Chapter Four Aria

Chapter Four

Aria

I awoke to the sound of my alarm blaring in my room. It was always disorienting, being yanked from one reality to another, but mornings like these were so much easier. When we’d fought through the night and the Kruen we’d encountered had not prevailed.

It was strange that I found rest during those hours. That when I awoke, I was renewed.

Pushing up on the side of my bed, I lifted my arms high and stretched, wincing at the zinging ache that still lancinated across my back. I was just thankful it was so much better than it had been yesterday.

Flicking on my bedside lamp, I pushed to standing and moved to the dressing-table mirror. I pulled the sweatshirt I’d worn to sleep in over my head, dropped it to the floor, and angled around so I could look at the bandage I’d made.

Blood saturated the material, and I knew it would probably be leaking for at least three more days.

I had no other choice but to change it.

I started to work it free, trying not to cry out at the awful sting peeling back the duct tape elicited. Using it was probably dumb, but I didn’t have a lot of options. I winced as I dragged it down, keeping my breaths even and counting silently to distract myself from the heavy-duty adhesive pulling at my flesh.

Once I had it off, I angled back around to inspect the wound in the mirror.

It was a gaping cut caused by the fiery tendril of a Kruen, the ragged edges blackened and singed and oozing in the middle.

Revulsion curled in my stomach. Could I really blame my parents for their reaction when they’d seen my first wound? Because the injuries we sustained were truly horrifying.

I wondered how long it would be until I was completely covered in them. Our wounds and scars weren’t visible in Tearsith—I supposed offered as a form of reprieve—but I could only imagine what Ellis and Josephine would look like if I saw them walking in the day.

Blowing out a sigh, I climbed onto my knees so I could dig under my bed to find the small box of medical supplies I kept there, the same as I’d done yesterday morning. They were hidden behind plastic organizers filled with the remnants of the hobbies I’d had through the years. Each was something my mother had tried to get me interested in with the hope to distract me from my imaginary friends.

I found the shoebox tucked behind a trumpet and a box full of yarn and needles from my stint in crocheting. Sitting on the floor, I pulled off the lid and found the nearly empty bottle of hydrogen peroxide, a small pair of medical scissors, the half roll of duct tape I’d snagged from my father’s supply in the garage, the scraps of a torn-up tee, and an empty container of medical tape.

God, what I would do for that right now.

Since I didn’t have any gauze left, either, I opened the bottle of peroxide and poured it directly down my back.

My flesh sizzled, the pain so sharp it punched the air from my lungs.

That time, there was no keeping back the curse, and I gritted my teeth as I quietly swore beneath my breath, “God. Shit. Ugh.”

I blinked through it, knowing the toxins were bubbling up like a witch’s cauldron, which would be kind of hysterical if any of this was funny at all.

I nearly jumped out of my scarred skin when there was a light tapping at my door.

“Aria?” Mom’s voice echoed through the wood.

“Hey, Mom. What’s up?” I pushed out around the agony. I just hoped she couldn’t hear the tremoring in my voice.

“I just wanted to go over something with you really quick.” She jangled the knob, slowing when she realized it was locked.

“Aria?” I could hear the worry that instantly infiltrated her voice.

Crap.

One of my rules was I wasn’t allowed to have my door locked. They wanted to be able to check on me at any time.

“I’m just getting dressed. Give me a quick second.”

Frantic, I looked around my room, taking stock, before I quickly jumped into action. I twisted the cap back onto the peroxide before I tossed all the supplies into the shoebox and covered it with the lid. I shoved everything under my bed the best I could, then jumped to my feet.

I grabbed the soiled bandage and crammed it into my backpack, which was sitting open next to my dressing table, before ripping open a drawer and pulling out a sweatshirt. I didn’t bother taking the time to put on a bra before dragging the top over my head, then ripped off my yoga pants and quickly pulled on a pair of jeans. I shoved my feet into my Chucks, then flew over to the door, unlocked it, and whipped it open.

I was sure I looked unhinged, standing there with a giant, feigned grin plastered to my face while my heart careened in my chest and bashed against my ribs.

The fear that would hold me hostage until I was able to leave this house thundered through my veins.

