NECROMANTIC

fourteen.

I didn’t scream. I didn’t move, for a minute, staring in shock, with wide eyes, my hand clasped to my mouth.

The driver stopped only for a moment, opened the door, looked out, muttered a terrified ‘Oh, shit,’, slammed the door shut and drove away so fast their tyres squealed and left black marks on the ground.

Somebody screamed a jagged, broken, horrified ‘No!’, and I realised it was me. “No!” I screamed again, and I ran, right into the middle of the road, where Rob lay, still, so still, too still.

His was on his side, his eyes closed, and blood ran down his cheek in a streak from his mouth, dripping steadily onto the road in a little, soft plink-plink-plink. But other than that, there was no visible damage. It was all internal.

I remember being told at some point the worst thing to do with someone who’s been hit by a car is to touch or move them, unless you’re told to do so when you call 911. But I knew touching him wouldn’t matter. Because as I crumpled to my knees, howling in pain, anger and grief, turning him on his back gently as I took his head carefully and cradled it in my lap, I knew it.

He’d been killed instantly.

“No, no, no.” I wailed, brushing my shaking fingers through his hair, gliding my hand down his smooth cheek, the one that didn’t have blood on it, a cheek that was still so warm and flushed. I crumpled around him, holding onto him as I cried. He wasn’t dead, he couldn’t be dead. Not Rob. Not ever.

He was so still, there was no struggling beat of his heart, no pulse, not even the faintest gasp of breath.

“Rob, no, no, come on. Come on, wake up, please.” I begged, my heart so sore, so fucking broken. “I love you, Rob. Please.”

This was all my fault. All my fault. I’d killed him. If it hadn’t been for me, this would never have happened. If I’d made some bullshit excuse, we’d be in his house right now, and everything would be ok, he’d be alive. If he’d never met me, if I’d never said yes when he’d asked me out, he’d be alive. He deserved to be alive. He needed to be alive. He couldn’t be dead. He couldn’t. It would kill me, too. It’d destroy his mother, his step-dad, his dad and his step-mom, his little half-sister.

I wondered why no one had come out, having heard us yelling at each other, me screaming. Maybe they were all sleeping still, undisturbed, deep in their dreams or nightmares. It was still early in the morning. An hour until Rob’s step-dad was due home from work.

I don’t know how long I sat there for, cradling his body in the middle of the road as I cried, repeating ‘no’ over and over until the word blurred and made no sense, stroking a violently shaking hand through his soft hair.

And I don’t remember moving my hand, from his hair, lingering on his cheek, wiping away the trail of blood, to the side of his chest where his still heart was. Pressing down. I don’t even remember thinking about doing it – I just remember doing it. I remembered the pain, too. It hurt a thousand times more than when I’d done it with the frog and the crow. It felt like I was holding my palm against the top of a stove. It felt like someone was snapping my ribs one by one. I screamed again, in agony.

And then it was over. The pain just… stopped. And it was simply my hand held flat against his chest.

Maybe I’d imagined it. Maybe the pain hadn’t been from that, but from the grief. Because he didn’t move. It’d had no effect on him. He was still dead. Maybe it didn’t work on humans, or maybe I’d waited too long, and he’d moved on, was long gone.

“What the hell is going on?” a pissed off voice asked. I’d finally woken one of the neighbours. It was a guy with salt and pepper hair, in striped pyjama bottoms, Homer Simpson slippers his kids must have got him, and a blue terrycloth dressing gown. He was coming down his path, looking disgruntled, eyes widening when he saw us. Me. Me and Rob’s body. “Oh my god, is he…” the man trailed off. “I’m gonna call an ambulance, I’ll just go get my pho-”

Rob’s eyes flew open as he sucked in a startled, desperate gasp, and his hand closed tightly around the wrist of my hand still pressed to his chest.