Dark Secrets (83 page)

“
So, how was
rehearsal?” Mike closed the DVD drive and grabbed the remote as I
shut his bedroom door.

“
Crowded.”
But
lonely.

“
I’m looking forward
to seeing you play.”

I bounced onto his
bed and propped my back against his pillows. “I wish
you
were doing a duet
with me.”

“
Well, maybe we’ll
have to sneak over to the school during lunch and use the piano one
day.” His face lit with a cheeky grin as he slumped down next to
me—right on top of the popcorn bowl, scattering it across the
sheets, like pebbles on tiles.

“
Ah, crap!” We both
cursed.

“
Here, I’ll get
that.” Mike knelt by the bed, took the bowl from me, and started
scraping the salty snack off the edge with his broad, square
palms.

He’d always had such
big hands. So strong and protective. Like somehow, if he was
holding me and the world was burning around me, I wouldn’t be
afraid.

“
Something wrong,
kid?” He looked up.

Forgetting his
question, I grabbed his hand and turned it over, placing my palm
against his, feeling the salt of popcorn all over the tips of his
fingers. My hands were thinner, more petite than his, the top of my
oval-shaped nail only just falling in line with the first fold of
his fingertips. “I missed your hands.”

He laced his fingers
through mine, then flipped our hands over and traced circles over
my knuckles, seeming distant, almost sad.

“
Are you okay,
Mike?”

He moved the popcorn
bowl to the nightstand and shuffled up to sit beside me. “You have
her hands, you know? Your mum’s.”

I tucked my arm under
my rib and snuggled against his chest. “I know.”

I had a lot of my
mother in me; her hair, her heart-shaped face. But I got my dad’s
eyes. Harry had her eyes. Harry had her smile—my smile. But they
were gone. The only thing left from that life now was Mike—and I
was so glad I at least had him.

It made me
wonder—about his hands—how they made me feel so safe, and his eyes,
how every thought behind them placed me first, and that smile, the
way it’d warm my heart, making me a part of his world every time he
gave it to me, without fail—if I went with him to Perth, would it
always be like this? Would we be happy, get married and have little
dark-haired babies with caramel-coloured eyes and strong hands? I
liked the idea—liked the idea of always feeling like this;
loved.

Mike looked down at
me, watching my eyes expectantly, like he was waiting for me to say
what he knew was in my heart. But, after a quiet moment, he pulled
me back to his chest and pressed play on the remote.

As the opening credits
rolled across the base of the screen, I closed my eyes and listened
to the hum of human normality. I loved it—loved Mike, and I wished
I could tell him that. Wished he knew. We’d laid like this so many
times as friends, but in his arms, tonight, I felt the
difference—felt his love, felt how real it was. And it drove a
strong urge within me to look up at him and say, “I’ll come with
you. Let’s go home to Perth.”

But I knew that when
the movie ended, and I crawled away from the warmth of his arms and
went back to my cold, empty room, I’d look beyond the eastern
hills, feeling the inexplicable gut wrench that made me want to
scream to the world below—tell them to find David, beg him to come
back and change me into a vampire.

My desires were at
odds with my heart, and the war raged inside me, unresolvable
still.

I could give my heart
to Mike tonight, but if David so much as passed me on the street,
ever again, I’d throw it away. I was sure of that. So, I said
nothing. Just closed my eyes and played it out as a fantasy
instead—imagining my life with him from this exact moment onward.
And I smiled.

“
Ara?” Mike swept his
hands through the front of my hair, his low voice coming from above
my brow.

“
Mm,” I muttered
sleepily, keeping my eyes closed.

“
You still with me,
baby?”

“
Hm?”

“
Shh.” He kissed my
head and the volume on the TV decreased. “Just sleep.”

The smell of morning
and the crass sound of a crow somewhere outside brought my mind
back from sleep. I rolled up on my elbows and looked around the
room—my room.

Wait,
my
room?

Feeling as though I
was holding my breath, I clarified everything in my mind; my room
was dark, the curtains closed—obviously by Mike; unopened by David.
The house sounded quieter than usual. Even the gentle hum of cars
and the distant chatter of school kids outside was absent from the
day; it almost sounded like a Saturday, but without the
lawnmower.

Last night, while I
fell asleep in my best friend’s arms, a few things became so clear
to me that I was afraid clarity would be gone come morning. But the
feeling I had as sleep arrested me remained the same.

I jumped out of bed,
dashed my curtains across and looked to the eastern hills.
Somewhere over that rise, somewhere further than I cared to
imagine, my David went away. I could feel him; feel his soul aching
beyond the rising sun. He never told me where he lived, or even
which direction he ran to each night, but I could feel him over
there—somewhere.

Down below, nestled
into the long, yellow-tipped grass in the backyard, the oak tree
sat gloriously, staring back up at me. As many times as we’d
studied each other, I had also let my heart skip a beat, expecting
to see David beneath its leafy bows. But, for some reason, as I
watched the gentle motion of the rope swing, absently touching the
brittle bark for a second before floating along the wistful breeze,
I felt none of the surprise, the ache, that he wasn’t there. The
only thing present in my heart was that warm feeling I had in
Mike’s arms last night, which suddenly burned into a flaming
heat.

With a tight fist, I
rubbed my chest and grabbed the edge of my desk to remain upright.
Was it possible that Mike managed to crawl his way a little bit
deeper into my heart while I was sleeping? Could it be possible
that my brain finally understood the fact that David was gone—that
even tomorrow, when I looked for him on the stage where he should
be performing our duet, I wouldn’t see him? Did I finally get the
message?

I backed away from the
window, clutching my locket, and turned to face my dresser mirror,
studying the girl staring back at me. “He is gone, isn’t he?” she
said. Well, I think she did, anyway.

