Ember X (Death Collectors) - By Jessica Sorensen Page 0,4
mom doing?”
She shrugs, staring at the drawing. “Fine, I guess. I haven’t gone to visit her in a while.”
Raven’s mom is in a drug treatment facility. She suffers from depression and self-medicates. Her illness has been going on for years. A couple of months ago, Raven came home from work and found her mom on the living room floor with a lit cigarette in her hand. She wasn’t breathing and barely registered a pulse. Raven called an ambulance and the paramedics resuscitated her. Raven chewed me out for not telling her it was coming and I realized that day that there were many negatives to my gift. But I didn’t tell Raven her mom was going to die, because I knew she wasn’t going to die that day. I refuse to tell Raven when anyone in her family will die—including herself—because no one needs that burden on their shoulders.
Raven was mad at me for two weeks and wouldn’t talk to me at all. It was the loneliest two weeks of my life. Raven is my one and only friend and it’s pretty much been that way forever. When I get old, I’ll probably end up a spinster with ten cats and maybe a bird. Raven will pay me visits every so often with her children and make sure I stay sane.
“What is that?” She stands on her tiptoes, leaning in my face, and with her pink fingernail, she chips away a flake of mud off my cheek. “Why do you have dirt on your face?” She turns my hand over and examines my palm. “And your fingers are rubbed raw.”
I pull my hand away. “Last night, while I was in the cemetery—”
“I thought you stopped going there so much,” she interrupts with disapproval written all over her face. Raven has never understood my need to be alone—my need for the quiet.
I grab a purple and black T-shirt with torn sides and a pair of black jeans out of the dresser. “I haven’t been sleeping very well and it’s relaxing, being there.”
She twists a strand of her shoulder-length, bubblegum pink hair around her finger. “I don’t understand you sometimes. I told you to come to my house whenever you want. You don’t need to go hang out in a graveyard—it’s creepy.”
I don’t have the heart to tell her that her house is one of the worst places, chock full of death, even after her mother went away. Her brother, Todd, will have an early death from lung cancer. He smokes two packs of cigarettes a day and he’s been smoking since he was thirteen.
“The cops busted me,” I admit, knowing she’ll find it humorous.
Her lips quirk. “Oh yeah, did you run?”
I nodded, and keep my tone playful. “Yup. Really, really fast.”
Her smile broadens. “Did they chase you?”
I nod again. “I’m pretty sure he stumbled and landed on his face, too,” I exaggerate, knowing she’ll love it—Raven’s all about the drama.
A laugh sputters from her lips. “Okay, I’m kind of jealous. I wish I could have been there to see it.”
“It was pretty funny,” I admit. “Except for…”
“Except for what?” she presses. “Come on, Em, tell me please. Don’t do your secret-keeping thing.”
I sink down on the bed and ball the clothes up on my lap. “There were these guys there, digging up a grave.”
Her forehead scrunches and she sits down beside me. “Ew, like grave robbers?”
“I’m not sure what they were doing, but it was kind of creepy.”
“Did they take anything from the grave?”
“I have no idea. I was too busy running from the cops…” It dawns on me. “Shit. I think one of the grave robber guys might have my notebook.”
“The one you’re always writing your deepest darkest secrets in?” she asks.
I nod. “And it has my name on it.”
Tapping her finger on her chin, she muses over something. “Was he hot?”
I fiddle with a loose string on my pajama pants. “Are you seriously asking if the grave robber was hot?”
“Grave robbers are people too,” she says with a sassy attitude. “And just because they like to dig up graves, doesn’t mean they can’t be hot.”
Hot? More like intense and frightening. Shaking my head, I stand up. “You’re a weirdo. I’m going to go get dressed.”
She eyeballs me with suspicion. “Quit trying to change the subject, Emmy.”
I head for the closet. “You know I hate it when you call me that.” It’s the nickname my dad gave me and I hate being reminded of him.