Sad Girl (Hollow Apparition #1)

Prologue Glass Houses

Prologue:

Glass Houses

I shouldn’t be doing this.

Running is bad, it’s bad, they’ve told me so many times it’s bad, but I can’t stop doing it.

They hurt me when I stay.

They don’t mean it, but they do. They hurt me and the only way to make it stop is to run.

So I run.

It’s too cold, too rainy, but it really hurt this time. I’m scared to go home. I just need somewhere to warm up a little and then I’ll go back.

I have to go back.

My eyes blur from tears as I see a treehouse up ahead. It looks old, like the one I used to have before Daddy accidently set the fire. I remember being safe there, being warm, so I run toward it.

I just need a few minutes.

Pain spikes up my side as I climb the ladder, nearly slipping twice on the wet stairs, but I make it. I’m safe now, I think, until I look around and see I’m not alone at all.

A boy around my age is staring at me with wide orange eyes and messy dark hair, and I think maybe he isn’t real. Boys don’t have orange eyes. Do they?

“Are you a ghost?” I ask, not daring to move an inch. “How did you die?”

He frowns, but there’s a hint of amusement in his expression. “You killed me, remember? You stabbed me in the jugular with that ugly pen.” He lurches forward. “Boo!”

Without thinking, I smack him. Not hard, I don’t think, but enough to make him back up a bit. “My monsters are bigger than you, and I don’t own any pens.”

“Ouch!” He presses his hand against his cheek and moves away from the entrance.

“Who doesn’t own pens?” I see a pile of them next to some wrecked notebooks, but he glances at the other side of his treehouse like he’s inviting me in, so I ignore his question and move deeper inside. “What kind of monsters?”

I don’t want to tell him. Telling is the only thing worse than running, and I’ve already done that.

Fidgeting, I lean a little to the left so my ribs don’t hurt quite as much and look around.

Other than the art supplies, there isn’t much up here, just a couple of granola bars in a ripped box that make my stomach growl. ”Do you have any water?”

He looks around and then hands me a Dr. Pepper he’s already drank half of. “I can go get you water from inside if you prefer it. Are you crying?”

He drops his gaze and squirms slightly like he’s never seen anyone cry before, and suddenly I know he’s not dead. Boys don’t have orange eyes, but this one does.

I bet he goes to a good school, too. He sounds smart.

Smarter than me, anyway. “This is fine.” Taking a sip, the fizziness makes my nose burn and my mouth feel funny, but it’s good.

A little painful, but tasty. Like someone bottled what it feels like to be alive.

“I’m not crying anymore. It doesn’t hurt that bad. ”

“What hurts?” He looks over my body curiously and tosses me a granola bar, staring at me like I’m the most interesting thing he’s ever seen.

Like I’m the one who looks like Halloween.

“It’s nothing, I’m fine,” I lie, but the way I tear into that granola bar says otherwise. Even I see that. “My parents don’t like me very much.”

“Do any of our parents actually like us?” he asks, leaning back with a sigh. I’m sure other people have shit parents like I do, but I’m positive mine are worse. “Do yours love God more than you, too?”

My nose scrunches. “Who?”

His head tilts, amusement returning to his face. “God? Jesus? Church?” Each word sounds more disbelieving than the last when I don’t react to any of them. “You’re funny.”

“I’m not laughing. My mom says church is where the hypocrites go, but that’s all I know.” Eyeing the last granola bar, I squirm a little. “Is God a... hypocrite or something?”

“Yes. They all are,” he admits, following my gaze before he tosses me the other one. “If you say you accept him into your heart you can basically be as shitty as you want to be, and all you have to do is ask for forgiveness. It’s stupid.”

I don’t answer, not until the granola bar is gone and I steal the rest of his Dr. Pepper. “Some people are crappy without all that. But... I’m sorry your parents are like that.”

“It’s whatever. The people who lived here before us left this, so I never have to be around them unless the sun is down or they’re forcing me to church. Why are you so hungry? Do they feed you?”

Telling is bad. Telling is worse than running.

But he doesn’t even know my name, so am I really telling?

“Not usually. Sometimes if they order pizza, they pass out before they eat it all. And there’s food in the house sometimes but I’m not allowed to use the stove because I’m only ten and I’m scared to eat it without cooking it because I get sick sometimes. ”

“That sucks.” He looks around him before reaching into his pocket and pulling out a Snickers bar. “Want this?”

My eyes widen. “Chocolate? Really?”

“So weird,” he says with a chuckle, then hands it over. “Why did you think I was dead?”

