Journal of the Survivors

Chapter Ten--Kyra

Chapter Ten—Kyra

I Superman onto the bed and fight the tears that threaten to spill over. Keeping emotions in check isn’t as simple as it sounds. Especially not when the people around you are consistently throwing insults your way.

I grab a pillow, hold it over my face, and scream as loudly as I can into it. My throat burns afterwards, but I am beginning to feel better. I start to punch it, pretending that it’s Trace’s face. Juvenile, but I don’t care.

“You stupid,” punch, “arrogant,” punch, “self-centred,” punch, “British,” punch, “creepy,” punch, “douche-bag!” Punch, punch, punch.

A timid knock raps against my door.

“What?!” I screech.

“May I come in...please?” an annoying voice requests.

I chuck the pillow across the room in anger. It knocks over a vase that crashes against the floor, breaking into a thousand little pieces that have no hope of ever being put back together. Just like me.

The door bursts open and Trace frantically looks around trying to determine where the noise came from. I look from the vase, to Trace, then back to the vase, before finally settling on Trace. I point.

“I broke your vase,” I say, my voice sounds hoarse from the yelling.

He barely gives it a second glance before turning back to me.

“You’re okay?”

I roll my eyes. “No, a giant shard sprouted wings, flew across the room, and sliced my jugular open. Blood has spattered all over the room and coats everything in a gory mess that the most famous Hollywood horror directors would have been envious of. Dude, you can see that I’m perfectly fine.”

He grins diffidently. “Yea, I...sorry.”

I lift my eyebrows, silently telling him to continue.

He sighs and grabs a chair from against the wall, dragging it over until it is beside my bed. Even when flopping into the seat, his movements are lithe. Hell, if only I could move like that when I took dance classes as a kid. I was known as Klutzilla for obvious reasons. No one wanted to be stuck dancing beside a miniature elephant with nonexistent balance and who created mini earthquakes with every sauté.

“I didn’t mean to...verbally abuse you like that. It was disrespectful of me and I beg for your forgiveness.” Trace tacks on a cheesy grin at the end.

“Well you’re not going to get it that easily, Pale Boy,” I retort as I cross my arms and settle into the mountain of pillows behind me.

He groans and slides to the floor, landing on his knees and bowing his head.

“Oh noble and gracious Kyra Leigh Something-Or-Another; I, the feeble, insignificant, and lowly Trace, am humbly begging for you to pardon me this one time for my obnoxious and disgraceful behaviour. I solemnly swear to never again insult your combat nor your leadership of your wonderful zombie fighting team. I shall only silently admire your badassery and will never again offend your kickass bow and arrows. If you forgive me this one time I promise to tirelessly work towards redeeming myself.”

Silence.

He peeks up at me through his black mop of hair. “How was that?” he questions hopefully, his boyish charm working full throttle.

I pick up another pillow and toss it from hand to hand. “‘Badassery’?” I quote.

“I thought the word was fitting, milady,” he replies.

I try to throw the cushion at him, but he dodges at the last second. I narrow my eyes in frustration and he just shrugs while biting his bottom lip to contain a victory smirk no doubt. I refold my arms and contemplate the situation. I’m not going to be here for much longer and I’ve never been the kind of girl to leave a mess in my wake. I like to make amends with people before parting and losing the chance of righting my wrongs. However, I would like to know what exactly it was that set him off on me.

“Okay, well, explain to me why you were so mad.”

He sits back on his heels as to look me in the face. I squirm under the intensity of his unnatural blue eyes.

“You didn’t tell me,” he murmurs.

My forehead wrinkles. “Didn’t tell you what?”

“About that.” He stands and tries to lean over and inspect my leg.

I shift positions to shield it from his view and wince. Now that I am aware of my knee, it hurts. Strange how the body can be ignorant to its own sufferings, but when it discovers a tiny bit of pain, it becomes a major hypochondriac. I wish I had never noticed the scrape.

“You can’t just—I mean—Seriously Kyra Leigh—” he paces around, not able to finish his sentence.

“It’s just a cut, I’m fine,” I insist.

“To be on the safe side...” he says and grabs my hand, dragging me out of the room and down the hall. He kicks open the door. It’s a giant bathroom with a double sink, bath, toilet, and stand-up shower. It’s all white porcelain or something, and the walls are painted a pale lavender, almost the same shade as the upstairs bathroom in my old home. I look at the floor instead, trying to hold back the tears that suddenly reappeared. Damn this house and the emotions it instills.

“Up on the counter,” he instructs while patting spot beside the sink. I hear a clinking sound and spy two silver rings on his left hand—one on his index finger and a smaller one on his pinky. As he taps the stone, they make light music.

“Kyra Leigh? Are you hurting? Do you need help?” he asks and I realize I was just standing there staring at his hand. I shake my head and hoist myself up without complaint.

Trace rolls up my pant leg slowly as to not cause me any more pain. He lightly outlines the cut, his fingertip barely brushing my skin. “It’s not too bad,” he murmurs more to himself than me. 

“Told you so,” I mutter.

He gives me a pointed look as he reaches behind me and opens the wall cabinet.

“Hydrogen peroxide,” he explains. He takes a cotton ball and dabs it on, cleaning the wound. “There we go,” he announces as he tapes some gauze over it. “Now, if memory serves, you are in need of some pants.”

He walks out of the room and I follow. Instead of going back towards my room by turning right, he goes left, heading for the other end of the hall. He stops at a room with posters all over the door and opens it.

It’s the only room I’ve seen so far that has personality. It’s Trace’s room. There are band posters on most of the walls, and drawings on other parts. There’s a small, single bed, with plain navy sheets neatly made. There’s a desk on the opposite wall, beside the window. Everything is organized and in its place. This does not look like the room of a normal teenage boy. Well, a normal boy in the Before anyway.

He opens this closet door and grabs a pair of grey sweats. “There, will these do?” he inquires as he hands them over.

“Yea, thanks,” I reply as I take them from him. They look about three sizes too big, but I will make them work.

“So I guess this is good night,” he says.

“Yea. Thank you for everything. We’ll only be staying for a while.”

He casts me a sidelong glance and gives me a smile of his that I’ve never seen before. It’s not his snarky one, nor his cocky one, nor the charming one, not even the insane one he wears when fighting. No, this one has a hint of sadness in it. “I know your kind. I know you’ll want to leave.”

“How do you know that?” I ask.

He looks me in the eyes and smiles that sad smile again. “Because you’re just like me.”