Rage (15 page)

She didn't recognize the sender's number. Or maybe that was from the sudden blur of tears. Delete delete delete.

The next ten messages were more of the same. All from different numbers. All of them telling her to just kill herself already. She couldn't bear to read the others. Erica's was probably in there somewhere, but she couldn't wade through the hatred to find that one small breath of compassion.

That left the video messages. She didn't want to look.

She had to look.

Shaking, she saw the first video. She was on the bed in Kevin's room, startled by all of the voyeurs, stunned by Adam's betrayal. Her scars looked particularly livid on the small screen. Her mouth was working, but Missy couldn't hear herself over the sound of raucous laughter. She deleted that video, as well as the two others—no need to watch those. Then she dropped her phone to the floor, crawled to her garbage can, and vomited.

It wasn't as bad as she'd feared.

It was worse. Oh, God, it was so much worse.

She wiped her mouth and stared dully at her closet. On her door, Marilyn Monroe smiled, oblivious, eyes shut against the harshness of the world. James Dean simply looked away.

Inside the closet, her lockbox waited.

Inside the closet was her one true friend.

Inside the closet was the only way to make everything right. A whisper of steel, a moment of pain, and then everything would be right.

I don't need the blade. I don't need the blade. I don't.

She did.

Staring at her closet door, she picked up her cell phone. She dialed a number she'd thought she'd forgotten, because it had been months since Missy had been anything close to a real friend. Erica picked up on the second ring.

"I want to die," Missy said, her soul naked and raw.

"I'll be there in two minutes," Erica said.

***

"This is my favorite part," Erica said.

The girls watched as, onscreen, Lloyd Dobbler held up a huge portable radio—a boom box, according to Missy's parents—so that Diane Court could better hear the song playing. Diane tossed and turned in her bed as the singer passionately spoke of what he saw in her eyes. Cut to Lloyd, his own eyes full of hope,sp elled M-A-Y-B-E.

Hope was nothing more than a joke.

Erica sighed happily. "It's the most romantic thing I've ever seen, you know?"

Missy did. It was one of the reasons she loved this movie. There had been a time when she'd thought Adam had been her Lloyd, the boy who would strive to understand her and make her laugh and simply want to be with her, even with her imperfections. "It's fiction," Missy said. "Of course it's romantic."

She felt Erica's stare, but Missy didn't pull her gaze away from the television. Erica had come over, taken one look at Missy, and hugged her until Missy's ribs ached. She'd tried to get Missy to talk, but that was the last thing Missy wanted to do. Talking was pointless; Erica wouldn't understand, even if Missy had been able to wrap up all her feelings into words and could string them together into a coherent sentence. So Erica said, "Let's watch a movie." Missy pulled out
Say Anything;
Erica put a bag of popcorn in the microwave. Five minutes later, the girls were on the sofa in the family room, watching Lloyd and Diane slowly fall in love.

"Romance happens in real life," Erica said.

"Only the air-quotes kind of romance."

"That's not true. My parents are still stupidly in love," Erica insisted. "They look at each other when they think no one's watching and make googly eyes, and they kiss all the time, and they have these lame jokes that they always laugh at." She smiled a goofy, hopeful smile. "And if it happened for them, it can happen for me. For you too."

Missy thought that was a crock, but she said nothing.

They watched the rest of the movie, complete with its storybook ending: love triumphed over all. For now. Roll credits. Neither girl moved to take out the DVD.

"I miss this," Erica said. "You know, just hanging. Watching movies. Talking," she added, throwing in a look heavy with meaning.

Missy picked up one of the small pillows that were everywhere on the sofa, and she hugged it to her chest. "Talking about what?"

The other girl started to say something, then closed her mouth. She fumbled with the tassels on another pillow before she admitted, "I don't want you getting mad at me."

The words slapped Missy. This girl had been her best friend once upon a time, both of them princesses in the Land of Stuffed Animals and Barbie Dolls. When had Missy stopped hanging out with her? Well before Adam, before soccer. Middle school, she realized. Eighth grade: just as the balance between school and family and social life, always difficult, had suddenly become precarious. Had she walked away from Erica because of the ongoing pressure to not simply achieve but to excel—because of expectations, carefully wrapped in parental encouragement and delivered in pipe bomb packages of hormones? That was the time Missy had discovered her new best friend, her true love with kisses that left her bleeding and peaceful, if only for a little while. Missy had traded Erica for her razor, and she hadn't looked back.

