Of Frost & Cinder (Old Version)

A Heavy Realization

" Thanks a lot, Pete!" I walk away from the bed, trying to straighten out my shirt before giving up and headed to the closet.

You owe me a shirt. The words float around in that gruff, sarcastic voice and I shiver the shirtless werewolf out of my brain.

"You just got snow all over me," I wipe away the beads of water accumulating along the cotton material. "I literally just changed."

"Jeeze, sorry," Pete says as he sits up. "What's up with you? You've been weird all day."

"Nothing," I sigh, and turn to him, doing my best to feel normal and find a believable excuse to tell him—one that I would have used before that psychopath broke into my house.

"My dad's been getting on my case about nationals."

"Oh," Pete nods, telling me he's bought it. "Yeah, your Dad always gets a little nuts this time of year."

"Yeah, but it's almost worse this year. Like, he told me to choose between skating and the play, Pete. He never tells me to quit anything, but this morning he told me to quit Theatre."

Pete frowns, "That is strange. Maybe it's Nina?"

"Oh, you mean the female version of Satan? Who knows? Did I tell you she got me kicked out of Dad's house last night?"

"What? Are you kidding?"

"No! She tried to play it off like I was teaching her kids to crack a beer or something, and then she convinced Dad to kick me out. Oh, but not before freaking Katie got gravy all over my winter formal dress."

"That blows."

"Yeah, it does. Now I have to find a new dress. That one's ruined! Here, I'll show you," I say, diving back into my closet. I slide three-fourths of my hangers to the left, finding the spot where I hang all of my dresses. I go from hanger to hanger until I find the black one designed for the strapless winter dress, only there's nothing hanging on it.

"That's weird," I say.

"What?"

"That dress, it's not here!" I start on the opposing side, going through each piece searching for the champagne chiffon. "It's not here, Pete."

"Maybe your mom took it to get dry cleaned? Mom's do that stuff, right?"

"Have you met my mother?" I say, getting more frustrated each time I come up short. I just wore it last night. I left Dad's house and....

I freeze.

What did I do after leaving the house?

My heart starts pounding. When did I get home?

"Pete..." I mumble, trying to make sense of the memories that are suddenly so fuzzy. "When I drove home from the cape..."

The further I try to remember, the fuzzier each moment becomes.

"Mom was passed out on the couch with her drink still in her hand, and I put the drink in the kitchen."

I rub my throbbing temples. "...and then I went to my room to change and go to bed."

Something's not right. I never had anything feel so blurry, so...forced.

I shake my head. No, I'm not going to let whatever what he said get to me. I'm letting his crap about Ironide get to me. That's all. It's all psychological.

"What are you doing?" Pete asks when I drop to my knees.

I don't answer, but start flinging clothes out of my hamper until my fingers brush across the chiffon texture of my formal dress. "What the hell?"

I shake it out of the wrinkled ball its crumpled in. "Since when do I throw a fifty dollar dress in the hamper?"

I continue flattening out the dress against the carpet, and the dark gravy stain is prominent on the thin overlay. This both relieves and infuriates me—as the stain remains proof that I was in fact, at Dad's house for dinner last night. That memory is real.

I flip the dress around and Pete blurts, "Whoa, that doesn't look like gravy!"

My eyes follow his widened gaze to the light trail of red that curves along the seam.

When I pick up the dress and fully flip it to view the back, I shudder. A deep, crimson stain, the size of softball saturates the material. The stain is dried and slightly dulled, but there's absolutely no denying that it's blood.

That's what I get for saving you.

The dress falls to the floor as his words slam into me like a one-ton weight.

"Pete," I say his name, halfway to remind me that we are real—that this entire moment is real.

"Pete," I repeat, firm this time. "I need you to do me a favor."

"Um, okay..."

I turn my back to him and pull at the bottom of my Henley.

"Wait, Shelland, what are you doing?" His voice is full of confusion, peppered with fear.

"I need you to tell me if I have any bruises or cuts."

Then I lift the back of my shirt up until I hear Pete gasp.

"Whoa, how do you not feel that?"

"What is it?"

"You have a massive ass cut! It's practically the length of my finger. It's paired with a with a bruise three times that."

I sink inside.

Was that boy telling the truth? Did he really save me from something?

"I don't know, I just don't."

Can Ironide do that, I wonder. If the cut was inflicted by something—or someone supernatural—could the pills suppress all my memories of getting the cut? Including the pain?

I need to find the werewolf.

But first, I need to find out everything I can about Ironide.

I yank my shirt back down and scramble to turn on my computer. "Alright, Pete. I need your super awesome Googling skills."

"Are you going to tell me what's going on?"

"Yes, but on two conditions." I pull out the plastic chair at my desk and tell him to sit, "First, I need you to promise that you will not think me insane or try to have me committed."

He frowns, but nods anyway before taking a seat in the red bucket chair.

"Second, I need you to promise on the mercy of your soul that you will not tell any other living thing on this earth what we're about to do. That includes parents, pets, and plants."

Pete only frowns, and I can tell he's debating whether or not to get up and leave.

"Swear it Pete. Pinky swear it or I will tell your mom how you cheated your way into that science camp last summer."

"FINE. I swear!" he latches his skinny pinky around mine.

"Okay, so what do you know about werewolves?"