How to Save Your School From Soul Stealing Demons

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

SATURDAY, OCTOBER 19TH
DIEGO'S ROOM

I realize when I wake up to the light of dawn filtering through my bedroom curtains that I somehow managed to fall into a dreamless sleep.

For a second, still caught between sleeping and waking, I forget about what happened and find myself groggily wondering what day it is, what my friends and I have in store for trying to stop Joan.

Then I remember. Today is Saturday. Homecoming. And I'm not going.

A now-familiar weight returns to my chest. Why did I have to wake up; why did I have to remember?

I can only mourn my blissful forgetfulness for a moment before a rough, gravely sound has me stiffening, breath catching in my throat.

I've heard that sound before. Miguel.

Unlike last time, the fear doesn't stay. Instead, I find myself overcome with a sudden shock of anger that has me shooting upright.

Miguel is standing by my bookshelf with that same dead, expressionless look. And despite the pang of guilt and despair that hits me square in the chest at the sight of him, I'm overcome with the urge to yell at him, to demand answers—why did things turn out this way? Why couldn't he have given me the answers sooner, before things got this bad, before I screwed everything up? I wonder, does he think I deserve this? After what I did to him, maybe I do.

"Miguel," I call out, weaker than I expect. There isn't any fury in my voice, only brokenness. Because I'm not mad. Not at him. I'm mad at myself and the fact that I'm the one out of us who got to live.

He says nothing, only moves to reach beside him and pull out a weathered book from the shelf—his old journal. With a gurgled cough, he opens it, flipping through and stopping roughly halfway.

"Miguel," I try again, "Please. What did you mean, wasn't you?"

He says nothing. Instead, he stares into my eyes as he raises a bloodied finger to the page and marks it with a long, slow line. Then he closes the book, the gore of his injuries quietly squelching as he moves to return it to its place.

"I'm sorry," I choke out as he turns back to me.

Miguel opens his mouth, spilling out blood. He chokes out a hoarse sound, unintelligible. In the only change I've seen in his expression, his eyes shut in what seems like defeat. It's as if he wants to communicate, but he can't. Like no matter how much effort he puts into it, there isn't enough life left in him. 

I try not to acknowledge the sense I'm getting: that whatever it takes for him to keep visiting, to keep giving us the clues we needed to get this far, he's at the end of it.

He looks to me again and places a hand over his heart. A wordless gesture that says everything he can't. Then he raises his hand, open-palmed, silently saying goodbye.

On the next blink of my eyes, he's gone. 

I know it's the last time I'll see him.

I sit with it for a minute, listening to the birds chirp outside my window as I process the silent farewell. Despite how horrific everything has been the past two months, I can't shake the gratitude, no matter how selfish, that I got the chance to say goodbye.

Pulling back the covers, I step out onto the cold hardwood and make my way over to the bookshelf, pulling out Miguel's old journal. For a minute, I do nothing, only hold it in my hands the way he had just seconds before. I won't read the other pages. Maybe in the future, I'll change my mind, but for now... it still wouldn't feel right. I'll read what Miguel wanted me to, and I'll keep the rest of his secrets closed between the pages.