Page 62 of Ghosts Don't Cry
December 12th. I’m eighteen today.
I crumple the paper into a ball, and shove it into my pocket. My age means nothing. The date marks nothing, other than time passing. A meaningless countdown. A day closer to death. Yet I can’t stop memories from forming.
“Happy birthday, baby. Blow out the candles. Make a wish.”
My mom’s voice echoes through my head, bringing with it a brief image of a birthday cake, balloons, and bright smiles.
How old was I? Three? Four?
It doesn’t matter. It wasn’t long after that our lives changed forever.
A noise breaks through my thoughts. Footsteps … echoing from somewhere outside. I freeze, every muscle locking into place. They’re notherfootsteps. I’ve learned the pattern of those. This is someone else … more than one person. Male voices drift upward. Two of them, laughing about something.
Shoving to my feet, I creep across to the window and look outside just in time to see a lighter flicker to life near the entrance.
“—told you this place is perfect. Nobody comes here anymore.”
“What about the cops? Don’t they patrol?”
“Nah, they don’t care about an empty building. They’ve got better things to do than chase kids out of the ruins. Come on, pass it here.”
I drop back down into the shadows. My bag sits within reach, packed and ready as always. The back exit is along the hallway and down a set of stairs. It’ll take me five seconds to reach it if I move fast, and don’t stumble on the debris that litters the floor. But movement means noise, and noise means discovery.
The voices continue, talking about a party, a girl, upcoming weekend plans. My legs cramp from staying crouched in place. Eventually, the cigarettes get stamped out and the voices fade, footsteps retreating across the old parking lot. I wait another ten minutes before I allow myself to move, to breathe normally, and unclench muscles that are locked tight with tension.
The adrenaline leaves me shaking. If they’d seen me, would they have told an adult I was here? Would they have called CPS, where they would ask questions I can’t answer?
I’ve just about got my heart under control when noise reaches me again.Morefootsteps, but these ones I recognize.
Lily.
The first few times she turned up, she stumbled over everything. Now she navigates the debris like she belongs here.
She doesn’t. No one belongs here, but she won’t listen to me when I tell her to leave, and now it’s just easier to let her do what she wants.
She steps into the room, her face covered by a scarf, and her body bundled up in a winter coat and gloves.
“Happy birthday!” Her voice is bright and cheerful.
I stare at her.How does she know that?
“How?” It’s all I can get out before I start coughing again.
She waits, eyes never leaving me until I take a breath.
“The school bulletin board last week. Your name was on the list of students turning eighteen this month.” She rummages in her bag while she talks, pulling out a paper bag. Smiling at me, she opens it and takes out a cupcake.
I frown. She ignores me and goes back to the bag. A candle appears next, pristine and new, the wick unburnt. Then a small matchbook. She uses her teeth to pull off her gloves, then pushes the candle into the fondant on top of the cake. She returns to the bag a third time. When she produces a bottle of bourbon, my eyes widen a little.
“Where did you get that? You shouldn’t be doing this.”
“Too late.” She strikes a match, and the candle flares to life between us. The flame reflects in her eyes, turning them gold. “Make a wish.”
“Nothing to wish for.”
“Liar.” She doesn’t push for more, just places the cake down on the crate between us. “We can’t eat it unless you blow out the candle, and the rule is you have to make a wish.”
Our eyes catch and lock. I don’t know how she manages to do it, but I find myself leaning forward, and half-closing my eyes. A slight breath and the flame goes out. She grins at me, tears the cupcake in half, hands me the bigger slice, and licks the fondant off her fingers. I try to make it last, but it’s still gone in too few bites. The sweetness lingers on my tongue, a reminder of things I’ve taught myself not to want.