“
Yes.” And I knew he
wouldn’t return for anything. Not for the concert, not for all the
tears in the world, not if Skittles got stuck in the tree, and not
even if I threw myself from the window and splattered all over the
ground.

David Knight was
gone—for good.

But I didn't feel
anything. Nothing. I should’ve be crying or kicking things. The
admission of fact should’ve changed something in me.
Anything
. But it
didn’t.

The girl in the mirror
looked out at me; I looked away. That reflection told a different
story to the reality of the world behind me. My room was light and
airy, with the softness of summer morning all around, while her
world—the world beyond the glass—was a dark forest, backdrop to the
face of this lonely girl, trapped, staring out from beyond her
prison of secrets. Love was the key—my starry night, my David—but
he left.

I remembered back to
the day I first thought of him as the night, and how, in that same
thought, I smiled for Mike because he was always my blue sky; my
happiness.

In the mirror, the
contours of the girl’s face became shadowed as the sun rose around
her, light touching the darkest shadows of her illusory cage. The
iron bars behind her dissolved into white tree trunks, and the
leaves became visible as green star-shaped foliage for the first
time.

Blue sky. The night
was gone now, but there would always be the blue sky.

But was it
enough?

I looked away from her
again, seeing her hopeful smile dissolve before I turned my head.
The roar of thunder all around me became the obvious call of the
ogre; I clutched my hand across my belly and listened to his cries
for nourishment. The last thing I wanted was to go downstairs and
have breakfast with Mike. The feeling, the desire to hold onto him,
to make sure I never lost him like I did David, burned in me; I was
sure I’d tell him I love him and ruin everything when I changed my
mind again as the night descended.

I needed to think. I
needed to let it all sink in. I felt catatonic, empty, hollow.
Afraid, because the feeling in me—of not feeling anything—felt like
suddenly waking up deaf.

“
Run,” the girl in
the mirror said.

“
Run?” I looked back
at her.

She smiled and nodded.
“Run.”

A sneaky tempo guided
my steps as I passed the dining area where Vicki and Mike sat
laughing and drinking coffee. Then, without first eating, bolted
out the front door.

My shoes tapped the
pavement softly at first, but as I reached the end of the drive,
they picked up. I zipped my sweater around my neck—trapping my
locket inside. It wasn’t cold, but for some reason I felt exposed
and naked. Like I was being watched or followed. I think a part of
me knew that if Mike caught a glimpse of me running from the house
without him, he’d come after me. And I really didn’t want that. I
really needed to be by myself for a while.

There was a part of me
that kept trying to believe the reason David hadn’t come was
because he’d been held up at work or hadn’t realised how much time
had passed since we last spoke. But the part of me that knew David
also knew he wasn’t that absentminded.

Fact was, he wasn’t
here because he had no intention of coming back.

Feeling unbelievably
weak and tired, I beelined for a park bench and graced the seat
with my bottom. The leafy shade of the tree felt nice, almost
protective. I looked around the park at the children playing in the
distance—the moms and dads pushing their kids on the swings, and
even the big sisters running to their little brother’s aide when
they fell over or got sand in their mouths. It made me miss
Harry—miss being a big sister.

I flopped back on the
backrest with my chin tilted to the cool breeze and let my troubles
consume me. The only moisture left in me now was the salty, sticky
mask of sweat the wind was drying off my brow. I still loved the
way a breeze felt on my face, though; it took a month for my wounds
to heal enough that I’d let Dad take me in public—on a plane, over
to his home. My days were spent in a motel, in the dark—away from
civilisation. I never even let Mike see me. Dad tried to let him in
once, but I screamed and freaked out like I was going to tear
myself apart. I couldn’t let him see me like that. I felt so
ashamed—felt like a monster, and worse—looked like one.

By the time Dad
brought me here, there were only a few yellowing bruises left, and
I could bear the wind on my face—never to take it for granted
again. It brushed my hair over my cheek in a tickly touch, like a
thousand butterflies dancing on my skin, and in the simplicity of
the sunny day, surrounded by trees and grass, I could almost
imagine I had no problems. Even the song of the birds seemed to
have a tune to it, like I was in some twisted version of a Disney
film. I half expected the woodland animals to gather at my feet as
I broke into song.

For the first time in
weeks, I lowered my head and took a good look at my fingers. They
were my mum’s hands, but they were bony and looked weak now.
Heartache had taken the spirit from them, and though I wanted
nothing more than to find the nearest piano and expel the song I’d
had stuck in my head all morning, I wondered if I could truly
play—for the feel of it—from the heart, anymore.

I slumped back on the
bench again. I didn’t even know what was in my heart now. I used to
be sure it was Mike, then it knew nothing but David.

Now they seemed to
share a little piece each.

When my stomach
growled again, I checked the watch Sam gave me for my fifteenth
birthday—the sport watch he told me was to help time my runs so I’d
realise I wasn’t as fast as I thought—and smiled, unable to see the
time through a sudden rush of tears. He was a good little
brother—Sam. As much as I hated him sometimes, he was my brother.
And in my heart, I’d never really let myself believe that. But I
was still a big sister, and though no one would ever replace Harry,
I knew that if anything ever happened to Sam, he’d be just as
irreplaceable.

And that’s the thing
about love, really, isn’t it? That there is no replacing the ones
we love. I’d never replace David—not even with Mike.

Suddenly, the rise of
emotion I should’ve had this morning when I finally admitted David
wasn’t coming back, presented itself—screaming out from my heart in
the form of a song.

A vibrant, tingling
sensation warmed my fingertips; like static electricity before it
charges out on something metal.