The Book of Miranda | gxg | ❖

(12) Lazarus Had A Really Bad Day

I feel like death warmed over the next morning. Actually, that might be giving death too much credit. I am alive, and I am not warmed over: in my half-awake stupor, I almost convince myself that Clarice has finally made off with our window, but opening my eyes robs her imaginary avatar of such mastery. The window is shut, the sky is grey, and the glass cries with the rain beating down outside. This building's architects, meanwhile, went the faithful route with their Gothic impersonations and forsook any semblance of insulation. Drafts leak from the room's every pore.

I am severely tempted to roll over and skip class. It's a brief, cute respite, and lasts all of four seconds before the memories of last night slam into me like a horse-drawn tram. I choke. It's just as well that Clarice is up and gone, because I spend the next half-minute retching into my pillow as stark fear and the feel of stepping on a body overwhelm my senses. When get my breathing in a straightjacket again, I roll onto my back and lie there, sweat-soaked and shaking. Last night was a bad dream. It certainly feels that way, refracted through a poor night's sleep like the grim daylight through our rain-warped windowpanes.

If last night was a dream, I'm safe to get up and go to class. If it was not, one of two things is true. Either some Melliford Academy staff member is writing an awful, tragic letter to Colson's parents, or the killer is still here.

Clarice isn't in the room. A vivid image of her dead in a staircase grips my mind. I shock upright, clinging to my bedcovers. She can't die; we need to work together to solve this, whatever this is. I scrub my hand over my comforter. My body-tainted fingers might as well have bloodstains on them; I can't rid them of the feeling. Part of me wonders if Exie is handling this as pitifully as I am. I doubt it. She's always put together: always the one with a plan and a custom persona, tailored for just the occasion. Must be nice.

I have no way of knowing what's outside my door until I open it, and the possibility of a dream or accident still clings to me like a small dog with separation anxiety. I leave the warm shell of my covers and drag yesterday's skirt towards me, digging for my suitcase key. Both pockets come up empty. Of course they do. I should have known I couldn't make it three days without misplacing something.

"Open sesame," I grumble.

Willpower makes a shitty pair of lockpicks. I shake my suitcase lock, then dig a hairpin from a side pocket and pick it the old-fashioned way. Then I fumble with the clasp, too. Rather than a hundred more logical options to overcome my shaking fingers, I grab the suitcase and yank the clasp open with my teeth. Salty with a hint of metal. I let it drop again, wiping my mouth with the back of one useless hand.

I could have just worn my uniform from yesterday. It still languishes at the foot of my bed, where I discarded it upon donning darker clothes last night. But anything from yesterday feels contaminated, and I'm not about to argue with irrationality. I exhume my spare uniform instead and waste another quarter-hour changing, getting buttons wrong and sacrificing symmetrical blazer lapels in the name of my waning sanity. I've probably missed breakfast by now. But with my stomach still questioning its affability towards its own lack of contents, maybe that's not a bad thing.

I freeze one more time before leaving, one hand on the door handle as an irrational need for Exie's stolen fire poker grips me. My paralysis is broken by the start-of-class bell. I turn my face heavenward. I'd pray to God for protection as I leave this place, but I'm told she doesn't watch over problem children.

The door opens onto a surreal view. Students trot to class, laughing and nattering amongst themselves. Nobody's told them. Nobody here knows what I've been through, except maybe the teachers, and I trust exactly none of them. I scan the crowd for Exie. Two fruitless passes bring the nausea coiling back. This time, it's Exie's body in my mind's eye. I reach towards it, but I can't touch. I can't put myself through that again.