Obscura Burning
Table of Contents
~ Acclaim for Suzanne van Rooyen ~
~ More YA Fiction from Etopia Press ~
~ Acclaim for Suzanne van Rooyen ~
For
Dragon’s Teeth
“Suzanne Van Rooyan has an epic imagination. You won't be disappointed, but you may be left wanting more.”
—A.B. Riddle of Underground Book Reviews
Obscura Burning
Suzanne van Rooyen
Copyright Warning
EBooks are not transferable. They cannot be sold, shared, or given away. The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is a crime punishable by law. No part of this book may be scanned, uploaded to or downloaded from file sharing sites, or distributed in any other way via the Internet or any other means, electronic or print, without the publisher’s permission. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000 (
http://www.fbi.gov/ipr/
).
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are fictitious or have been used fictitiously, and are not to be construed as real in any way. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales, or organizations is entirely coincidental.
Published By
Etopia Press
1643 Warwick Ave., #124
Warwick, RI 02889
Obscura Burning
Copyright © 2012 by Suzanne van Rooyen
ISBN: 978-1-937976-50-7
Edited by Rhiannon Morgan
Cover by Annie Melton
All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
First Etopia Press electronic publication: December 2012
~ Dedication ~
To Mark, with love always
~ Acknowledgements ~
There are a number of people without whom this book would not have been possible. Thank you to the band Explosions in the Sky for composing the music, which brought to mind a boy walking through the desert, peering at an unforgiving sun. It was from this image that Kyle Wolfe was born. Thank you to all the fantastic members of Scribophile.com for helping me with my research about New Mexico, for providing personal anecdotes about life in this dusty corner of the world and for sending me photographs of the State. Michelle Krys deserves a special mention for not only helping me polish my query but also for giving me the confidence to submit that query. I owe a huge amount of thanks to Annie Melton, Rhiannon Morgan and all the others at Etopia Press who loved and believed in my story. Thank you to my family for their unfailing support and to my mom for her willingness to read draft after draft of this manuscript. And finally, thank you to Mark for being my beta reader, critic, technical advisor and number one fan. Without his love, support and encouragement, I wouldn't be where I am today as an author.
Chapter One
Danny’s dead
Sometimes I think dying would be easier than having to live two lives. Every time I close my eyes, I pray I won’t wake up. But whoever’s up there clearly doesn’t give a crap. Sometimes I think that maybe I’m already dead.
I must’ve dozed off and for a moment, I’m in limbo, floating between two possible realities. The next instant, it all comes crashing down around me, and I have to deal with Danny’s death all over again. It’s like being on a roller coaster except I’m the only one riding it and there’s no getting off.
One day Danny’s dead, then reality shifts, and instead we’re mourning Shira. And what do I get out of this life-jumping deal? Cold sweats and nosebleeds, and the joy of trying to juggle two dead friends. I’d do anything to make it stop.
Today it’s Shira’s turn to live.
We’re in Shira’s bed, tucked into the back corner of her mother’s trailer. Fairy lights dangle from the ceiling, a spiderweb attempt at making the room less depressing. It smells of Shira’s grapefruit body cream and patchouli incense. It smells like sex.
“We need to talk,” Shira says.
The sheet clings to my sweaty chest and dust swirls in the sun rays stabbing through the broken blinds. Shira’s always talking, like she can talk away any problem. As if talking can undo the past.
“About what?” I sit up, wrapping the sheet around my waist, already searching for underwear and socks. Beyond the dirty window, the sun’s just starting to slip beyond the horizon, turning the sky the color of spilled blood. Mom’ll expect me home for dinner soon. There’s an excuse for not wanting to stick around and chat.
“Kyle, you know we need to talk about this. About us.” Her cheeks are stained from tears shed hours earlier. Her brown bob is a crow’s nest on her head. She’s examining her chipped nail polish, not meeting my gaze.
“You don’t really want to talk about Danny and how you’re sleeping with his boyfriend, do you?” My words are bullets that shut her up. We both loved Danny, the three of us inseparable. Only difference now is that Shira’s lost him and in that other reality, I still get to love him.
Shira looks up, her eyes intense and tragic as her bottom lip begins to tremble. It’s not fair putting it all on her. I kissed her, made the first move, but she never said no. We’re both guilty.
She hiccups and her tears start again. Guilt hardens in my gut, turns to stone as I try not to feel anything, try not to love her, try not to hate her for being alive.
When I’m with her, sometimes I can imagine she’s Danny, forget all the other crap and just let skin rub against skin. When her hands are knotted in my hair, her lips are on my throat…the fire and Danny’s death just feel like a bad dream. A reality jump later, I’ll wake up and it’ll be Shira who’s gone, her ashes scattered in the dust on the reservation.
“I should go.” I pull my T-shirt over the scars. They’re still glossy pink, puckering the flesh across my ribs and chest, across my collarbone and shoulders, rippling up my neck, splashing up my jaw and cheek. I’m a total freak show.
If the scars bother her, she doesn’t say. It’s just a pity fuck, her way of trying to make me feel better. Like anyone would choose to sleep with me looking like this. I’ll take the sex, regardless of how it’s given, over “It’s not your fault”
speeches any day.
“I’ll call you later,” I add, doing up my fly before pushing my feet into sneakers.
“We still need to talk about our part in the memorial. Danny’s mom is waiting to finalize the program.” Shira looks so vulnerable, naked under the white sheets with raccoon eyes and black nails. The turquoise bracelet she always wears jangles softly with every movement.
“I said I’ll call you later.” I’m being an ass and Shira deserves better.
She’s so small for a girl of seventeen. As flat-chested as a twelve-year-old, with a pixie face. Tacked to the wall behind her, posters of horses are just visible beneath the screaming faces of Marilyn Manson and Slipknot. Dream catchers dangle feathers from her ceiling, the only evidence of her Native American heritage.
“Dream catchers aren’t even Navajo,” she told me once. “They’re Sioux, but the tourists love them.”
Dead roses and glittery strings of beads cling to the frame of her mirror, and stuck to a corner is the photograph of three smiling faces. The three of us at prom: Danny in his silver suit, me in blue, and Shira in black. Danny asked me to dance that night and I said no. Guess we’ll never have that dance, not in this reality or any other.
Outside, the evening brings some respite from the heat of the day. Even Shira’s cacti are struggling in the drought. Some slouch like old men with hollow bellies while others have lost their limbs to thirst, their broken arms lying withered and forlorn in the dust. It’s June. There should be roiling thunderstorms every day, but instead there’s just dust and sizzling heat.
A breeze ruffles my hair, and the stillness of the evening makes me think maybe things aren’t that bad until it’s shattered by the chorus of wind chimes hanging off Shira’s trailer. That’s her mom’s fault. She makes the damn things, sells them to tourists who stop in town for gas and Tex-Mex on their way out to Shiprock.
My stomach rumbles. The bowl of cornflakes at breakfast is just a wisp of memory, but I don’t want to go home yet. Don’t want to meet my mom’s sad smile and my dad’s hurt eyes. You’d swear they were the ones who got burned. I’m the one wearing the scars, but they’re the ones ashamed.
It’s a long walk from Shira’s at the edge of nowhere, up through the red rocks and crippled juniper, back to the dirt road that takes me into town. Coyote’s Luck, population 2,817.
A lizard joins me, soaking up the last of the sun’s rays at the top of an outcropping. From up here I can see all the way across the emptiness of New Mexico. Yucca and creosote bush, rock and dust. Shiprock rises like an angry fist from the earth, fingers of breccia clawing at the distant sky as the sun dips beyond the horizon.