugged at my hair, the slight bite of pain feeling good. “And do you know what scares me the most?” Another rhetorical question. “That when I die again, I might find myself in the same state, still linked to Calisto. And what about when he dies? What happens then?” The ball in my chest had loosened slightly, as if each word had chipped a small part of it away to reduce it to a more manageable size. Small enough that I could tuck it behind my ribcage and forget about it for a while. I wiped my tears away with my sleeve again, and this time my face stayed dry.

I realized then that Lake hadn’t said a single word since I’d started my tirade. I turned to find he hadn’t moved from the wall, shirt still hanging open, that same expression of concern on his face. “I should leave,” I said. “I’ve made enough of a show of myself for one night.”

That spurred him into action. He levered himself away from the wall, shaking his head. “No! It’s late. Here’s what’s going to happen, and I don’t want any argument. You’re going to have a shower. I’m going to lend you some of my clothes, something more comfortable. And then you’re going to sleep on the sofa. In the morning, things will look better. Things always do.”

There was something about being told what to do, rather than asked, that made me nod mutely. Now I’d worked the huge swell of emotion out of my chest, only extreme fatigue remained. Taking a shower seemed like a gargantuan task. It was lucky then that Lake took hold of my arm, leading me into a small bathroom, where he switched the shower on, sorted out the temperature, and then left me alone.

My mind was blank for the first few minutes of showering. Blank was good. Blank was calming. Lake’s shower gel smelled of cedarwood. His shampoo smelled of coconut. Do cedarwood and coconut go together? I pondered that for a long time, deciding they must because Lake smelled good.

I stepped out of the shower to find Lake had left me a fluffy towel and a neat pile of clothes. Still in something of a fugue, I dried myself vigorously, a level of rationality returning to me as I did so. I should leave. Yet, I found myself reluctant to do so. Despite only knowing Lake for a few hours, I felt safe here. Like his chest was broad enough to hold back any metaphorical demons that came through the door.

The clothes turned out to be a pair of gray sweatpants and a white T-shirt with Linkin Park emblazoned across the front. Both items were well-washed and pleasantly soft. No underwear, but he had provided socks. I resolutely avoided catching sight of myself in the mirror as I dressed. I’d looked bad enough this morning. I could live without knowing what I looked like post-crying session, especially when I was a long way from sober. I stayed barefoot, carrying the socks with me in case I changed my mind.

I found Lake by the sofa. He lifted his head at the sound of my footsteps and offered a reassuring smile. Then he waved a hand at the bedding he’d arranged on it. “Voilà.”

“Voilà?” I questioned, more to have something to say than a need for translation.

“There it is in French.”

“Do you speak French?”

“Not really.” He frowned. “I’m not obsessed with France.”

I took a seat on the sofa, pulling the corner of the duvet across my lap. That was soft, too. There was a metaphor here waiting to be discovered, but I was too tired to chase it. “I never said you were.”

“Yeah, but I was going on about the guillotine earlier and now I’m talking about the language. So I’d forgive you for thinking I am.”

Sitting was too much effort, so I lay, my head sinking into the pillow, and my eyes closing immediately. Crying was tiring. Emoting was tiring. Not sleeping well was definitely tiring. “Nothing wrong with a bit of obsession,” I mumbled. I didn’t know what I was saying, and if the conversation continued, I was already too out of it to play a part. Lake had told me that everything would be better the next day. And for some reason, I believed him.