Chapter 50 Kit
Kit
Bill is getting choked out by a deranged Pennywise on screen, but I’m the one that feels like I can’t breathe. Brett snorts next to me when Richie starts listing off all Bill’s transgressions.
“Crackhead house,” he snorts, whispering. “Come on, Richie boy, fuck. Him. Up.” My best friend tosses another handful of popcorn in his mouth, oblivious to my panic.
I never should have agreed to come. I hate scary movies. But it’s the twins fifteenth birthday, and Brett sweet talked our parents into buying us tickets.
My skin feels like it’s too tight. Too itchy. My scalp tingles around my ears. The surround sound seems like it’s getting louder by the second.
Nothing feels real.
The screen blurs around the edges, and my eyes snap shut.
That’s somehow worse.
I nearly jump out of my skin when a warm arm wraps around my shoulders.
“You okay, kitten?” Bowen asks.
I don’t have enough energy to lie. I just sit completely still, trying to drag breaths into my burning lungs.
That arm pulls me closer, and I realize the armrest between our seats is pushed up. He drags me over closer to him with an arm wrapped around my neck until my face finds his warm neck.
“Do you want to leave?” he murmurs next to my ear. I can feel his voice vibrate through his throat. I press my clammy forehead against his neck and shake my head.
He ruffles my hair and takes a deep breath. “Breathe, Kit. I got you.”
My breath hitches. Maybe if I hold completely still, I can trick my body into believing I’m sleeping. Or dead. And it will give up and leave me alone for five damn minutes. What good is stewing in memories or unleashing pent up emotions on a dead guy?
I’ve been lying here for a while though. No such luck.
The truth?
Every step between us back on the porch that Bowen wouldn’t close, and I couldn’t? Each was a cut over my jagged scars, and now I’m here, gutted open with all my vital parts exposed.
I’m wrecked. Plain and simple.
There is no pushing it out of my mind. No run. No number of miles that could stitch me back together right now. I don’t even want to try.
I miss him.
God, how I miss him.
I slide off the bed like a wet noodle, groaning, when my phone vibrates on the hardwood. Not sure how it managed to find itself on the floor, but I snatch it up and press my back against the hard bed.
I half expect a text from my dad. He checked in on me earlier. Then Mom did, like she had him message me but even when he reported back that I was still alive and not floating face down in the lake, she still had to double check herself.
What I am not expecting when I drag the notification window down is to see:
Boe<3: I left food outside your door. Eat.
I cough, hitting my chest.
I read it again. Blink.
I swipe out of the window and open the message app.
The text is still there.
I suck in a breath and grip my phone with both hands.
The last text message in this thread was from me. One year, eleven months, and twenty-eight days ago.
I can’t think about that now though, because Bowen texted me.
My thumbs hover over the keyboard for a dozen frantic heart beats before they move.
Me: Is it poisoned?
My head feels like it's ballooning up with all the whooshing in my ears. I hover over the send button. My throat clicks with my dry swallow, and I touch the arrow with a barely there tap.
The phone slaps to my chest when three little dots start dancing on the bottom of the screen.
Oh my God?
As soon as it vibrates, I pull the phone back to read it.
Boe<3: like I’d tell?
Air wheezes out of my chest, and I scramble onto my knees, holding the phone closer to my face. I talked to the man today. I literally saw him naked! Why does a text feel so…intimate? I’m like a high schooler who just got a text from their crush.
Me: careful, Briggs. That was almost a joke.
Boe<3: was it though?
Me: its bleach, huh?
Boe<3: eat the food, Meyer.
Me: prickly
I wait for the dots longer this time. They start and stop twice before a message finally comes through.
Boe<3: I didn’t hear the door yet.
Snorting, I get to my feet and pad to the door. I open it slowly, half expecting the man himself to be standing on the other side. Plate in hand, eyebrow quirked. But the hallway is empty. Just a plate with toast and an omelet on it. I pick up the plate and close the door.
When I’m settled back on the bed, I pick up the phone.
Me: you already fed me eggs today.
Boe<3: I’m aware. Complaining?
Me: please. Remember when I hyper fixated on eggs for a solid week one summer? Brett was gagging over scrambled eggs. I think there were literal tears.
I regret hitting send as soon as my finger leaves the screen. I didn’t even realize the smile until it slips off my face. I set the phone face down and pick up the plate. The lack of vibrating isn’t lost on me as I slowly cut off pieces and eat.
