Change Of Season (55 page)

"I never told you about the mall today," Autumn whispered.  "I didn’t let you in.  You’re not real – not corporeal, anyway.  You’re real in my heart, my head, but not
real
-"

Autumn’s head swung violently to the right as Miraj struck her face with vicious force.  Gasping in shock, she instinctively pressed her palm to her stinging cheek.

"Was that real enough for you?" Miraj sneered.  "God, you try to fucking help someone, and they repay you by erasing you.  Who was there for you, Red?  Who listened to you cry?  Who let you rage and sulk?  You would be lost without me, perhaps dead from passive suicidality!  How dare you dismiss me as some pretend friend?"

"You did help me," Autumn whispered.  "You found me when no one else could see the pit I’d fallen into.  But you also aren’t really here, no matter how bad that hurt.  You can’t be here..."

"Fine, then.  I won’t be."  With a disgusted look, Miraj stormed towards the door.  "Good fucking luck with your precious new friends.  Where are they now, huh?"

Autumn collapsed backwards, closing her eyes as tears began to fall. 
I have to let her go
, she thought desperately. 
I have to figure out what to believe, who to trust.
  She opened her eyes, unsurprised by the vacant room. 
I have to stop looking for a hero to save me
.  Drained, she made her way to the bathroom mirror, face still stinging with the velocity of the strike.  Her face remained ashen, impossibly pale. 
I have to find a way back to what’s real before I lose what little of me is left in this shell
.

"What is real?" she asked aloud, reaching for her journal and pencil.  "What is true?"

Veronica.  Andrew.  Evan.  Keenan.  Heather and Corrina.  Her parents and Pandora.  Chris, unfortunately.  Seven dead girls with similar features and red hair in a variety of shades.  Emma. 

Sighing, she tossed the book aside.  Depression.  Anxiety.  Misery.  These were real as well.  Beyond that, nothing was certain.  In the miles between her home and school, she’d come to a sickening realization:  if she could potentially fabricate a person, an entire relationship, what else could she invent in her imagination?  Did Nikki really move items in her room, or did she move them herself unconsciously? 

Nothing was real and yet, everything was.  It was real to
her
.  But her reality was distorted lenses and tainted water supply.  Drinking the psychological Kool-Aid.  For all she knew, Chris had done permanent damage with his violent strikes to the back of her head. 

Sinking to the floor, she rested her back against the bed frame, listening as Christina sang of a lover who drained her until she was essentially dead.  Half-alive:  it was how she felt, her own heart sealed away beyond her, safely out of reach.  Love was too risky.  Her phone was now in her hand, opening a series of archived texts.

I am so grateful you hid in my editing suite that day
.

Was he still grateful?  Or did he wish he’d never met her?

Sleeping would be easier with you beside me
.

Flailing, anxious girl in bed.  How romantic.

"You can do so much better," she said angrily.  "Why did you fall for me?"

As "Jar Of Hearts" hit its chorus, Autumn was tempted to sing along, to throw open her window and hope he heard her.  He had no business insinuating himself into her life this way, leaving her scarred.  She had no business maiming him, either.  Spark, meet gunpowder.  Destruction.  They truly were Romeo and Juliet in some aspects.

The music suddenly began to stutter and skip, the title of the song repeating over and over as if on a loop.  Puzzled, Autumn scrolled the mouse to the skip button. 
Corrupted file
, she thought bitterly. 

Overhead, the light began to flicker.

A chill crept along her spine as she stared at the ceiling fan, its pot lights seeming to wink at her as they lit up and dimmed in a rhythmic pattern.  Dying bulbs?  All four at once? 

Her computer plunged into darkness, all power lost.

"What the fuck?"

She struck the laptop in anger, checking the power cord.  It was firmly in the wall and connected to the base.  Has the fuse blown?  She groaned in frustration. 
Of course.  My light’s screwed and my outlets are dead.  Could this night keep sucking
?

From the periphery, she watched her bathroom light up on its own and felt her stomach drop. 
Fuses do not do that
.  Reluctantly, she rose to her feet, edging forward in a shuffling gait towards the ugly yellow fluorescent light.  Time seemed to jump, cutting in and out like a poorly edited movie.  Her stomach lurched from the disorientation, the bile and coffee churning wildly. 

Don’t look
, she thought.

"I have to."

And she did have to.  She had to reach out and find reality.

Her hand connected with the door frame, pulling her inside the magician’s box, where the night played its tricks with illusion and sleight of hand.  On the floor sat a girl, dressed in a blue floral summer dress that seemed a cast-off found in the Salvation Army bargain bin.  It hung off the girl’s shoulders just slightly, revealing the sharp relief of collarbone beneath flesh. 
Too thin
.  A cascade of crimson curls danced down her back, tethered with a black scrunchie atop her head.  Her head bowed as if in prayer, she remained silent, motionless.

The light flickered twice.  Strobe light. 
Dance, puppet
. 
Showtime
.

Autumn stared speechless, blinking hard only to find this curious visitor remained.  Somewhere in the walls, a sigh slipped out, tumbling from the overhead vents. 

What is real
? 

The head rose, tilting as if alerted to the presence of an audience.  Her china doll hands were pressed to her face as she slowly turned, her neck craning at an impossible angle.  Vacant black pools for eyes, she stared at Autumn, studying her visage as if seeking her own truths.

Laughter in the walls.  Jaded, sarcastic.

Autumn was paralyzed, the rabbit in the headlights waiting to be struck.  Willing victim, obedient and still.  Porcelain hands fell away from their macabre game of Peek-a-boo to reveal the battered face of Mary Kennedy, no longer as pretty as her picture.  Bruised lips parted, unleashing rivulets of blood that coursed over her chin and pelted her dress.