“Because you have orange eyes. I figured only ghosts have orange eyes.”

“They’re not orange,” he argues. “Or I guess — is that why people look at me strange? They think I’m a ghost?”

”They look at you funny because you look like Halloween.” Shifting onto my knees, I scoot forward so I can push his messy hair out of his eyes. “Hair is dark like night, eyes are orange. Orange and black are Halloween colors.”

His gaze locks with mine. “I like Halloween, so I guess that isn’t so bad. Are yours gray?”

He leans in closer to see better, but immediately leans away when he realizes how close we just were, a blush coloring his cheeks.

Boys are weird.

“I don’t know. Sometimes they’re blue, sometimes they don’t have any color at all.”

“I think that’s cool. Sometimes the world doesn’t deserve color.”

I don’t think it has any, but I don’t argue. I’ve taken enough. “It’s getting dark, I have to go home. But thank you for all of this. You’re a nice person and I don’t think people should look at you funny.”

He seems to just realize how far the sun has set and begins cleaning up. “If you come back tomorrow I can sneak out my lunch or something.”

As tempting as that is, I don’t want him to feel the way I do. “That’s... okay. I’ll figure something out.” Swinging over the edge of the door, I plant my feet as much as I can and add, “Please don’t tell anyone I was here. Bye,” before scurrying down.

If I don’t get home soon, I won’t be here by lunchtime tomorrow.

Bash (Age Twelve)

I hate it here.

I hate this house and the seven hundred crosses my parents have dangling from the walls, like each new one will clear their path to heaven.

They’re standing over me with their arms crossed, angry I got into another fight at school, but this boy deserved every punch I gave him.

They don’t care though. They don’t care that he pulled down a girl’s pants on the playground, all they care about is the fact that mom is stuck with me at home for the next couple days and they can’t pawn me off on the teachers. I hate them. But they hate me more.

Dad steps in closer and pushes his thumb onto my black eye, pressing hard until I whimper loud enough to satisfy him, and then he walks away muttering to his God like he’s actually listening.

“One more fight and you’ll have to change schools. Is that what you want?” Mom hisses, tugging my head back by my hair when I shrug like I don’t care.

I don’t. Why should I?

“I knew public school would rot your soul, Sebastian. No supper tonight. I don’t want to see your face until you’re ready to atone.”

That will be the day after never, but I shrug out of her grip and run outside to the only place that’s ever felt like home. The only place they stay away from, but my safe haven isn’t empty when I get there.

The sad girl is back, looking skinnier than the last time I saw her, but I don’t see any bruises this time. “You’re back.”

It’s been weeks since I saw her, and I was starting to believe it never actually happened. I guess it wasn’t a dream.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers quickly, wide eyes darting all over my face. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. Are you?”

I don’t tell her she looks hungry, I’m sure she already knows.

Her knees clack together as she holds them to her chest. “It’s loud at my house right now. Bad things happen if they see me there when it gets loud. What happened to your eye?”

“Well...” I look around the treehouse. “You can just come here when it’s loud there. No one has to know, and I got in a fight at school.”

“Oh. Did you win?”

No. “Of course I did,” I lie. It isn’t fully a lie, the teachers broke it up before I could knock him out, but I would have won if I had the chance. “I’ll be right back. Don’t go anywhere, okay?”

Her gaze drops to the ground. “I won’t. Not until dark.”

I watch her a second longer because she looks like she’s ready to run, but maybe that’s just how she always looks.

Dropping down, I sneak inside my house to grab her some food, somehow managing to dodge both of my parents as I stuff my pockets with snacks and cans of Dr. Pepper.

As I climb back up the ladder, the crinkling of wrappers warn her of my return before I see her confused expression. “Here. Eat something.”

I dump out my pockets and open up a soda for myself, passing her her own so she doesn’t drink all of mine again. Her face screws up a little like she doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry, but she takes a bag of Goldfish with a sniffle. ”Thanks... um... sorry, what’s your name?”

“Oh, I was going to ask you that. I keep calling you sad girl in my head, and I think that’s probably not... nice. I’m Bash. What’s yours?”

“My name is Alaina, but I guess sad girl works too.” She shoves a handful of Goldfish in her mouth and adds, “Bash is a cool name.”

“Thanks. I like it too, but I don’t really like Sebastian, because it makes me feel like I’m in trouble or something. Do you like music?”

I pull out an iPod I stole from school and offer her one of the earbuds, scooting closer so the cord isn’t stretched too far.