Truth be told, she hadn't noticed. She had woken up one day with a secret written on her arms and no one to share it with.

"I won't get mad at you," Missy said thickly.

Erica said, "I knew before yesterday about, you know. You cutting. Some people just assume it because you're goth, but I saw, once, on your left wrist. Your sleeve had gotten bunched up, and there were all these lines, these raised pink lines, and I thought to myself,
Missy's cutting.
"

"I'm not goth," Missy said, but her words were lost in the sudden booming of her heartbeat. Erica knew. Erica had known. Erica hadn't said anything. That echoed in her head, keeping time to the pounding of her heart.

"Goth, emo. Whatever. I don't know what the difference is, anyway." Erica fumbled with her pillow. "What's it like? When you cut, I mean. What's it feel like?"

At first, Missy couldn't reply; she was swimming in the Red, her heart tattooing a beat with every stroke.

S
HE'LL BETRAY YOU,
War whispered.
T
HAT'S ALL PEOPLE DO.
T
HEY USE YOU AND BETRAY YOU.
T
HEY EAT YOUR TRUST AND SPIT OUT YOUR HEART.

Erica wouldn't.

And even if Erica would, Missy thought, what was there to hide? How could Erica hurt her any worse than she had already been hurt?

What if Erica was sincere? What if she wanted to help?

Missy hugged her pillow tightly. So many what-ifs. So many chances for hope, all ready to be dashed to bits upon the floor.

Missy took a deep breath, then let it out in a shaky exhale. "It hurts," she said. "If I do it right, and I go slow and shallow, it really hurts. Like getting stung by wasps, or pulling off a hangnail that's the size of your thumb, and all of it is happening in slow motion."

Something close to horror shone in Erica's eyes, even though the rest of her face was calm. "So you're into getting hurt?"

"No," Missy said. "It's not about enjoying pain. I'm not like, you know, a masochist or anything."

Erica frowned. "So why do you cut?"

She's trying,
Missy thought. Erica was trying to understand. Missy fumbled, searching for the right words. "When I cut, I'm the one controlling the pain. I know where it's coming from. I know that it's me who's doing it, me and no one else." God, she felt stupid. She wasn't explaining it right. She sounded like an idiot. "It's better than the other pain."

Freak,
Adam whispered, almost lovingly.

Erica asked, "What other pain?"

"The one in my chest," Missy said softly, but gripping the pillow tight tight tight. "The one that crushes everything else. The one that makes it impossible to breathe."

Erica picked up a tassel-covered pillow and held it and said nothing. Missy, numb with fear, watched the television screen, frozen on the movie menu. Erica was going to call her a freak. Erica was going to laugh at her, going to walk away and leave Missy alone with the Sword in her head and blood on her hands.

"Cutting is messed up," Erica finally said, plucking at the tassels on her pillow. "But I get why you do it. At home, I cry in my pillow. You cut yourself. I get it. I understand feeling like you're going to die." She paused. "But when I cry, I'm not hurting myself. I'm letting it out."

"Cutting lets it out."

"Yeah, but crying doesn't make you bleed." She turned to look at Missy. "You should talk to someone. You know, not just me. Someone to help you stop cutting."

Missy thought of a man who wasn't a man, heard his laughter, felt his cold touch dance over her skin. "You're right," she agreed. "Someone's trying to help me."

Erica blinked, then smiled, and the movement transformed her from a mousy girl into a beautiful young woman. It was the smile of an angel being thanked with a child's joyful laugh. "Good. You should let them."

"I'm trying."

"Good," Erica said again.

Missy understood that Erica thought Missy was talking about Erica herself. Missy had been a lousy friend lately, but she wasn't so far gone that she'd tell Erica the truth. Besides, especially with the goth and emo comments, Missy didn't think that Erica would understand if Missy admitted that she was crushing on Death. So she just smiled back and thought about the Pale Rider with his haunting eyes and winter-touched voice, and she suggested they watch another movie.

About two hours later, Erica headed back home, making Missy swear to call if she started feeling lousy.

"Don't cut," Erica said as she left.

"I won't," Missy promised, then shut the door behind her.