"Thief of hearts!" she screamed, gurgling blood.

And Autumn screamed with her, reality crashing in as she fell backwards onto the floor.  Her body convulsed with sobs as she pressed her hand to her eyes, refusing to see. 
It can’t get you if you don’t see it.  It can’t get you in the light.
  Every old lie about protection from the things that bumped in the night became a mental talisman as she cried out uncontrollably, willing her body to expire already, to be free of its hell.

Hands shook her shoulders and she screamed harder. 
It’s all real
, she understood. 
If he doesn’t kill me, the ghosts will
.  Her name was repeated, a mantra, and she could only shake her head in protest, inching and writhing along the hardwood.

"Let me in!"

She knew that voice, knew its truth. 
Veronica
.  She peered between her fingers, relieved to find her friend dropping to her side, enveloping her in a safe embrace.

"Shh, Autumn, I’m here.  What happened?"

She shook her head, throwing her arms around her neck, clinging to life.  Over her shoulder, the bathroom was vacant, mocking her. 

What is real
?

A crowd had gathered at the door, Lorraine ushering them away as Veronica held fast, murmuring soothing words and promises.  Their eyes bored holes in her armour, fresh chinks for fingers to poke, knives to jam through.  They all knew now.  They knew just how crazy she was.

Fear me
.

"Sweetheart, come to my room, okay?  Sleepover time."  Veronica leaned back, brushing the damp hair from Autumn’s face.  "I’m here.  We’ll go downstairs and I’ll come back for your things."

"We should probably call the nurse," Lorraine said hesitantly.

"No, no need.  I’ve got this," Veronica insisted.  "Just clear the goddamn gossip mill out of the hall?"

Lorraine stepped into the hall, shouting at various students to move, clear the way. 
Crazy is contagious
, Autumn thought bitterly. 
Come watch the freak show but careful, she bites!
  With Veronica’s aid, she rose to her feet and made her way cautiously to the hallway.  As Veronica moved to shut her door, she caught a glimpse of her laptop and staggered.

It was on now, as if nothing had happened.

"Come on, Autumn," Veronica gently urged, an arm around her shoulder.

What is real
? 

Autumn didn’t know anymore.

THIRTY

Oakville; January 9th, 2012

No matter how engaging Professor Kearney could be during a lecture, it wasn’t enough to stave off the yawns and slumped-head-on-desk routine.  Autumn felt guilty, but if coffee couldn’t save her anymore, she accepted defeat.  Veronica took diligent notes, glancing sideways every minute or two in motherly fashion.  Autumn forced a smile halfway through class, hoping it would satisfy her, but Veronica knew better.

Her hysterical fit had been broadcast across campus, her classmates side-eyeing her as she entered the room with Veronica.  Whispers were louder than most believed, and every single accusation of insanity and schizophrenia reached her ears, further rattling her tentative hold on reality.  Hallucinations: that was what last night’s events were.  Ativan overdose.  Autumn had stopped taking the pills, and while the return of heartache was unbearable, seeing dead girls bleed from their orifices seemed the worse fate.

"Hey," Veronica gently called out.  "Politics."

Crap. 
One of her two classes today with Andrew.  Maybe hallucinations were preferable.

"Coming," she mumbled, shutting her unused notebook and stuffing it back inside her bag.

More babysitting from friends.  Veronica escorted her to her class, ordering Autumn to wait for her before heading to lunch.  She was too tired to argue.  Her hair lay limp, unwashed but brushed, courtesy of Veronica’s ministrations.  Her uniform needed pressing, but she didn’t care anymore.  She’d worn the kilt intentionally, in spite of the below freezing temperatures.  The cold was all that could pull her from the caverns of her mind.

Gretchen smiled warmly as she entered, and Autumn wondered if Lorraine had sent out some sort of notice of her fit, or if she simply looked
that
terrible.  She slumped into the seat in the rear of the room, staring out the window at the icy landscape.  A group of children tossed snowballs as they lingered outside the primary grade classrooms, laughing without care. 

She understood now why Peter Pan and the Lost Boys never wanted to grow up:  it ruined innocence and joy.

Her thoughts turned to Andrew, and she scanned the room, finding him near the front in his customary seat.  He was unnaturally still, unconcerned with the chatter around them.  What did
he
think of the latest gossip, she wondered.  Surely someone had asked him why his girlfriend lost her shit. 

If he cared, he would be over here, checking on me
, she thought sadly.  She’d apparently succeeded in her mission:  she’d driven him away.  At least he would be safe now.

One hundred and twenty minutes passed in fragmented lecture and avoided stares, the barren trees outside her focal point when she couldn’t feign taking notes any longer.  From time to time she glanced at Andrew, his uniform equally disheveled this morning.  He remained silent during discussions, prompting a few concerned looks from Gretchen that went, as best she could tell, ignored.  When he bolted from the room at the end of class without so much as backward glance, her heart ran after him, leaving her hollow.

"Hey doll, let’s go eat!" Veronica called from the doorway.

"Not hungry," she complained.

"Not an option," Veronica countered. 

"Whatever."

With a shove of her desk, she rose angrily, trailing Veronica like a pathetic puppy to the dining hall.  Why eat?  Why attend classes?  She’d probably hallucinate a whole new lecture and fail.  In her mind she began to construct a fictitious History of Canada, complete with alien invasion in 1969, amusing herself with the notion of a Cat-Person race demanding cheeseburgers.  Why go halfway?  Go stark raving bonkers or go home.