Ghosts of the Future

Need

Humor tinges her words, and I grin. I want to slide closer to her, to her warmth, to her small body, but I restrain myself. "Well," I say instead, catching Saira's eye with my own, "It's a bar. And what do bars normally have that teenagers aren't allowed to?"

Saira grins as well, and I see her eyes flash behind her glasses. For a moment, though, it seems like there are red streaks in her green irises. I do lean closer now, trying to see the colors again, but Saira looks away.

Silence fills the cab for a few minutes. I want to break it, but I don't know how. Saira seems perfectly fine with the heavy quiet, even thriving in it. She relaxes, sinking back into her seat. Her grip on the wheel loosens, and I can almost imagine her as a normal girl, and me a normal guy.

Except that in my weird dreams, I wasn't myself. Whenever I passed a reflective surface and looked into it, I saw a different face. A young face, with high cheekbones and jade eyes hidden behind the sheen of glasses. Brown-black hair always framed my face.

I was Saira in my dreams. Which means that if they were actually memories, then Saira is a killer. Like me.

Finally, after eons of silence and driving, Saira parks a block away from Miss Andromeda's Bar. We get out, and walk down the street side by side. Our hands are swinging free, and the urge to grab Saira's hand overwhelms me.

Surprisingly, her hand is warm in mine. She glances at me when I take her hand, but she doesn't pull away. I feel a spark of hope, but my body has other ideas.

I guide Saira nearer to an alleyway. Her eyes flick towards it, then at me. Her voice is quiet, but it thrums in my ears like a guitar chord. "Do you really want a rehash of the woods, Max? I'm sure your groin could use a few dents as well." I shake myself, and stop navigating towards the alley.

Fire is burning in my cheeks. When Saira glances at me again, I can only look down. "Sorry. My body had other ideas," I whisper to her. She nods the slightest nod, and we continue on our way.

Once we reach the bar, we stop outside. The sign isn't on, and the bar is closed, even though it's barely eleven at night. Sheets hang in the windows, blocking visual access. The fence ringing the backyard is too high to climb.

Saira turns towards me, analyzing me with her sharp gaze. In the glow of the streetlights and moonlight, she looks beautiful in her long-sleeved blue shirt and dark jeans. She's small, almost dainty, but a fire burns in her eyes.

"I dare you to break in," I say, a challenge in my words. I remember all too well my dreams, where Saira had watched people die without doing anything. Where she had killed people, whether by hemlock, burning, or simply pushing them until their head cracked open like an egg.

Saira grins, a devil's grin full of mischief and darkness. A thrill rushes fire through my veins, and I resist the urge to grab her and kiss her by stuffing my hands deep into my pockets.

Saira digs out a pocket knife from her jeans, then pulls a pin from her hair. A section falls down her back, separate from her ponytail. The urge to run my fingers through the loose strands takes hold of me, and I bite my lip to force my mind to focus on something else.

Fast as a viper, Saira unlocks the door using her knife and pin. She looks up and grins at me, but my eyes are fixed on her knife, on the red staining the blade.

Saira glances down, notices the knife, and folds it back up with a snap. The slim weapon goes back into her pocket, and she pushes open the front door to enter the building.

I follow behind, pausing after I close the door to let my eyes adjust to the dimness. Saira has her phone out, and is looking around the bar. I watch her, lit with a flashlight beam from the small device. She looks eerie and amazing.

Saira glances back at me, and asks, "Are you not going to check the beverage options?" Humor tinges her words, and I grin. I join her behind the bar, and look at all the alcohol using my own phone's flashlight.

I grab a bottle of whiskey, and a couple of glasses. I glance over at Saira, who watches me with eyes shrouded in darkness. I pour two glasses of whiskey, and hand one to her. She takes it, then clinks it against mine as I say, "To friendship."

The whiskey is liquid fire burning my throat. I feel the heat in my chest, the alcohol turning my bones to sand. I laugh, and Saira grins at me. She takes the whiskey bottle now, and pours two more glasses.

We keep doing that, using different beverages. My thoughts are extremely fuzzy, and I keep giggling. Saira seems normal, though her form looks like static. Her laughter sounds too bright and airy, and her hip keeps bumping mine.

My body and mind ache for hers, but I know better. Even drunk, Saira could take me, like she had in the lunchroom. I dare not try anything on her, though with each drink, my thoughts get fainter and fainter, and the need rises and rises within me.

Finally, it gets to be too much. I lose it. Bad.