Aprilynne Pike - Sleep No More

But what if I had done something? If I’d warned her to be careful she might have taken Rachel with her. Then two people would be dead. And that second death would have been entirely my fault.

This isn’t about choosing between right and wrong; it’s about trying to predict the line between wrong . . . and more wrong.

Monday is pure hell. Even worse than the torture I’ve been putting myself through all weekend. There’s a huge pile of flowers and candles and stuffed animals in front of the school. Not just from other students—from the whole community. The sense of security that permeated Coldwater is gone.

People are afraid. Sad and afraid.

News vans have come in from Tulsa. I’d like to think it’s because they care—and that’s certainly the façade they’re trying to sell—but it feels intrusive. Like strangers attending a strictly family funeral. I want to chase them away and tell them this isn’t their loss.

But I can’t. I have to attempt to blend in—act like I’m as surprised by this horrific act of violence as anyone. That I’m as normal as every other kid floating aimlessly through the halls today.

Standing in front of my locker, I almost don’t notice Linden. Of course, he’s not drawing any attention to himself. Maybe he’s even consciously trying to avoid it. I pretend to be sifting through the stuff in my backpack as I study him. The light and spark in his posture and expression that generally define him are gone. His eyes are red rimmed. He looks broken.

I forgot that he was one of Bethany’s friends. I want to go to him, to say something to ease that awful look in his eyes. It makes me hurt to see him this way.

I probably shouldn’t, but I do anyway.

I approach tentatively, not wanting to screw this up and make it even worse for him. “Linden?” I say softly. He turns and for just a second it’s like he’s too deep in his grief to even recognize me. Then his face softens.

“Charlotte. I didn’t see you.”

“That’s okay.”

We’re both silent for a few seconds. “I’m so sorry about Bethany.” And somehow, just saying the words—apologizing to someone —makes me feel better. “I know she was your friend,” I add in a mumble.

He nods stiffly.

“If I can . . . if you ever need, I don’t know, someone to talk to or something,” I blurt, half mortified at what I’m saying.

He stares at me for several long seconds before a ghost of a smile touches his mouth. “That’s really nice of you. I—” He hesitates and for a moment I think he’s actually going to say something—something meaningful. “I’ll remember that you offered. Thanks,” he says, and then wanders away with a small hand flutter instead of saying good-bye.

I watch him go with an ache in my heart. Somehow, seeing Linden hurt like this makes my remorse even worse.

He doesn’t show up to choir.

When school gets out, I know I should hurry home. My house is literally within sight of the front gates of the high school and though I finally convinced my mom to let me walk to school this morning, she wheeled out to the front porch and watched me the entire way.

She’ll stress until I walk back in the door.

But I need a few minutes.

I slump against the worn metal door of my locker, letting my back slide down until my butt hits the floor. I rub at my temples. I’ve been in a blur all day, but my head feels downright cottony now.

Oh no. My eyes fly open. “I’m so stupid,” I mutter to myself. I’ve been so distracted by my own guilt and pain I didn’t recognize the signs. The very last thing I want to do right now is to fight another foretelling; it’s harder when I’m feeling emotionally vulnerable.

And there’s something else. Something new: fear. After the horror of the last vision a tiny quiver clenches in my stomach at the thought of losing a fight again. Of seeing something like that again.

I briefly wonder if I can make it all the way home and into my bedroom before it overtakes me, but even if the pressure in my head weren’t already starting to build, I suspect my mom won’t let me get past her without at least five minutes of talk—she hasn’t been able to focus on anything except Bethany all weekend.

Fine, it’s gotta happen here in the hallway. I can handle this. I can do it.

At least I don’t have to worry about anyone looking at me funny. Everyone is out of it today. I brace my forehead on my knees and stare steadfastly at the tiles on the floor, forcing a black veil over my second sight. Bracing myself to hold it there the way Sierra taught me.

A savage storm rips it away.

Not again! In my head, I grasp for the blackness and for just a second the imaginary drape slides into place and I think I’ve won.

Maybe I even could have won if I weren’t already exhausted. But the last dregs of my mental strength aren’t enough when a fistful of fingers reaches forward and rips the curtain away again and the same vise from last week squeezes my skull until I want to scream in agony.

I can’t erect a strong enough barrier to block it, and then the fingers are pushing into my mind, taking over, and I’m tumbling down the river. Then falling. Falling.

The darkness flees, leaving me standing in a strange grayness.

It’s snowing. Those thick, heavy flakes that fall silently and feel like a blanket being laid over the earth. My vision self breathes a sigh of relief. We haven’t gotten our first real snow yet. Whatever I’m about to see, good or bad, I should have some time. Not like Bethany.

As the vision forces my feet to walk, I start resisting again. Fighting with every ounce of strength I have left. Not because of Sierra or the rules.

Because I’m terrified.

I’ve never been so afraid of what might be waiting for me. I know what a vision this strong can bring and I don’t ever want to see something like that again.

But my feet keep striding through the cottony snow. There’s a large, dark shadow in front of me. Not a person, a thing. A truck, I realize when I get closer. The truck is sitting on a dirt road, but there are no streetlights. The sky is cloudy, so I can’t tell how full the moon is— that would have been helpful; maybe I could have looked it up. The filtered moonlight and distant lights from town are reflecting off the pure white snow and the billowy clouds above, giving the night air a strange orangey glow that always comes with this kind of thick, silent snowfall.

The door of the truck hangs open, and at first I don’t see anyone inside. But there’s something. . . . I gasp as I realize the dark stain I’m seeing on the far side of the windshield is blood. A huge spatter of blood decorating a spider-webbed crack in the glass.

I swallow hard as dread eats at my stomach, but I can’t stop my legs from continuing to carry me to the truck, my neck from peering around the open door. And even though I squeeze my eyes shut, only my physical eyelids close.

My foretelling eyes have to see.

He’s draped facedown on his stomach across the bench seat, with his hand wrapped around his phone. Trying to call for help, I suspect. I try not to see the rest, but bile rises in my throat as I force back a sob and take in the details. It’s gunshot wounds this time, instead of a knife. One, two, three, four, five of them up his back before the veritable crater in his skull that makes me sway on my feet. Each wound is a gaping hole in his skin—through his coat. Five ripped circles stained with still-wet blood that looks shiny black.

His head . . . I can hardly focus. It’s too much. His hair is sprinkled with fragments of bones and small bits that I’m pretty sure belong inside his skull. The bullet must have done this, then kept going through the windshield on the far passenger side—making the bloody star I saw first.