Out of Ink | A Short Story

Catalyst

Perhaps there was a small part of me that knew, instinctively, what was about to happen. All I know is that I slept fitfully, my dreams ominous and filled with anguish. Then, I woke up this morning, my eyes closed, the buttery sunlight tinting the darkness red and yellow, and I had a feeling.

The same feeling that settled in my gut the day I woke up in the hospital, looking for Ethan. A deep foreboding. Something was coming. And, in the end, I would come out of it different, for better or for worse.

Now it is nighttime, and nothing has happened. I'm just paranoid, I decide. Things haven't been the same for a while now. I'm bound to be a little on edge.

I open my closet doors, getting ready to face another slumber. A pair of jeans in the very back jostles and a white slip falls out of its pocket.

I lean down and pick it up. I unfold it and smooth out the creases gingerly. It's a picture, dusty, and taken by a polaroid camera. A yellow one, I surprise myself by remembering. In the photo, I'm laughing with Lilly, Ethan's twin. Both of us are holding a red solo cup.

My heart stops, suddenly, when I see him. Ethan is next to me, smiling. I'd forgotten how vivid his eyes were. But they'll never look into mine ever again. Look away, I tell myself. Burn this. Rip it to pieces. Throw it in the trash.

My body refuses to obey, shocked still with pain and longing.

This was Marco Lambert's party that he held on the first day of summer break. We had —

I gasp, stumbling back and sinking into my bed. The polaroid flutters to the ground.

Flashes of color, of voices, of sensations flit across my eyes. Cold water ... blood ... our Meeting Tree ... despair ... Over and over, it swirls and gathers like a hurricane, building up its energy. Rocks on the soles of my feet ... a bridge ... a starless night ...

And just when I think I can't take it anymore, it comes at me in full force.

I'm running, running from the party, from Ethan, from what I'd just said. But he doesn't understand me. He doesn't know my life, no matter how much he cares — he was never shattered and beaten down by his parents.

He doesn't know how it feels when the people who are supposed to love you, hate you. He doesn't know how that makes you question everything about your self worth. Your entire life.

I'm entering the forest, but everything is just a black blur. My mind whirs, my heart pounds with warmth. The alcohol makes me dizzy. I don't understand why my parents always drink it when it makes you feel like this.

I don't even notice the branch before I trip over it and fall. My hands dig into the soil on instinct and my knees scrape the rough floor.

A low chuckle. I get up. Turn around slowly.

Alex.

I ask him what he's doing. There's a crazed gleam to his eyes. I wonder how much he drank. He starts talking, and I shift on the balls of my feet with impatience. Get to the point, I snap.

My tone doesn't sit well with him. He pulls out a dagger from a hidden sheath, and, instantly, my hazed brain sharpens, stiffens. I mean to run, but he's quicker, and grabs me by the elbow.

He leads me to the bridge and cages me against the damp railings. I can see the meeting tree in the corner of my eyes. I pray for Ethan to find out where I am.

I can't escape, so I stall. And stall.

And learn some things. Alex is Ethan's half brother. I learn all about how cruel Ethan's father was to him. I have to admit, I almost pity him. I know exactly how it feels.

But that all changes once his true motives are revealed.

Alex doesn't appreciate being the bastard-born nobody — he hates Ethan. Resents him. Envies him. All to a psychotic extent, and he wants to hurt him.

By hurting me.