Lana knew what she was doing when she locked the door of her room, making sure that nobody could just waltz in and see her talking to thin air. Her heart was hammering painfully inside her chest and she swore that she could already feel him behind her, even though the lights were turned on. Her fear of the dark had increased since yesterday and when she turned, she wondered if she would see something else entirely different, not a boy who made her feel uneasy but a monster who would make her taste real fear.
She closed her eyes and turning slightly; she found the light switch and flicked it off. Darkness enveloped around her and she slowly peeled her eyes open.
For the first time, the boy was not sitting on her bed. There was a short moment where Lana believed that he might have gone somewhere, disappeared even but then she heard a voice next to her ear and she flinched.
“Were you praying to your God that I was gone?”
She twisted her neck and found the boy leaning against the doorframe, hands shoved to his pockets, hair annoyingly tousled. He gave her a long measured look as she visibly tried to remain calm.
“I don’t believe in God,” she said evenly.
“Really?” His eyebrows shot up in surprise.
“You’ve been watching me for four years,” she said, not without venom, “you haven’t seen me kneel down and pray, haven’t you?”
He seemed speechless, which was a good thing. At least Lana knew that he possessed human characteristics, that anger and shock was relatively known to him. He was still wearing the jacket with the plaid shirt and torn jeans and his eyes were still their bluish hue. Lana couldn’t recall anybody with eyes like his, even though the colour were similar with hers, just bluer, in fact.
“You’re staring,” he said.
“I should be.” She recovered quickly, cursing herself for being so ignorant. She had to remind herself that the very thought of this boy had ruined her childhood, filled her with trauma and fear, making her believe that she was a crackpot. “You destroyed my life in the past four years; I shouldn’t even be talking to you. I wish I could kill you but I can’t touch you so what’s the point?”
The boy shrugged but it looked more like recoil to her. His face tightened and she wondered if she had hurt him but to her satisfaction, she realized that she didn’t care much.
“What do you want from me?” the boy said, sneering at her, “I can’t just turn and whoosh at the sight of your freaking night light or at the sight of you. Hear me when I say this, Lana, I can’t run from you.”
For some reason, the words depressed her. Turning away so that he couldn’t see her face, she felt her face crumble and the tears stinging the back of her eyes. She knew, without knowing how, that he was telling her the truth. It was almost as if he was bound to her, either by law or by blood, depending on which was stronger.
“Well, the first thing that I want is a name,” she said, letting herself flop on her bed. Her voice had grown small.
“A name?” the boy said, sounding incredulous, “I told you, I don’t have a name.”
“Make something up.”
“Like what?” She watched as he ran his fingers through his hair. She knew that most boys touched their hair when they were anxious; Neal always tugged at a wayward curl when he was nervous and her father mostly scratched the back of his neck, seeking comfort with the way his fingers grazed his hair.
“Christian,” she said, “John. Henry. You idiot, there are plenty of names to go around.”
“A name isn’t just a name, Lana,” the boy said, walking towards the edge of her bed where he gazed at her thoughtfully, “It’s hard to explain but I can’t just take a random name and make it my own.”
