Chapter 17
Sable
Inever understood the movies where the ghosts living in haunted houses harassed anyone who came onto their property.
I get it now.
It’s fucking liberating. I’d terrorize the whole country if I could.
Not only does it change the cycle of monotony and boredom, but it lets off steam like nothing else. Because no goddamn wonder those spirits were pissed off. These living assholes can come and go as they please, and they’re messing up my house. My domain.
How dare they flaunt their fucking happiness in front of me?
I’m like a kid again, acting out and causing a fuss, only this time, there are no repercussions, and I’m not doing it for attention.
God help every living being under this roof.
I slap people’s drinks out of their hands and watch with utter satisfaction as the liquid splashes their faces and soaks their jackets.
I’m the high school bully causing havoc because I hate myself and my own life, and right now, when my throat is raw from screaming and my lungs feel fragile from sobbing, I want to be worse.
So much worse.
My parents were always monsters in their own right, while I was always stuck in a box. I guess my prison is bigger now, but I was just given fresh meat, and it’d be a sin not to sink my teeth in and tear.
I take out another asshole’s drink, and another, and a smile splits across my face, whether from exhilaration, joy, or because I’m freeing myself from my inhibitions.
The rage has always been a constant presence twined in my DNA, but for once, it’s not this beast bubbling inside me or a presence pushing to take over. We’re hand in hand without a leash.
The room is full of people nodding along to music, doing cones and lines and other things that would make every person in my bloodline turn in their graves.
When I was alive, I only saw parties like this on TV.
I didn’t have the friends to attend these things or the time to go even if I did.
Figures I only get to see it when I’m dead.
There’s a flicker of envy in there, and I grab hold of that bitterness until I taste it in the back of my throat like it’s my very own drug. Shoving people, stealing phones and jewelry and hiding them around the manor—I’m a ghastly menace on the warpath.
All the while, in a house full of people, only a single person sees me. I feel Lynx’s eyes following me as I move through the crowd. Something about knowing his attention is on me has me feeling a little bolder, braver, like there’s a safety net beneath me that probably isn’t really there.
He might have killed me, but he’s been acting like my guardian angel recently: looking out for me around Tony and Tidus, helping me bury my body, bringing me down from the edge of my meltdown.
I guess being given permission to completely let loose was something I didn’t realize I needed.
I can see Lynx out the corner of my eye, and not for the first time I wish I knew what he was thinking.
He looks like he loathes every single moment he spends staring at me; like he’d burn the manor down at any second, and yet, he doesn’t turn away.
The thin line between his brows has softened, and he keeps slowly moving into whichever part of the house I’m in.
It’s another first. Having attention on me that doesn’t feel all that malicious.
I pause in the foyer as another group of people pours through the open front door, and I have half a mind to slam it shut and lock everyone in, but my attention stalls on one of the girls.
We have the same hairstyle, but in different colors. Under the light, I’m sure the streak of color from the top of her scalp is bright pink contrasted against a frosty blonde. Where her hair is short, cropped at her jaw, mine is long enough to brush my belly button.
My chest twinges as I stare at her. Ever since I was a kid, Ella was obsessed with all things hair. She used me as a guinea pig to the point that no one has ever touched or colored my hair except her.
A year before she died, she saw a picture online of someone with raven-black hair and a shock of white bangs. So she bleached and toned my hair, and did it every month until she stopped waking up.
Caring for myself was never one of my priorities, and after she left, it wasn’t anywhere near my list of things to do—apart for one thing. Maintaining that white streak of hair.
Seeing the woman walk in the door looking like someone off Ella’s mood board, a voice at the back of my head tells me to be more than what I am. To shed the stripey sweater I died and buried myself in and be another version of myself—just for tonight.
To fit in yet be more.
When I wake up tomorrow, my parents will still be making me out to be a villain, and everything will still suck, but like I said, there’s fresh meat here, and I can get as bloody as I want.
My eyes drift shut as I concentrate on bending my surroundings to my whim.
