Abomination
Secrets and lies—that is the Remnant way. To be free is to die. To die is to be immortalized as a terrorist or villain. Not a single Remnant dies a hero. Not one.
The trip is quick. Evidently, her favorite Italian restaurant is in the same neighborhood as Arthur’s, which makes my heart hurt even more. To be this close to something so important to her, yet so very far.
I glance at Percy, whose hands are loosely gripping her steering wheel. She looks at ease. At peace, even—like she hasn’t just broken my heart.
Which is insane, because I’ve never let onto my feelings. I’ve never been brave enough to cross that line. Even before the shadows had gotten louder, I couldn’t ever find the gall to risk what tentative relationship we’d built.
She’ll never know, now. Her friendship will just have to be enough.
“Arya?” Percy’s soft voice cuts through my rambling thoughts. She looks over at me with an expectant look, like she’s said my name a few times already.
“Sorry,” I say, shaking the metaphorical—and literal—demons from my mind. “What did you say?”
“I asked you how the rest of your evening went,” though her eyes return to the road, I can feel her looking at me in her periphery.
“Fine,” I lie, looking down at the hands that just held a knife to my throat.
After I’d derealized in the shower, it had taken everything in me to not just cancel on Percy. Maybe I should have, in hindsight.
“Just fine?” her eyes finally meet mine as we pull up to a parking lot in lower New Chicago.
“It’s been a fairly rough week for me,” I say, hoping the semi-truth is enough to get her off my back.
She doesn’t look away as she turns off the vehicle. The ringing in my ears doesn’t abate, though. And the shadow lurking behind Percy’s head reminds me to turn my attention back to the brightly lit shopfront.
“Why can’t you look at me?” she asks, voice soft—almost as soft as it had been with the man.
I look down at the sleek metal floor between my legs. The lurking dead leers back at me, daring me to spill my guts.
Stupid fucking dead.
“I can,” I say, glaring at the specter between my knees. “There’s just a spirit, or something, behind you.”
The scream Percy lets out as she turns to stare out her window might have been funny in any other circumstance.
“Where?” she asks breathlessly. “Jesus Christ, Arya, where?”
“Chill,” I say, giving her a weak grin as I finally face her. “You won’t be able to see them.”
I had only been able to hear them for the longest time. This last week, though, things had gotten worse.
Way worse.
“You—” Percy’s expression is a mask of confusion. “You can see spirits?”
“Used to just hear them,” I say, looking back at the restaurant, appetite still splattered against my kitchen sink. “Last few years I started hearing them in the shadows.”
Percy says nothing, taking full advantage of my show of vulnerability.
“The last few days?” I scoff. “I have to light up my entire apartment at night.”
I hear Percy take a sharp inhale, but I put up a hand to curb whatever insipid offer of condolence she might try.
“I don’t want your pity,” I sigh out, unbuckling. My hand finds the door handle. “You asked. I answered.”
“Why is it only now that I’m finding out about this?” her tone sounds closer to annoyed now. I quirk an eyebrow at her.
“You said it before.” I shrug. “I have my secrets. You have yours.”
I hear the bite in my tone and berate myself as I watch her face fall.
“I was going to tell you about him,” she says softly, her eyes not leaving mine. “We were busy, though. And you’re, clearly, going through something much more serious than my boyfriend.”
Knife meet heart.
“I heard you through the door,” I say, giving her what I hope is a sly grin. “I’m happy for you.”
Apparently, whatever guilt she had in hiding the relationship from me keeps her from noticing the baldfaced lie.
“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you." She bites on her lower lip, and my damned libido does a twirl.
“It’s okay,” I nod, pushing the door open. “How long have you two been together? What’s his name?”
“Almost a year, and Anthony,” she says, hitting the sidewalk the same time I do.
I don’t manage to hide the sharp intake of breath. Or the way my eyes shut tightly, warding off whatever rush of emotion is demanding I cry at this moment. Is it anger? Embarrassment? Shame?
Something of the three mixed to create the utter disbelief that I’ve been pining over a straight woman for years.
And goddamnit, I swear the nearest voice titters in laughter at my predicament.
I turn back to Percy and give her as genuine of a grin as I can.
“That’s sweet.” I nod at the door to the restaurant. The smell of pasta sauce alone is dredging up what bile I have left. “Shall we?”
“Are we okay?” she asks, pulling the door open for me. The gesture hurts, somehow.
I need to get over myself. I need to move on. To pull the dagger out of my heart. Percy had no idea. She likely never even considered I was into her.
She might not even know I’m a lesbian.
No, that’s dumb. She definitely knows. I’ve made comments before, and she’s a damned good detective.
“Of course,” I grin down at her and step into the restaurant.