I hated it—hated hiding from her. Hated hiding from this woman who so clearly adored me.

She stood in the hallway, taking me in with concern and caution and care.

But what other choice did I have?

“Hey, Mom,” I peeped. “Did you want to talk about something?”

I widened the door in invitation.

She stepped in, and her mouth tweaked up in a smile. “I was thinking on Saturday we’d go ice-skating. We haven’t done that in so long. The whole family. Then we can go to dinner at Margot’s after? It used to be your favorite. Would you like that?”

Affection pulled through my spirit. “Yeah, that sounds great.”

I only tensed a little as she edged deeper into my room, her gaze caressing over the drawings I had pinned all over my walls. Charcoals I’d done of my sister and brothers. Others of her and my dad. Ones of myself. Of different places in Albany and others I’d only seen pictures of that I hoped to visit one day.

The ones I’d once drawn of Tearsith and Pax had long since been taken down and destroyed.

But drawing? It had been the one hobby that had stuck. The one that truly was therapeutic. A part of me that had come to life.

“You are so talented,” she murmured in awe.

“Thank you.”

She peeked at me from over her shoulder. “I’m not just saying that. I hope once you graduate, you chase this, Aria. I hope you find joy in it. A purpose. That you share it with the world, because it is truly special.”

My heart clutched, fisting in the hope that she had for me. I swallowed around the thickness in my throat. “I would like that.”

Her mouth tipped in a small smile, and she’d started to turn when she froze.

Tension bound the air, and a stone sank to the pit of my stomach when I realized what she’d seen. Her attention locked onto my backpack where the flap had dropped open since I hadn’t taken the time to zip it.

Frantic thoughts swirled. I searched for an excuse or a distraction. Anything to take back the stupid mistake I had made.

How could I have been so careless? But I’d thought it was covered, that I’d bought myself time to fully get it out of the house, where I would normally toss any evidence into a dumpster behind a restaurant on my way to school.

Her movements were wooden as she fumbled forward and slowly dipped her hand into my bag like she might be reaching for a bomb. She pulled out the fragment of white tee, which was stained a blackened, gruesome red.

She stared at it for a moment before she turned to me. A mess of tears already tracked down her cheeks. “Aria.”

Grief filled my name. So gutting it nearly dropped me to my knees.

“Mom, it’s not—” I rushed for her with the intention of ripping it from her hand. In those precious seconds, I tried to figure out what to say that could make this right.

Too bad I already knew there wasn’t a chance.

There was already too much history.

Too much fear and pain.

She grabbed me by my sweatshirt. I gasped when she jerked it up to expose my stomach.

“Mom, no.” My hands flew to the fabric, pushing it down, trying to protect the secret I couldn’t give her.

“Where is it, Aria?” She gulped through the question. Around the sob hitched in her throat.

“It’s not—”

Before I could stop her, she yanked down the collar of the sweatshirt. It exposed an inch of the wound where it started on my shoulder. “Aria. Please. No.”

It was me who was frozen when she moved around me, and she pushed the sweatshirt up my back to expose the rest.

A mournful whimper rolled from her mouth.

She’d thought I was recovered. That I was no longer hurting myself. That it was all in the past. But I would never be recovered , not as long as I breathed.

“After all this time? I thought ... I thought you were ...” She choked over the words she couldn’t fully get out.

I hadn’t been burned in two months, and she hadn’t discovered one in four. I should have known that my luck was running out.

Air skidded in and out of her lungs as she fought the war that suddenly broke out in her spirit.

One I could physically feel.

Her greatest fears flared to life, anguished and aggrieved in her love for me.

She finally snapped out of the shock and moved, the fixer who could not fix what was broken inside me. “Are you taking your medication?” she demanded.

“Yes—” I hadn’t gotten it out before she turned to my desk in search of it. She started to rummage around on top. I grabbed her arm, needing to stop her, wanting to plead with her to turn around and see me.

Didn’t she see it when she looked at me?

Didn’t she feel it the first time she’d held me after I was born?

Didn’t she know?