Why do I keep insisting on bringing up old shit? He doesn’t want to be reminded. I think that’s clear. I’m somewhere between Kit and Meyer now.
I hear the door next to mine open and close. I can picture him in there. Slipping off his pants, his shirt. Climbing into the shower to rinse off the day. Totally unbothered about me hanging onto the silence of my phone.
I can’t tell you how many texts I typed out over the years.
Typed. Deleted. Typed. Deleted. I sneezed once and tapped the screen.
I nearly had a heart attack in the split second my eyes closed and I felt my skin hit the screen.
I would have expired had I accidentally sent the message.
I started typing them in my note app after that.
After twenty minutes, I can’t take it anymore.
I move to sit on the edge of the bed and grab my shoes, pulling them on without bothering to untie the laces.
I roll my eyes, biting on my bottom lip, but snatch my phone and shove it into my pocket before making my way out of the room.
I stop at the sink first, quickly washing my plate and fork, and setting them in the strainer.
Whole time my skin tingles on my back, like it’s on the lookout for tall, moody men walking into the room.
Ready and waiting to alert me to his presence.
No men, though. Just me and my silent phone.
The sun is mostly set when I step out on the porch. The dark, deep blue dominates over the last pinky, orange streaks of day. It’s cooler now, but warm enough that the water from earlier is mostly dried on the porch now as I make my way down the steps and walk over to the van.
A nice dose of embarrassment swoops into my stomach, swift and annoying, when I remember my reaction earlier. And the fact that I was so worked up, I forgot to even slide the door closed.
I climb inside, hit with the familiar scent of the van.
Like hot car and the vanilla air fresheners I’ve got hanging up in every corner.
I close the door behind me and fumble around with the switch that hangs by the door until the twinkle lights turn on.
I’m sure the batteries will need changed soon, but for now, they give off enough light for me to move into the back and slip my hand under the mattress.
The notebook is exactly where I shoved it earlier, and I pull it back out, smoothing my hand over the worn cover once it’s in my hands.
That's when I hear the crinkle.
At first, I think I’m kneeling on something. Even looking down to see. But there is nothing but ugly tan carpet under my knees.
Crinkle.
A thump of something hitting something solid.
It’s coming from inside the van.
And what does my dumbass do? Turn around and slide the door back open, you say?
No! No, I scramble on hands and knees to the bed, catapult myself on top of it, and plaster my back against the back door.
I picture looking up in the front seat to Pennywise the clown waving a bloody, severed arm at me.
Tendons and fleshy bits wiggling like worms in the air.
Manic smile painted red with more than just makeup.
Honestly? I don’t know if my reaction to the raccoon that stands up on the seat and looks back at me is much better.
I scream. Raccoon growls.
Raccoon lifts one of its little hands to its mouth and bites into a pale, frosted square that I would know anywhere.
“Oh, my God.” The raccoon stops its open-mouthed munching at my voice but quickly starts up again all the while watching me. I’ve never had a more intense staring contest in my life. Air is sawing out of me like I’ve just run three miles at full speed.
“How the fuck…” I breathe, wishing the door behind me would spontaneously crumble and give me a smooth exit. Unfortunately, the metal is unforgiving, solid and not at all willing to bust open no matter how hard I press back against it.
The raccoon moves onto the armrest between the seats up front, little furry gut resting on its legs as it sits, eating my snacks.
“That was my last strawberry Pop-Tart you little shit.” I slide my hand blindly over the door on my back, searching with trembling fingers.
“Who even eats them without peanut butter? A furry thief and a psycho.” I move over and inwardly cheer when I find the door handle.
I haven’t used the back door except for a few times.
With my bed in front of it, it was always easier to just use the side door.
I forgot how hard the damn thing was to open.
“Come on. Come one. Fiona, I thought we had something special. When have I ever asked for back door access, huh? Do. Me. A. Solid,” I murmur. I pull the handle, rocking back into the door, steadily getting more aggressive when the Pop-Tart is gone and the furry snack bandit is inching closer.
The door gives with a loud creak, swinging open quickly like I hadn’t had to beat the shit out of it. My back aches, but I have no time to think about it when I go falling out backwards. All the air is knocked out of me when my back hits the dirt drive.