Each day, Calla and her fragile heart are that little bit closer to death... but before she goes she'll prove to the world the boy she loves is no murderer.
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With a life steeped in wealth and privilege, Calla Pierce should be protected from t...
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One year earlier... continued
I pad through the darkened hallway, dodging Alice's painstakingly carved pumpkins and glowing lanterns. The beat of the music is a strange throb warring with the thud of my heart. Alice's argument that this would be a small thing, just a few friends, had faded as each small clique had appeared at our door, filling the house with high-pitched laughter and body heat. I squeeze my way through another group I didn't recognise. They give me a look of annoyance as I disturb their conversation, but I just glare in response.
I need to find Damian.
I keep going down the hall. Damian wasn't upstairs. I hadn't been to school regularly in so long I hardly knew any of the faces. I'd moved awkwardly from room to room, group to group, feeling lost. Alone. I held a few shallow conversations with people who vaguely remembered me before their eyes turned glassy at the small talk and they went back to their friends.
I find Damian in the kitchen, leaning lazily against the counter. He's wearing a half-assed costume of all black, the Scream mask tucked into his waist. There are half a dozen people in the space laughing and watching him hungrily from the corners of the room. He had that energy, that glow. The girls giggle—the boys watch them, watching him.
I hover in the doorway. Now I'm here. This close. I have no idea what to say, how to even start a conversation with him. At family gatherings, street parties, or summer BBQs, he was always there, but we were never alone. He was always preoccupied with someone else.
A few people notice me, the whites of their eyes flashing as they pin me to the spot, and I suddenly feel lost in my own kitchen. Damian turns when he sees me. That golden smile lights up his face and he moves towards me. His steps are a little clumsy, and I realise as he gets closer that his eyes are unfocused. Sweat glimmers on his forehead. His skin is a pale shade of sour milk instead of its usual honeyed hue.
"Your sister throws a good party, huh?" He says. The words seem to drift like they're floating away from him as they escape his lips. "I haven't seen her. Do you know where she is?" He rubs the back of his neck, his eyes on his shoes.
"No... and yeah, she does." My throat turns dry, and I'm suddenly too aware of the tension in my limbs. A strained silence lingers on and I hear one of his friends cough and giggle from behind him. His smile doesn't fade, though.
"So... who have you come as? I don't think I recognise the costume..." I'm not totally sure he knows what he's saying. His words are slurred and a little slow.
"Yeah... it's not a costume, it's just a dress." My cheeks burn, and I glance down at the velvet dress I already regret wearing. Most people were dressed casually, or in costumes—I looked like I was going to an eighties prom, or that's what Alice had told me through gritted teeth, anyway.
Damian just nods and grins at me absently. I can see he's already thinking about something else. Nothing about this interaction is going as I'd hoped. And disappointment is pushing me lower and lower into the ground. The person stood before me, swaying slightly, their eyes unfocused isn't anything like the Damian I thought I knew. And my own responses are stilted and awkward. In my mind, fantasising about this moment, I'd been charming and enthralling. Reality is cold water on my dreams.
