B. Johnson - Deadgirl

I found myself at St. Elias’ Hospital in less than an hour. The very same hospital I’d come to visit Mr. Miller, the man who would have hit me with his car if I wasn’t the Incredible Ghost Girl. The same hospital Abraham had led me to last time. The very same damn trap.

“Unbelievable,” I said, to myself. “He’s already tried to lead me here.”

I felt in the pocket of my coat for two things—one was the stun gun my dad had made sure I carried. The other thing I wasn’t sure I really needed. I patted the heavy lump to make sure it hadn’t slipped in flight. All there. All ready for the stupid plan I’d concocted.

What time was it? I’d have to turn my phone on to check. I could only imagine the explosion of text messages, missed calls, and voicemails I was going to get the instant it came to life. And that reminded me of my parents, once again terrified out of their minds, wondering if their daughter had been kidnapped or eaten by wild dogs.

I put my intact hand against my forehead and looked down at the asphalt of the parking lot. I had no doubt in my mind—I was a terrible daughter. Mom and Dad would be a mess now—it’d only been a week ago when I’d disappeared the first time. Which meant the police and everyone else who cared to comment would be telling them I’d run away. My first story had been fishy, and with the addition of a second disappearance I would look like what…the rebel? The run-off-to-the-circus girl? The criminal, even?

I glanced around the parking lot—it occurred to me that my mother’s car would be there. Or at least, it must have been earlier. Back in the Grey Meadows, inside of Morgan’s train, I’d seen my mom around her bed. I tried not to remember her look of anguish.

I promised her something, in that moment, and I sent it along via brainwave— I’ll make it up to you, Mom . I vibed the feeling in her spiritual direction. But right then, I had friends to save, didn’t I? Time to be the Big Dead Hero.

I thought about my phone—I had to. I’m not a cat, and I’m already dead, so I decided a little curiosity couldn’t hurt. I fired off a quick prayer of mercy toward the sky and turned my phone on. I’d just opened the welcome screen when it vibrated and tweeted out its obnoxious 8-bit ring tone. I jammed on the END button until all the pop-ups and notifications and text-message warnings disappeared. I glanced down, and saw a little yellow envelope on the screen with the number “43” next to it in little glowing letters. Holy shit, man. It made me feel loved in a horrible, guilty, I’m-an-abominable-human-being kind of way.

I ran through the texts, not opening any of them, looking for anything from my mysterious benefactor. None of them were. I took a deep breath, brought the number up from my call log, and punched it into my phone. I sent my mystery-texter this:

Thanks for your help last time.

Any good advice for me now?

I waited, but not for very long. My phone buzzed, and I opened the message.

Try Your Best To Not Die.

I rolled my eyes. Cute. My mystery guy-or-girl was a real comedian. My phone vibrated again.

Oh, and Don’t Let Him Grab You.

Yeah, That’s It. Good Luck, Luce.

I put my phone away and sighed.

I dug in my coat, both hands in both pockets. My splinted-hand, still shooting off its dull throb, felt the smooth plastic and the two little metal teeth. The stun gun. My other hand felt the cold metal of the other object, the one I really hoped I wouldn’t have to use.

Was I doing this?

I looked out at the empty parking lot, wrapped in darkness. A soft but cold breeze played out against my already icy skin. The cold made me feel more alone, I realized. Weaker.

Deep breaths, Lucy Day. You’re a superhero right? You’ve got some twisted ghost-version—Phantom-version—of the Force, and a stun gun. Just add a cape and some eff-me boots and we’re good to go. You could be Electro-Bitch or The Phantasm. I laughed at that, but the column of frost that poured out of my mouth stopped me short. I swallowed the last of the giggles.

I ducked next to a car and looked into the side-view mirror. My lips were ice-blue, and dark circles outlined my sunken eyes. The irises had lost their color entirely, transformed into two black dimes. A spider web of blue veins pressed up against the translucent, paper-thin skin of my sallow cheeks. I appeared, for lack of a less-painful word, dead. I realized I’d never looked at myself when the bone-chilling cold swept over me. I wrapped my arms over my chest and looked away.

How long did I have? I’d been colder, the last time at the hospital, when I’d watched in horror as my legs and arms ceased to be. But I wasn’t far off from that. Closer, I knew, if I burned energy for any of my little Phantom tricks.

Which meant I had to…feed? Was that the best word for what I did? Or what I took?

I shook out my worries and touched the stun gun in my pocket to give me strength. Okay Luce. Let’s go.

I took three steps across the blacktop before a hand clawed into my shoulder and squeezed with such force that I barely managed a choking scream. I twisted, trying to free myself, and tumbled to the ground. Naturally , I landed on my broken hand. I squawked out another animal scream of torment. I tried to turn, to face my attacker. He had me. Had me while I was in my own stupid brain again. Thanks, Luce. Thanks for not being able to—

“Lucy?”

I spun and looked up. If it had been possible, my face would have drained of even more color.

“…Dad.”

My father stood over me, or rather, some version of him that I didn’t know. Normally tan and handsome, his sharp green eyes glinting with an almost dangerous level of mischief and intelligence, my dad had an intense, lively aura. But not now. His black hair stuck out in the front, as if he’d been running his hands over his forehead. His skin looked chalky, pale, and his sharp green eyes were dull and sunken. In fact, the circles under his eyes looked as bad as mine. He was wearing a t-shirt, and despite the chill in the air, was soaked with a dark ring of sweat around his neck.

“Lucy…what—?”

I held my good hand up, and as if on cue, my stomach hit the eject button. I rolled over on my side and vomited long strings of bile onto the asphalt. My dad moved with incredible speed, and I couldn’t believe it—he gathered my hair into his hands and held it out of the line of fire. When I’d finished, he scooped me up like I weighed nothing. Like I was eight years old again.

He set me on my feet, but his hands dug into my upper arms.

“Dad, that hurts—”

“Lucy. Where the hell have you been?”

“Dad, I’m sorry—”

“Sorry? You’re sorry?”

His voice flickered with two battling emotions. One of those voices wanted to bellow at me until I broke down into tears—which I would—while the other wanted to gather me up with gentle words and stronger arms and make everything better . Maybe it’s a universal Dad Voice—in fact, I’m sure of it.

“It’s not what you think—”

“What do I think, L-Lucy?” His voice cracked, and my throat choked. My vision went blurry with tears. “Tell me? Tell me how your mother and I feel. Tell us what we think, Lucy.”

I shook my head, and hot tears burned trails down my frozen cheeks. I looked into my dad’s haunted face, contorted to inhuman dimensions in anguish, and I knew something right away. He would never forgive me for this—not really. We might be okay someday—God I hoped there was a someday to look forward to—but this pain I’d inflicted would never go away. It might echo in him forever.