Chapter 25
Because he looked at my story . . . so maybe.
But it’s not there.
In its place are two other text notifications.
Daphne: WHATEVER! Like you’re sad he’s gone??? PARTY TIME!!!! Xx
Great. Now we both look even more guilty of Kenny’s demise.
The second is a text from Es: Oh babe. I’m so sorry. LOVE YOU TOO!!! Call if you want to chat. xxxxxx
I think of us, standing in the fake snow, me hypnotising her so I could go and stalk Olivia. Then the Christmas present she gave me, still sitting in my bag. I’m an awful person.
I stand up. My limbs are heavy and my mouth tastes weird and bitter and I’m hungry, so hungry. I’m thinking about the blood in the tin in my fridge and how I want it NOW, and then . . . whoosh . . . I’m there.
Standing right in front of the fridge.
WHAT IS GOING ON?
I stand dead still and look around. How did I just do that? I can never do that. I’ve tried, many times.
And then . . . a memory. I swivel to look at the knitting needles, still lodged in the plaster where I threw them last night. Oh god.
Oscar’s blood.
Well, that explains the bitterness in my mouth.
I can hear his words in my head: It’ll give you some of my powers for a while—twenty-four hours, give or take . . .
I can’t be like this for twenty-four hours. I have to go to work.
So now, carefully, intentionally, slowly testing whether I can control my movements, I reach into the tin, pull out my blood and pour some into a mug. Then, equally carefully, I put it in the microwave and press ‘Start’.
So far, so good.
I just stand there like a statue, watching the mug spin, thinking: See, you’re fine, nothing odd is happening.
Beeeeeppp.
I open the microwave, reach for my mug and take a sip, then wait for the calm to hit. But I don’t know whether Oscar’s blood is messing me up, or if it’s something else—the calm I usually get from bagged blood isn’t there. I’m still jangly, a bit wired.
I sip again, but again, nothing. Shit.
I take my phone and mug over to the sofa by the window and open the blinds.
The sun is just setting outside, the sky settling into dusty mauve twilight and as I glance over at my bag, I can see the corner of Es’s present: little red and white Santas on green paper.
I pull it out, setting it down on the coffee table, then stare at it, wondering what it is.
It feels like an emblem of the boring, greyscale life I’ve always resented.
But now I’m not so sure. Not if what Oscar wants for me is the alternative.
Suddenly boring seems enormously appealing—at least I could predict what was coming next.
Because how the hell am I going to get through my shift tonight with his blood in my veins?
But if Daphne isn’t going into work, I’m not either . . . I call in sick.
Then I sit there, staring at the wall, Oscar’s blood pumping through me, my foot tapping on the floor.
And all I want is to be close to Jonathan right now.
For him to calm me down. So I pull up his Instagram profile and go to his posts to see his face.
But as I look down at the picture of us laughing in the movie theatre, I can almost feel the worn velvet of the seats beneath my fingertips, and every part of me aches, even my palms.
I can still remember the feeling—like we were invincible—as we left the cinema that night.
We were giggling and rushing out the doors and as we went to cross the street he reached for my hand.
His was so big and warm and as I took it, my stomach clenched and I got another flash. Black and white. Sped up. Silent.
We’re in a small church and I’m walking down the aisle, a small bunch of flowers in my hands, people are in the pews on either side of me.
My wedding dress is off the shoulder, and I’m wearing a small crown of flowers on my head, connected to a long tulle veil.
I’m smiling and my eyes are filled with clear, human tears, as I walk down the aisle, towards Jonathan and into my future . . .
What am I going to do if I never get him back? If I lose my soulmate, I also lose every link to my human-self. I want to know her. I want to get back to her.
I glance across at the image of him and Baxter at rock climbing from Wednesday last week, when everything was still good, and my insides pang.
But then: Hang on. It’s Wednesday.
My blood races as I pull up a browser and navigate to his rock climbing gym’s website and then their contact page and before I know it, I’m looking down through their holiday hours.
They’re open tonight.
Jonathan is probably there. During the five weeks we dated, he never missed a session. Said it ‘cleared his mind’.
Now all the pieces of a plan fall together in an instant.
Because what other powers might Oscar’s blood have given me?
Siphoning visions with greater control, perhaps?
And while I can’t go and grab onto Jonathan and get them that way, if he’s out of the house, I could go past and see if I could get any visions from things he owns.
It could be possible. It could also be batshit crazy, I know that, but rational argument doesn’t sound so enticing right now. I have to give it a shot.
And I have do it NOW.
Because I’ve only got around three hours—the time he spent at rock climbing every other time he went—before he gets home. I don’t plan on ingesting Oscar’s blood again anytime soon. It’s now or never. I can’t afford to hesitate.