"Cut what?"

Missy jumped at the sound of her father's voice. He must have come in through the garage door. She turned to see him taking off his jacket and looking at her oddly.

I could tell him,
she thought wildly.
Tell him just like I told Erica. I could tell him, and maybe he and Mom would get it.

Or maybe they would send her away to a white room with padded walls.

"Junior skip day's Monday," she lied smoothly. "Most of the class is cutting. But I've got a pre-calc test, so I won't."

"To say nothing of how cutting classes is wrong," said her father.

"Very wrong," Missy agreed.

Her father laughed softly as he hung his jacket in the hall closet. "It hasn't been that long since I was in high school. I'd been known to cut here and there."

Missy thought of her razor and smiled ruefully. "I'm sure."

In her dream, Melissa Miller is inside a volcano, having tea with War. Missy doesn't care for tea, but it's what civilized people do, and so she pours hot water into War's porcelain cup and offers the sugar jar. War declines.

Sitting on a throne of molten rock, the Red Rider looms, a massive being in silver armor overlaying crimson mesh. The image of a blood-red sword adorns War's breastplate. Large gauntlets cover powerful hands; enormous boots encase feet and legs meant to kick down barricades. A silver helm covers War's head; the faceguard is elaborate and foreboding to gaze upon, and it completely obscures War's face. A fiery plume at the top of the helm flutters playfully, its feathers ruffling in the volcano's updraft.

Missy sits opposite War. She, too, is dressed for battle: her long-sleeved goalie shirt fits snugly, and her cleats sink into the volcanic rock. Holding the teacup is difficult with her soccer gloves, but she manages.

"H
AVE YOU DECIDED?"
War asks, lifting the tiny cup.

Missy mirrors the gesture. "No.
"

"I
T WILL GO BETTER FOR YOU IF YOU DO IT OF YOUR OWN ACCORD.
I
CAN BE PATIENT, AS EVEN
D
EATH WOULD ATTEST
. B
UT EVENTUALLY, PATIENCE WEARS THIN."
War's voice echoes in the volcano, and far below, the magma ripples.

"
You want me to embrace you," says Missy, frowning over her teacup. "I don't see how that would help me.
"

"I
CARE NOTHING FOR HELPING YOU
. T
HIS IS NOT ABOUT YOU AT ALL.
I
CARE ONLY TO RIDE.
"

"
I must make a thoughtful decision. Pestilence didn't think ahead," says Missy, "and look what happened.
"

"T
HIS ISN'T ABOUT THE
W
HITE
R
IDER
. A
ND YOU PUT TOO MUCH STOCK IN THE WORDS OF ANOTHER
H
ORSEMAN
. N
ONE OF THE OTHERS UNDERSTANDS WHAT IT MEANS TO BE IN THE THROES OF PASSION.
"
Within the helm, War's eyes glitter like rubies.
"Y
OU AND
I,
WE UNDERSTAND THE NEED FOR STEEL, THE URGE FOR BLOOD
. W
E SEEK OUR PLEASURE FROM PAIN
."

"
This is not civilized conversation. Drink your tea," says Missy. War sets down the cup. Liquid sloshes over the sides and evaporates in the heat of the volcano.
"T
HE TEA IS WEAK
."

(freak)

"Y
OU ARE WEAK
."

(freak)

"
You don't know me," Missy whispers, clutching her teacup tightly. "You know nothing of me.
"

"I
KNOW YOU ARE STRONG ENOUGH TO DRIVE PEOPLE TO THEIR KNEES
,"
says War,
"
AND YET YOU SWALLOW YOUR RAGE AND COUCH IT IN TERMS OF BOYFRIENDS AND SISTERS
. Y
OU DEFLECT WHEN YOU SHOULD STRIKE
. Y
OU ARE WEAK
."

(freak you're nothing but a freak)

Below them, the magma begins to rise.

War, too, rises, offering a gauntleted hand to Missy.
"Y
OU CAN BE SO MUCH MORE.
E
MBRACE ME, AND
I
WILL TAKE YOU TO PLACES YOU CANNOT BEGIN TO IMAGINE
."

"
I have not yet decided," Missy insists, watching the orange-red floor yawn its way closer. She feels oddly content. She is Death's Handmaiden; the notion of dying holds no fear to her.