Obscura Burning

Chapter One

Danny's dead

Dying would be easier than having to live two lives. Every time I close my eyes, I pray I won't wake up. But whoever's up there clearly doesn't give a crap. Sometimes I wonder if maybe I'm already dead and trapped in my own personal hell.

I must've dozed off, and for a moment I'm in limbo, floating between two possible realities. The next instant it all comes crashing down, and I have to deal with Danny's death all over again. It's like being on a roller coaster, except I'm the only one riding it and there's no getting off.

One day Danny's dead; then reality shifts, and instead we're mourning Shira. And what do I get out of this life-jumping deal? Cold sweats and nosebleeds and the joy of trying to juggle two dead friends. I'd do anything to make it stop.

Today it's Shira's turn to live.

We're in Shira's bed, her room crushed in the corner of a house not much bigger than a trailer. Fairy lights dangle from the ceiling, a spider web attempt at making the room less depressing. It smells of Shira's grapefruit body cream and patchouli incense. It smells like sex.

"We need to talk," Shira says.

The sheet clings to my sweaty chest, and dust swirls in the sunrays stabbing through the broken blinds. Shira's always got something to say, as if she can talk away any problem, as if words alone can undo the past.

"About what?" I sit up, wrapping the sheet around my waist, already searching for underwear and socks. Beyond the dirty window, the sun's starting to slip below the horizon, turning the sky the color of spilled blood. Mom'll expect me home for dinner soon. There's an excuse for not wanting to stick around and chat that Shira might actually buy.

"Kyle, you know we need to talk about this. About us." Tears, shed hours earlier, stain her cheeks. Her brown bob is a crow's nest on her head. She examines her chipped nail polish, not meeting my gaze.

"You don't really want to talk about Danny and how you're sleeping with his boyfriend, do you?" My words are bullets. We both loved Danny, the three of us inseparable. Only difference now is that Shira's lost him, and in that other reality, I still get to love him. Regret and guilt tangle up inside me, gnawing on my guts like a coyote with roadkill.

Shira looks up, her eyes intense and tragic as her bottom lip begins to tremble. It's not fair putting it all on her. I kissed her, made the first move, but she never said no. We're both guilty.

She hiccups, and her tears start again. I try not to feel anything, try not to love her, try not to hate her for being alive. When I'm with her, sometimes I can imagine she's Danny, forget all the other crap and just let skin rub against skin. When her hands are knotted in my hair, her lips are on my throat... the fire and Danny's death feel like a bad dream. A reality jump later, I'll wake up and it'll be Shira who's gone, her ashes scattered in the dust on the reservation.

"I should go." I pull my T-shirt over the scars. They're still glossy pink, puckering the flesh across my ribs and chest. They spill across my collarbone and shoulders, rippling up my neck to splash along my jaw and cheek. I'm a total freak show.

If the scars bother her, she doesn't say. Maybe taking off her clothes with me is just her way of trying to make me feel better. It works, mostly. Besides, it's not like anyone else would choose to sleep with me, considering how I look. I'll take the sex, regardless of how it's given, over "It's not your fault" speeches any day.

"I'll call you later," I add, doing up my fly before pushing my feet into my sneakers.

"We still need to talk about our part in the memorial. Danny's mom is waiting to finalize the program." Shira looks so vulnerable, naked under the white sheets, with raccoon eyes and black nails. The turquoise bracelet she always wears jangles softly with every movement.