Page 61 of Ghosts Don't Cry
And the worst part? I wanted to march over there and tell them that he was mine, and they had no right to touch him like that.
But he’snotmine. He made that clear on his porch when he told me I was an easy mark, then kissed me and shoved me away.
So why does watching other women touch him feel like drowning?
I start the car before I can do something stupid. Something like driving back to Cedar street and begging him to stop torturing us both.
The grocery store shrinks in my rearview mirror. I left a cart full of food in there. Half a week’s shopping abandoned in the cereal aisle.
I don’t care.
All I can think about is the way he looked at me. And even knowing that he did it on purpose, even seeing the manipulation for what it is …
Itstillworked.
Chapter Twenty-Three
RONAN - AGE 18
December arrives with teeth.The cold cuts through the factory walls, burrowing into concrete and steel, making everything it touches brittle. My breath hangs visible in front of me, even during the day, marking time in small clouds of proof that I’m still breathing.
I can’t remember the last time I was warm. By the time the heat inside the school thaws the numbness of my fingers, the end of day has arrived and it’s time to leave. I have a cough, and a constant ache in my chest that doesn’t ease.
I should try to find somewhere warmer, but no one comes here … well, no one but her, and she won’t take away the few things I have. So, I stay where I am and wonder every time I close my eyes if I won’t open them the next morning. The thought reminds me that I need to check what supplies I have left.
The crate I use as a table scrapes against the floor as I drag it aside. My hands shake as I work the loose floor tile free. My heart plummets down to my stomach. The space underneath is empty. Every bit of food I’ve hoarded has gone. I press my palms against my eyes until spots dance behind the lids.
Think.
It’s Monday today. I had an apple, half a sleeve of crackers and a granola bar. Rats could have taken it. Or I might have miscounted what I had in the constant state of exhaustion I’m living in. Maybe I ate the granola bar and don’t remember, my brain too starved to catalog every desperate bite. It wouldn’t be the first time hunger made me do things I forget about later.
I sit back, staring at the empty hole, and reach for the blanket I found behind the Goodwill store. It offers very little protection against the cold. It had been thrown out, too damaged to sell, but it was better than nothing so I took it. Now I wrap myself in it anyway, pulling it tight around my shoulders, and try to trap what little warmth my body still generates.
I have another one. The one Lily left when I had a fever. I keep that for night time, when cold seeps through every gap, every broken window, and every crack in the walls. When I wake, shaking so hard my teeth rattle, I wrap myself in it, my nose buried against the material where the scent of her perfume still lingers.
My classmates are probably at home now. Complaining about homework or arguing with their parents over curfews. Normal lives with normal problems. Tomorrow I’ll have to behave like I’m normal too. The exhaustion of pretending is worse than dealing with the cold and hunger sometimes.
Cupping my hands in front of my face, I blow into them, trying to ease the ache from my fingers. I need to do my homework before it gets dark. The history essay on Sherman’s March is due tomorrow, and Edwards will notice if I don’t turn it in. Healwaysnotices when I slip. Last week he asked if everything was all right at home. I’d lied, and told him my uncle was working overtime, but that I was managing fine. His eyes suggested he didn’t believe me, but he didn’t push it.
Replacing the tile, I cover it with the crate again, then pull out my notebook and pen from my bag. The essay question stares back at me from the textbook page.
Analyze Sherman’s strategy of total war and its effectiveness in achieving Union objectives.
I know this material, but translating that understanding into words requires steady hands and a brain that works.
My handwriting wobbles across the page, barely legible even to me.
Sherman’s March to the Sea represented a shift in?—
The pen slips. I grip it tighter, forcing my fingers to cooperate.
—military strategy, targeting not just armies by the economic and psychological?—
My hand cramps. The words merge together. I manage two more sentences before my grip fails. My fingers are too cold. The pen rolls off the crate and disappears into the shadows.
I don’t bother retrieving it. What’s the point? I can barely hold a thought together, much less string them into something Edwards will accept. Frustration builds, threatening to choke me. Writing is one of the few things I’m good at, one of the ways I can prove I’m more than just another problem for this town to ignore. In essays and analysis, I can show that my mind works. Without it, I’m nothing more than a ghost haunting these abandoned spaces.
A gust of wind lifts the pages of the textbook, and a sheet of paper slips free. It skitters across the floor. By the time I snatchit up, my fingers are numb again. The date at the top of the sheet catches my eye.
