Page 41 of Ghosts Don't Cry
In my head, I see his hands shaking as he unwrapped that granola bar. The way he’d saved the wrapper. The dirt under his fingernails. The factory’s broken windows. The smell of decay. The cold that must seep through those walls at night.
He’s there right now. Probably sitting on the concrete floor with nothing between him and the cold. No one knowing whether he’s safe, or hurt, or?—
I can’t finish the thought.
My throat burns. My chest aches like something inside has cracked open and is bleeding into spaces it shouldn’t reach. I press my face against my knees and cry harder. It’s the kind of crying that has no sound, just the hitching of my shoulders and the way I can’t catch my breath. Steam fills the bathroom until I can barely see. Water runs down my face, mixing with tears.
How long have I been sitting here? Ten minutes? Twenty?
The water starts to cool, but I don’t move. Because I get to cry in a hot shower while he’s cold and alone and invisible.
Chapter Fifteen
RONAN - AGE 17
Everything hurts.
The cold comes up through the floor, through the thin blanket, and straight into my bones. Each breath is like swallowing broken glass, rattling wet in my chest. Light filters through the broken windows. It’s weak but it still stabs into my eyes.
The factory smells like rust and mold and something sour I’m afraid might be me. Somewhere above, wind whistles through gaps in the roof. Water drips in a steady rhythm, hitting metal, each ping echoing through the empty space.
Is it morning? It has to be morning.
School. I need to get to school.
There’s a clean shirt somewhere. I washed it in the restroom sink at the gas station last night, wrung it out, and hung it on the radiator to dry, while I lurked and hoped no one would question me until it was dry enough. It’s important to look clean, and not give anyone reasons to look too closely.
Where is it?
The room spins when I try to turn my head.
“Get up.” My voice comes out wrong. Rough and hoarse.
The coughing hits hard enough to double me over. When I wipe my mouth, my hand comes away wet and red. I stare at it for a moment, blood bright against my palm, before my legs give out. The ground rushes up and slams into my knees.
The factory walls blur, water stains morphing into faces I don’t want to see.
Mom on the bathroom floor. Blood on her lips from coughing, bright red against her too-pale skin. Her hand reaching for mine.
“I’m fine, baby. Go to school. Don’t give them a reason to send people out to check on us.”
Backpack. Where’s my backpack?
There’s a history test first period. Edwards notices when people miss tests. He notices everything.
But my legs won’t hold me, and I hit the ground hard, palms stinging when they impact the floor.
Try again.
This time I make it to my knees before the room tilts. My hands find the wall, and I try to pull myself up.
“Hold her still.” Rick with a needle. Mom crying. “Don’t you want your mom to feel better?”
His fist coming at my face. Mom in the corner, staring blankly.
“Think you’re special with your homework? Worthless. Just like your junkie mother.”
No. That’s not now. That’s before. Get up. Focus.
