Lost Boy - Ker Dukey Page 0,5

across the room in fright. Kicking back the duvet, I jump up from the bed, which is just a mattress on the floor of my tiny bedroom in a rundown apartment I share with my best friend, Charlotte.

My thoughts jumbled, still doused with sleep, my feet falter. The duvet gathers and restricts my legs, tangling me up like vines and propelling me forward face first.

“Dammit!”

I land with an unattractive thud, hitting the floor in a clump of too-long limbs and a mop of messy auburn hair.

The ringing on my cell gets louder, filling the crappy apartment.

Pushing the duvet from my feet, I pat the side of the mattress, then spot it sitting on the box stuffed with junk I never unpacked and now use as a bedside table.

“Hello?” I croak into the receiver, pulling the lid from my keepsake tin, sifting through the news clippings.

Notorious serial killer is now wanted in connection with the disappearance of school…

“Hello, sweetie. I didn’t wake you, did I?” my aunt’s too chirpy voice greets me.

You’re safe now. You can come out.

“No. I’m up,” I tell her, slamming the lid closed and running a hand through my hair.

“I just wanted to check in on you,” she murmurs, hesitant.

Keep your eyes closed, sweetheart. Don’t look.

“I’m fine.” I’m fine. I’m fine…

“Okay…well, we’re here for you if you need anything. I know this day is a tough one. There’s no shame in taking time for yourself.”

Silence…

“We have potential buyers coming to view the house today,” she says, changing the subject.

“That’s great.” I try to make my voice sound happy for them. I am happy for them.

“We love you, sweetie.”

I know she loves me, and I’m grateful for everything she’s done for me, but you can’t erase trauma no matter how many pancakes and trips to the zoo you force on a child.

“You too. Bye,” I whisper.

It’s just another day.

No, it’s not. It’s the day the devil visited you and took everything.

A groaning sound rumbles into my room, making my heart skip.

I follow the noise to the vent attached to my room. My eyes travel up the small protruding column that runs parallel from floor to ceiling through three stories of apartments. Movement crashes above me. I must have a new neighbor. The groaning is so loud, it makes me wonder how well they can hear me. Your nightmares.

My fingers brush against the tiny half-moon scars on my hand. They’re so faint now, they’re barely noticeable.

“Hide.”

Pulling my hair into a high ponytail, I dissect every inch of my face in the mirror, feeling the pit in my stomach open, jagged, raw. All I see is emptiness staring back at me through the hollow dark orbs of my eyes. Pale skin is a curse of living in a town that sees more rain than anything else.

I pull the lid from a lipstick that came free on the front of a magazine and swipe the light shade of pink across my lips. My teeth grind. I hate the way it feels on my skin. Oily, thick, fake. It’s not me.

Who are you?

Loneliness blooms in my chest. My hands move to rub away the ache.

“Lizzy, have you left yet?” Charlotte barks through the panel of my bedroom door. “No, I’m here,” I call back, scrubbing the lipstick off with a tissue before slipping into some jeans and a tee.

She’s still in last night’s outfit eating cereal from a coffee mug when I make it into the kitchen. “There are bowls in the dishwasher.” I frown, dragging my eyes up her body. Charlotte is all curves stuffed tightly into a small, little compact body. I envied her curves and the confidence they gave her. She gave zero shits about fitting in or what people thought of her. It didn’t work for me, though, no matter how hard I tried to make it. I could be in a room full of people and the nagging presence of guilt, of sorrow, would saturate me in its misery, making me shrink into myself.

It’s inescapable.

“I couldn’t be bothered to look for them. Needed food to try to soak up the alcohol.” She grins over the lip, shoveling another spoonful into her mouth. Milk drips from the corners and off her chin.

I study her more closely. Her makeup smeared under her eyes, giving her a smokey look most girls spend hours trying to perfect. Her hair is fused, the blonde locks tangled around her shoulders.

“Are you doing the walk of shame?” I raise a brow. Usually, she brings