It takes more effort than taking solid form to touch things, but it feels different at the same time, like focusing on tendrils of smoke drifting over skin, imagining the faint specks of ash and soot sticking in my pores.
Except it’s not cloying or uncomfortable.
Vibrations rattle down my spine, and my skin acts as if it’s heating with the effort of bringing my imagination to life.
I open my eyes to look down at myself and blow out a breath of relief. I haven’t made a change this extreme before. Before tonight, I’ve managed singular changes like turning the shirt beneath my sweater into a thermal or lining my jeans with fleece.
My fingers skate over the gauzy white dress that hugs my frame and splits down the middle of my thigh.
It feels as real and solid as touching my own flesh.
The cool night air kisses my chest and the dip between my breasts that’s uncovered by fabric.
The cold doesn’t sting as bad through the ripped tights that act as a flimsy layer of protection from the weather.
I drape the shawl made from the same textured fabric as the dress over my shoulders and debate whether to turn it into a jacket instead—I’m just as cold wearing one as I am without.
Looking down at myself, and then at the people milling and dancing about, I could almost feel… human. Confident.
When was the last time I got to feel pretty? Ella, Megan, and I would dress up to go out to dinner every once in a while, but those times were few and far between. I was always working, and when I wasn’t, I preferred to put the money toward Ella’s happiness than use it on myself.
And look how that worked out. She’s dead, and it’s my fault.
Where the fuck did I get the audacity to think that I deserve to feel confident? I can delude myself into thinking I feel pretty, but I know I’m not. That’s Ella. She was beautiful.
I glance back up at the girl with similar hair, who’s now made her way into the living room, nursing a bottle of wine, and even though I’m aware no one can see me, self-consciousness prickles my skin.
This was a mistake. I should’ve stuck with terrorizing people. Pretty is reserved for Ella and Mom.
God, I feel like such an idiot.
A sudden blast of fiery heat hits my side. I turn my head toward the source and lock onto the demon standing a mere three feet away. Only his eyes never meet mine—instead, they drag up my body, devouring every inch as if the thing he hates most in the world is the material covering my skin.
Or maybe it’s just me and the fairytale I’ve been living in, because when our gazes finally snare on each other, the heat in Lynx’s expression turns venomous and whatever hesitation I had over what I’m wearing vanishes, replaced by pure spite.
“What’s your problem?” I growl. Every time I think we might be getting somewhere, he does shit like this and I’m snapped back to reality.
He scowls like the answer is obvious. “You. You always seem to be part of my fucking problem.”
Over what? Changing my goddamn clothes? Harassing these humans? Whose idea was it to turn this manor into a bad horror movie? Christ, it’s not like I’m involving him in anything I’m doing.
“Then you’re welcome to keep your distance from me, instead of following me around like a lost dog.” I glare daggers into his skull.
“I don’t want to be cleaning up your mess.” He waves in the direction of the wall, which has a head-sized hole in the plaster.
Yeah, okay. That one is on me, but it’s not like he was trying to stop me.
This time, when Lynx looks me up and down, it’s with disgust. “What are you wearing?”
“Clothes. Why? How do I look?” I meant to lace my voice with sarcasm and say what does it look like? But my earlier self-consciousness is lingering, and I regret ever speaking to him.
“Like shit.”
My stomach falls, and for a moment, I tell myself that he’s right, and where did I get off thinking I could look anything other than terrible?
Then a switch goes off, and I stop caring. It’s been a long time since I worried about what people think of my appearance. That’s not going to change just because I’m dead.
I shrug, throw my shawl onto his shoulder, shimmy my dress down, and readjust my boobs so it sits just right even though no one else can see, and my dead being is reacting to the cold by pushing my nipples against the thin fabric.
Lynx has another thing coming if he believes I’m going to let him make me feel bad about myself.
The vein in his forehead pulses as I give him the finger then spin round to follow the humans into the living room. Frustration teeters down my spine when I walk straight through a human—and another practically shoulder checks me. I’m this close to a second breakdown.
Because I lied.
I do care.
I care that I’m dead and I’m the same inconsequential person as the girl who was stupid enough to come back here.