“Mom, please, it’s not—”

“Please don’t lie to me and tell me it’s nothing, Aria. I love you too much for that.” She ripped open the drawer on the left to find what she was looking for—the bottle of the generic antidepressant I took.

Frantic, she could barely get the lid off, her desperation clawing through her, body and soul. She finally managed it, and she dumped the pills onto the desktop. She counted them under her breath, swiping them one by one back into the container.

When she found the right number there, she whirled back around, begging, “What is wrong, Aria? Please tell me. Has someone hurt you? Bullied you? Your friends? A boy? What is it? Please God, just tell me. Let me help you.”

Her sorrow was stark.

Staggering.

Unbearable.

I wanted to wipe it away. Hold her. Protect her the way she wanted to protect me. My chest ached, my ribs clamping around my heart, which throbbed with dread.

“Mom, please, don’t do this. I didn’t—” On instinct, the defense fell from my tongue. One I knew better than to give.

Because it only doubled my mother’s agony and amplified her fear.

“What did you say?” Tears poured from her eyes.

My throat locked, and I curled my arms over my chest like it could protect us both from this.

“What did you say? That you didn’t do it?” This time, she grabbed me by the arms and shook me. “Was he there?” she demanded.

I couldn’t swallow. Couldn’t breathe.

“Was he there?” Her words escalated to a shout.

My eyes squeezed closed as visions of Pax raced through my mind.

The beautiful boy who would never be mine the way I wanted him to be.

My love.

My heart.

My soul.

“Tell me,” she pleaded. “Was he there?”

“Mom,” I croaked around the disordered riot that crashed through my room.

Heartbreak twisted through her expression. I could feel it. Feel it like a wound. Her hope dwindling into hopelessness. Succumbing to the belief that her daughter was insane.

This was the mother of a little girl who at four couldn’t wait to go to sleep because there she would see her best friend.

Pax.

At that time, she would sit at the edge of my bed, pull my covers to my chin, and smile in soft encouragement as I told her the fantastical stories about a little boy who was four years older than me. A boy I would play with beyond the boundaries of this world.

She’d listen as I described us running through a secret paradise. Fields of flowers and high grasses, soaring trees with branches low enough to climb, dipping our toes into the stream that wove through the meadow where we’d meet.

How perfect it was there in Tearsith, a haven without pain or shame.

At seven, she’d sat at the edge of that same bed and told me I was getting too old for imaginary friends.

At ten, she’d begged me to stop, gripping my hand as she whispered that I was scaring her.

At sixteen, when I’d left the safety of Tearsith and descended to fight in Faydor, when the wounds had begun to show, I’d been forbidden to ever speak Pax’s name again.

A name I was never supposed to speak anyway, but I’d never been able to keep the truth of that place contained. It’d always felt as if it was going to burst out from within me.

Her nails sank into my flesh. “Tell me!”

Pain lanced through me, this gutting, shattering hurt that blistered through every nerve.

I gulped back the tears that stung my throat and eyes.

I had to leave.

Run.

I couldn’t go through it again—the doctors and the prescriptions. The psych commitments and the interrogations.

They would never believe. They would never see. They would never understand. I would only continue to hurt them, just like they unknowingly hurt me, and I couldn’t stay under their scrutiny any longer.

“I love you, Mom.” I choked it out around the torment that roiled through my insides, and I prayed she understood how deeply I meant it.

At my tone, confusion puckered her forehead, and before she could say anything else, I untangled myself from her hold and grabbed my backpack and jacket from the floor. I flew to the door with every intention to run, only I paused for a beat to look back, unable to just leave like that.

“I hate how much I’ve hurt you. I hate it. But if you know one thing, please know how much I truly do love you.”

“Natalie? What’s going on?” My father’s voice boomed from the other side of their bedroom door. No doubt, he’d heard her shouting.

Panic lit, and I whispered, “I’m sorry.”

Then I turned and ran down the hall and to the stairs. My mother’s words followed me, the same as her frantic footsteps. “Aria! Aria! Do not walk out that door! Aria, stop! We need to talk about this ... get you help.”

I raced downstairs, my heart speeding out of control, sorrow pounding through the middle of it.

Because I didn’t slow. I flew out the front door and into the frigid winter cold.