Mumble

②⓪①⑤ - C H A P T E R : [1 4]

14.

Ozzie kept seeing her face--Haley's face--staring back up at him through that fucking sand, frozen in a relief of silky fine grains. It haunted him as much as the thought of her corpse did--a memory on constant loop. He couldn't get her out of his head. It wasn't enough to have found her body. It wasn't enough that his own betrayed him in his sleep. Even now, even awake, she was stalking him, her ghost clinging to his subconscious and whispering in his ear, moving his hands and drawing with his fingers...

Angry. Pleading. Desperate.

You can't forget. I won't let you forget. Remember. Remember. Remember.

Ozzie stared at the hands in his lap, Toni's Prius bumping along the shitty city road, the radio on low. They were the hands of an artist, slightly calloused but fine, elegant and slender with golden-tanned, sun-kissed digits. They were his hands, hands that he'd been born with, hands that he'd trained to work in tandem with his eyes and his mind and now, now--

They are mine. Just like your thoughts and dreams. They belong to me. Another ghost to keep you company.

You'll remember me. You'll remember me, just like your parents and that bloody Beast. You'll remember me. You'll remember me or I'll prove to everyone that you're completely insane.

You'll remember me because you must. You've lost too much of yourself to remember anything else.

So remember me, remember me, another ghost to make you weep.

He clenched them into fists, his hands--his--watching the fingers twitch and respond to the command. He felt the burn and stretch of muscle underneath his skin, pulling taut over bone. He felt the sharp bite of nails digging into supple flesh. These are mine. This is me. He shut his eyes, the drawn image of Haley's face in the sandbox filtering back to the forefront of his mind. Taunting him. Remember. He just wanted to be left alone. He just wanted to forget.

He remembered what she'd looked like standing haughtily at the front of the line, though. She had been drawing attention to herself like some sort of self-righteous queen, proud and angry and sure of her place in the world. Her dress was too short, her make-up intense and almost violent looking, her voice shrill and entitled and gosh how many minutes had that been? Before. Before she'd died?

Before she'd been murdered.

She'd been a bit of a bitch he remembered, yelling at her friend and causing a scene, but--

Ozzie ran a trembling hand through his hair, pulling at the roots and letting out a slow tortured breath. It was rude to think ill of the dead. They were dead for fuck's sake. It wasn't his place to judge. It wasn't a joke. Ozzie pulled on the string of his hoodie, twirling it around his fingers, brow furrowed and feet pressed up against the dash. His shoes were off like they always were and they knocked together under the seat while the late afternoon sun streamed through the cracked windows.

Beside him, Toni cleared her throat, a sudden, quiet sound that honestly wouldn't have caught his attention if not for the fact that she turned the radio off the moment she did. Ozzie jerked in his seat, twisting up to look at her in confusion. He raised a brow.

"So," she said, flicking a glance over to him. They turned a corner, Toni waving a pedestrian past before slowly putting the car back in motion, "how are you feeling?" She clicked her blinker off, eyes glued to the road.

"Peachy," Ozzie scoffed, scooting up a little more in his seat, "just great," he said and placed his feet on the floor. He sighed, hands shoved into the pockets of his hoodie and Ozzie rolled a ball of lint twixt his thumb and pointer finger, "feel like I need a cigarette," he mumbled, letting his head loll back against the headrest. His eyes slid shut.