Pulse

Chapter 23

Cian

The aquarium was the same one our parents used to take us to when we were little. It was an array of narrow, dark tunnels with majestic marine beasts in tanks on either side, the lights turned dim so that only the blue water was lit. The walls stretched miles above our heads, bouncing the laughing noises of children and the calls of whales back at us. It smelled like saltwater and like home.

The last time I had come here, I had been ten and Vinny had been eight, our eyes still the particular roundness of a child's, cheeks still round and pink. We'd been oblivious to the ugliness of the world around us, the speed with which one could be taken from.

Now, however, we waltzed through the aquarium in the present. We passed the seals' tank; one hopped off his stone and dived down into the water as if to greet us. Vinny pressed a delighted land to the tank's glass and smiled. "I missed this."

I found myself reaching out my hand, though I didn't know why. I said, "Don't get lost, Vince."

He turned with a nod and placed his hand in mine, and I felt his calloused palm against my own. There was a pulse in his wrist.

He smiled at me, and I thought of him when he was eight, his blue eyes wide, cheeks bit at by the morning breeze off the Pacific. His hair had been longer then, and blonder, a color so fair it was almost white. So much had changed about Vinny, but his smile hadn't. It was the same warm gesture that brought out the dimple in his cheek, fine wrinkles forming at his eyes. I ruffled his hair. "I missed this, too."

We kept walking.

The laughing childrens' voices went silent. The calling of the whales sunk away. Startled, I looked around; the tanks of water no longer had colorful fish swimming around in them, the seals gone. They were empty except for the gallons upon gallons of water. I felt my heart in my throat.

"Vinny, maybe we should—"

I froze. Vinny's hand was no longer in my own. I was alone.

At least I thought so.

I heard muffled screams coming from behind me, and turned, facing the aquarium habitat that had once held seals in it. Now, however, Vinny was in the water, chains unforgivingly linked around his ankles and his wrists, his head thrashing violently as he tried to free himself. I slammed my fists against the glass, screaming. My throat felt hoarse, my tongue swollen. Air bubbles jetted from my little brother's mouth and nose, his eyes wide and bloodshot. His hair floated around in the water almost gracefully, but there was nothing graceful about this.

He stopped thrashing, his body going limp. His eyes were glued open, unblinking, and the air bubbles ceased.

I hit the glass once more, my heart feeling scraped out from my chest.

It cracked, fissure branching from fissure, then the habitat shattered.

I was washed away.

I woke up violently, shuddering. The floor of Lucie's bedroom was beneath me, one of her old quilts covering me from my waist down. I blinked into the dark, felt the ceiling fan spinning above me, a quiet whir in the silence. Sweat beaded on my forehead, and with a ragged breath and I wiped it away.

It was a dream.

Had it been, though? Was that not what, in reality, had happened to Vinny?

I wanted to throw up.

Slowly, I sat up, rubbing my bleary eyes as I did. A glance at Lucie's digital alarm clock told me it was close to four in the morning, the room drenched in twilight light, everything still and soft. There was the faintest noise of Lucie's breaths from beside me.

I gripped the quilt around my legs, and thought about going back to sleep. It seemed to be the logical thing to do, but my head was spinning, and everything ached. I got the idea this decision didn't require much thought.

I got up from the floor, wandering to Lucie's bedside. The moonlight was enough to just barely light her resting face; eyes fluttered shut, lashes brushing cheekbones, rose-colored lips unmoving. The curls of her onyx-colored hair were like brushstrokes against her pillow, an ornate artwork. She looked so peaceful there, as if anything and everything was right with the world.

I sighed. It was a blessing that I was right there, right then, able to call this girl a friend.

But I wanted more than that, didn't I?

I shook the thought away, running an idle finger through her hair. She stirred, frowning, but didn't wake. I grabbed my hoodie off her desk chair, swept it on, and exited out into the hall.

I needed some time to think, then to clear my head and not to think. The solitude night provided was the perfect time.

The hallway was almost pitch black, but I could make out the outline of my hand in front of my eyes. I felt the carpet bunching beneath my toes as I curled them, taking a step forward, then another, and another. Crickets chirruped somewhere outside. The smoke detector's red light beat steadily on the ceiling, again and again.

You want Lucie.

I did.

I wanted her more than I had ever wanted anything else in the world. I wanted to be with her, I wanted to love her, I wanted be the person she came to when she was upset. I wanted her. I wanted us.

I just didn't know how to deal with that. What I'd told Vinny had not been a lie. I wasn't the type of person cut out for relationships, not the hopeless romantic that bought bouquets or chocolate or left love notes in lockers. I wasn't charming or poised or neat, like anything you'd expect from someone of my background. Girls wanted princes. I was not a prince.

The truth of the matter was that I didn't deserve Lucie. It sunk like a rock in my stomach, but it was the truth, and I had to accept it.

And Vinny.

Oh God, Vinny.

I'd never felt so worried about him as I did now. I felt like I was losing him, like things were never going to get better after this. If he kept acting out like he was doing now, there was no telling how all of this would end.

I slumped against the wall with an exhale, exhausted both physically and emotionally. I wanted to shut my brain off.

My arm hit something cold and brass—a doorknob. I fumbled to get a grip on it for a second, then hesitated, thinking this might be a bad idea if it turned out to be her parents' room. Curiosity tickled the back of my brain, however; I knew I was in the clear.

I opened the door.

Squinting into the darkness, I recognized an unmade bed shoved against the back wall, a messy desk beside the door. There were soccer posters thrown up all along the dark walls, the ceiling fan unmoving. Three jumbo letters hung above the bed: D. K. M.

I swallowed, wandering to the bookshelf. Beside a collection of Emily Dickinson poems was a faded picture of Lucie when she was small, her freckled face showcasing a childish gap-toothed smile, hair a wild fuzz around her head. An older kid had his arm tossed playfully around her shoulders; it was undeniable that they were related—same dark, intelligent eyes, same full cheeks and curly hair, same chestnut-toned skin. It was Dempsey, Lucie's brother.

I had somehow ended up in his bedroom.