The place itself is quaint. Tables are scattered almost haphazardly around the room with two to four seats each.
It’s busier than I expected for a random Tuesday night.
The kitchen is open to the main dining area via the serving window.
Wait staff rush from table to table, their attention solely on their customers.
The hostess looks up from her podium and smiles warmly at us.
“Two?” she asks, nodding to Percy and I.
“Yes,” Percy says, taking the lead. I step back behind her, well aware that the patrons who look up are staring at me.
Even Percy’s six-foot, well-built frame looks normal comparatively.
And here I am, just lurking like the fucking grim reaper.
The hostess directs us to a table near the corner of the room. I take the chair facing outward, away from the dancing shadows cast by the moody lighting. Percy frowns for a moment before taking her seat, too.
“Are we celebrating anything special, ladies?” the waitress asks, her perky voice somewhat off-putting, but welcomed, nonetheless.
“No,” Percy says, giving her a smile. “We’ll take the drink menu, though.”
The waitress gives a fairly fake smile and drops the menus at the table before drifting off to another group.
I take the laminated menu, shooting a look at Percy.
“They’re old school,” she says, shrugging. “I like it.”
“You weren’t alive for ’old school,’” I scoff, feeling a little better with the banter.
“Neither were you,” she retorts, eyes returning to her menu.
The hint of shadow cast by Percy’s head peaks around her, as if it had been hiding just behind her. Its face is grotesque and hardly recognizable.
“What looks good?” she asks, not looking up.
A bullet to the brain. Though I don’t even think that would kill me.
Dark thought. That was a dark thought.
“I think the scallops sound good,” I say, trying my best to block out the grinning spirit.
God, are they even spirits? Or is my fragmenting mind just using this as its medium?
“Great,” she says. “Anthony likes the red here, too.”
I almost laugh at the way she shifts back to safer topics. I don’t blame her.
Who would want to discuss the fact that I’m seeing ghosts?
And the dinner passes just like that: superficially.
To Anthony’s credit, the red is good. And the scallops are good, too. With the three sips and four bites I’ve had, at least. Percy makes no comment about my lack of appetite, for which I’m grateful.
At no point during dinner does Percy bring up my admission in the car. In fact, she holds the entire conversation on her broad shoulders.
“Are you ready?” she asks after what feels like hours of polite head nodding and smiling.
I blink a few times before nodding numbly.
“Will we need a to-go box?” the waitress asks from beside me. This time, I do startle slightly.
When did she get here?
“Would Anthony want these?” I ask Percy, hating the taste of his name on my tongue.
“No,” she says with a small smile. “He’s allergic.”
Fucking loser.
Stop it, Arya. Bad.
The waitress nods and places the dPad on the table, the bill insanely high for such a small amount of food.
I notice the half-eaten dessert plate beside Percy’s own.
When did she order desert?
We’re outside in the brisk October air before my mind can catch up with the movement.
“What’s your fucking issue?” Percy asks, her stunningly harsh tone cutting through the haze of my mind.
“Excuse me?” I ask, turning to her.
Her eyes are lit with a fire I’ve not seen since, well, this morning. Except I suspect this is actually aimed at me, rather than my alter ego.
“You’ve checked out. I’m not pissed that you’re in a bad place, don’t get me wrong. I’m pissed that you’ve suddenly decided to shut me out. It’s been almost a decade, Arya.”
“I told you,” I say, somewhat numbly. “I’m dealing with a lot.”
“Then why wouldn’t you tell me?” she asks, her voice finally softening. And goddamnit I can’t help the way I want to spill everything.
“Look,” I raise my hands in supplication. “I’ll get a ride home. I overheard the plans you have with Anthony. We both need to cool off. Thank you for dinner, seriously.”
I turn on my heel, heading in the general direction of my apartment.
“The fuck you are,” Percy’s quick footsteps behind me are the only warning before she grips at my elbow, turning me to face her again.
“There’s three spirits behind you,” I say, nodding towards where the three disfigured corpses stand just over Percy’s shoulder. “Either those are the real deal or my mind is gone.”
Percy almost looks behind her, but catches herself.
“You know what I discovered today?” I ask, feeling myself ramping up to a full-on crash out.
“W—” she doesn’t even get the word out before I push on.
“That the NCPD is instructed to Contain me should the stressors of my powers become too much,” I say, mocking their corporate speak.
I gesture at the figures behind her.
“That looks like too fucking much to me,” my voice cracks with anger, frustration, and unbelievable heartache. “So, you want to know why I don’t tell you these things?”
Her worried expression might have stopped me in the past—but not now.
“Because I’m fucking worried my token might get spent, Percy,” spittle flies as I hiss out her name. “When do I outlive my usefulness?”
Before she can respond, something hits me like a fucking truck.