Mirage(18)

I’m a different person now.

I look around, seeing home with new eyes. There is so much glass and luster that my reflection shines from nearly every surface. I can’t help but stare at my foreign, bandaged self, but my stomach rolls at the memories of the girl’s face and her fierce eyes. I haven’t seen her since I fell into her. I hope she’s gone forever.

My father runs through the voicemail messages. Dom’s deep voice carries through the house, saying that he’s calling to check on me. That he hopes I’m okay. He’s miserable. He says he’s sorry . . . so sorry . . . and that he tried to see me in the hospi?—

My father jams his finger into the delete button and Dom’s voice is gone. I think I’m supposed to feel something, but I’m strangely removed, numb. It’s been this way since I woke up. I wonder if these are aftereffects of the LSD or if it’s just . . . me now.

My father makes maybe three or four passes back and forth across the room without once looking at me, as if by not acknowledging me, he can make everything go back to normal. His withdrawal feels like punishment. And his agitation scares me. He’s like a loaded gun. Looks like he could go off at any minute.

Finally he approaches me but doesn’t sit. His stance is military. Feet spread. Hands on his hips. He gazes down at me with impassive gray eyes. “These antics of yours, they’re going to stop.”

I nod.

“You know what we’re dealing with here. As a family, we’re facing the very real possibility of losing everything. You copy? You have got to rein yourself in. You’re our child, Ryan, but you’re clearly old enough to f*ck up your own life. If that’s what you’re determined to do, I have no doubt you will do it, but not under my roof. As long as we are responsible for you, you will submit to weekly drug testing. Stay away from Dominix for a while. He’s been a bad influence on you. You will have a curfew of twenty-one hundred hours every night, and . . . no more senseless stunts.”

“Understood.”

This simple acquiescence from me seems to agitate him more, because he runs one hand over the top of his head and glares. “Don’t play games with me, young lady. What you’ve done is serious. On top of endangering yourself with that jump, you’ve begun tampering with drugs. Your own actions landed you in the hospital and nearly killed you.”

“I’m not playing games with you. I’m done with all of that.”

He blows out an exasperated breath. I’m not sure why he doesn’t believe me. It’s what he wants to hear, but it’s also the truth. He turns and marches to the kitchen. Ice clinks into a glass, which he then fills with Maker’s Mark.

Ayida watches him with her lips pursed together. “Nolan, do you really?—” One look from him silences her before he disappears from the room. When she glances at me, her eyes seem to accuse?—?look what you’ve made him do—?before she packs the expression away.

I push myself to standing. “I’m going to my room.”

“Need anything?”

“No, thanks,” I say, though that’s not true. I need a lot of things that only time will bring.



The bedroom is dark. It takes a second for my eyes to adjust. I swipe the switch with an uninjured patch of my hand. The room comes to life with a galaxy of lights. Fatigue pulls hard at me, but restlessness thrums like a pulse and keeps me moving around. I open drawers, finger stiff jeans and soft cotton T-shirts, sniff various fragrances on the dresser. I’m so disconnected that everything seems foreign and new. Avoiding the mirror is easy: I’m still not ready to look at myself. I gingerly touch the gauze on my cheek and sigh. Whatever. I’m alive. That should be all that matters, right?

I want to sleep and see if I’ll dream familiar dreams. The bed is like open arms that I crawl blissfully into. Joe’s hug comes to mind. I liked that hug.

It welcomed me back from the dead.

Because of the gash on my cheek, I can only lie on my right side. The numerous strings of mirrors and strands of lights above me sway in the slight breeze from the window. Their movement is reflected on the wall: planetary circles undulate on the white paint. My lids droop, but a whisper keeps me awake. When I force my eyes open, the many circles of yellow light on the wall are filled with the almond shapes of eyes.

I spring to my feet on the bed. My head plunges into the swirling vines of mirrors and lights. Each small cutout of glass holds a dark, fierce eye staring at me. I’m surrounded by the eyes of the ghost, boring deep into mine. Panic takes over. There’s a scream like a shrill teakettle, and I know it’s coming from my mouth.

Instinct moves my arms, swinging them through the fields of eyes, clawing to scratch them out. Lines of mirrors drop like spiders, covering my shoulders and body with eyes. Screaming, flailing, I’m attempting to fling them off me when strong arms grasp mine.

I swing again, catching something hard with my bandaged hand. “Ryan! What are you doing? What’s wrong?” Nolan shakes me. “Calm down. Look at me.”

“No,” I moan, crying through lids that are squeezed shut. I can’t open them, can’t bear to see the haunting eyes that have fallen all around me. I collapse onto the bed and hug my knees to my face. There is tugging and pulling as my father tries to free me from the ropes of lights and strings of mirrors binding me to her.

“The eyes, the eyes. Make her stop watching me.”