Savage Drift

^{CHAPTER SIX} JOSIE

“Daddy! Daddy! Daaaaaaaddy!” Lori screams.

“Shut up.” I elbow her in the ribs.

She sits up, taking the whole blanket with her. Her breathing is jagged and full of sobbing to come, like a ripe thundercloud waiting to spill.

I slide off the bed and stalk into the bathroom.

Our two towels are dirty but I’d rather sleep on the floor with them than with broken-up Lori.

Under the bluish LED lighting, my skin is the color of gunmetal.

Back a million years ago, I used to be proud of the color of my skin. The glow, the depth and light in it. And smooth—never a blemish, never a scar.

Who is that girl in the mirror now?

Sunken cheeks, dark blackish circles under my eyes, and creases on either side of my mouth. Scar on my forehead from the ancient bus crash.

My hair is tied up in my knots, but it’s dirty, dirty, and if I don’t get a hold of some shampoo soon and a comb, it’ll just dread into two clumps.

I look like a zombie avatar of myself.

I think of Brayden, so handsome. That jaw of his and how I liked to push my face into his neck, and feel his stubble. It was a fling, and I know we were only together because we were trapped in a store, but still, it was thrilling to be with someone so ruggedly gorgeous.

I think about Niko, with his utter seriousness. Almost unable to be lighthearted, even for a moment. And who so believed he loved me.

I loved him, too. Maybe at times I felt smothered by his adoration. But I did love him, too, I did.

Maybe the only kind of love that can thrive now is a desperate, crushing love.

Anyway, it’s lost now.

Did he make it? Did the kids make it?

I do not allow myself to think about them.

I might as well throw myself off a cliff.

I open the medicine cabinet. There are two old Q-tips, stuck to the metal with yellow residue. A safety pin lying askew to its rusted shadow.

What was I hoping for? Nobody snuck in and put a pair of scissors there.

But if they had I would take off my knots.

Maybe I’d take off my face.

(See, O, O, O is rising and begging for release.)

Sometimes I ask God if I should kill myself.

I ask Him to send me a sign.

Am I asking Him to send me a sign as I stand there, staring into the empty glass?

I don’t remember, but Lori appears in the mirror. The ghost of Lori. Standing behind me and shivering, miserable in her stupid thin thermal.

“I’m sorry,” she says. “Please come back.”

“Can’t sleep without me?” I ask, as mean as I feel.

She shrugs. She runs her hands over her goose-bump arms.

“Do what you want. I’m just trying to be nice,” she says.

I know I’m hurting her with my callousness and indifference. Sometimes it feels good to hurt someone.

She shuffles back to our mattress and naked pillow and our charity blanket and grubby, coarse bottom sheet.

Rising in my throat is an apology and the tears to wash it out of me.

I’m sorry, Lori, that you have nightmares.

I’m sorry your daddy died getting you on that plane.

I’m sorry they locked up all the Os together—you don’t deserve to be here.

I’m sorry that I have nothing for you or the others.

I am sorry about the dead.

I am sorry I am the dead.

I swallow my apology and go back to bed.

My feet are like ice.

I don’t let them touch her.