Lost Boy

“Yeah. See ya.” I smile tightly.The air is frigid against my skin as I push out onto the darkened street. I should call Charlotte to come to get me, but I don’t want her making a fuss again.

The box tucked under my arm feels like a weight dragging me down into the shadows that creep along with me as I walk home. It’s crazy how the streets you’ve walked a thousand times can become a test in survival, every sound a threat. My heart roars in my ears.

Pushing through the entry doors of our building, I sigh in relief at the click locking them in place behind me. I take the stairs two at a time. The front door gives way without my key. “What have I said about locking the door?” I groan, kicking off my shoes.

Charlotte is sitting on the couch, looking across to the apartment building opposite and into the window of our neighbor. I dump the box on the small dining table made out of a chipped flea market find and two odd chairs brought from each of our childhood rooms.

“What’s that?” Charlotte queries, her head swiveling to the box.

“I don’t know.” I frown. “It was left for me tonight.” I drum my fingers on the box. This piques her interest. She moves across the room to where I’m standing, holding the envelope with my name scrawled across it.

“Open it,” she urges, snatching it from my hands and tearing into it, my focus is on the black box. I pull at the black ribbon, feeling my heart picking up speed.

“There’s nothing on the card,” Charlotte grumbles, handing it to me. I flip it over. It’s a blank piece of card. “What’s in the box?” She leans her head against my arm. Dropping the card down, I pry the lid off and stare down at a single black rose. “Wow. That’s kinda creepy.” She shivers, moving back to the couch.

Tears leak from my eyes as I look down into the hole they lowered my mom’s coffin into. My hand jerks forward, dropping the single black rose upon it.

Reaching into the box, I pick up the rose, then drop it with a hiss when a stabbing prick punctures the pad of my thumb. Blood blooms from the small hole, the crimson tear dripping to the table, staining the discarded card.

Blood, blood, blood. So much blood. Mama…

“I’m going to shower,” I murmur, sucking my thumb into my mouth.

“Who sent you that?” Charlottes calls out to my retreating form. Ignoring her, I grab my phone and type a message to my aunt. Thanks for the flower.

She probably thought she was doing something nice, but she only magnified old wounds.

The over bath shower grinds to life, creaking like branches of an old tree.

Hotter water splutters before raining down, washing the day down the drain. Nothing can clean me of my stained past, though. It just plays on repeat in my mind. My heart is as black as leaves on that rose.Collapsing onto my mattress, I don’t even bother with clothes. I lay there looking up at the white ceiling, begging for the night to take me into its embrace.

My cell phone beeps with a text message. My limbs feel heavy, eyes weighted, succumbing to sleep.

What flower?FiveGroaning from above wakes me from a troubled dream. It’s a man’s tone, gluttonous, pleasurable. My cheeks heat as I stare up at the ceiling. Who are you?

Pushing the covers away, I tiptoe to the vent and place my ear against it. I’m intruding, but I’m transfixed. An ache pools in my lower stomach. Pulsing between my thighs. Heavy panting clouds my head. Is that him or me? Everything is so clear, like I’m at his bedroom door being invited in. Is he alone up there, or is there a woman beneath him while he pushes into her body?

“Lizzy!” Charlotte shouts through my door, banging her fist on the wood panel, making me cuss. Guilty.

“Yeah! I’m coming!” I call back. Feet pound across the ceiling, drawing my eyes up. She ruined the moment for us both, pal.

Charlotte looks exasperated when I pull my door open. “Here,” she grunts, shoving her phone at me. “Your aunt,” she mouths, rolling her eyes. She saunters away in the direction of the kitchen.

Pursing my lips, I rub a hand over the back of my neck, why is my aunt calling her? “Hello?” My voice is still heady.

“Lizzy, thank god. Why didn’t you pick up your phone?”

Searching for the small space, I don’t see my cell phone. “I didn’t hear it.”

“I just saw on the news they found a body—a student at your school.”

“They did?” I sigh, balancing the phone between my shoulder and ear while pulling on a pair of sweatpants.

“Have you been watching the news?”

“No,” I tell her honestly. She lives and breathes the news, so afraid of the world outside her front door.