Page 57 of Borrowed

I hit the doors shoulder-first.The wood groaned open.The cold air bit my naked skin.My breath came out white, fast, and alive.

And then I was running.

Barefoot.

Bloodied.

Glorious.

Into the night, dragging his cape like a weapon and a promise.

Toby whispered inside me, soft and possessive.

Good girl.

You did it.

But where am I going?

* * *

The lake was still…quiet.

Still waiting to breathe.

Like me.

I kept running.But now the lake bled, too.

Not too far was where it began.

The house was still standing.

Barely.

The roof sagged like a dying breath.The siding peeled back in strips like skin left too long in the sun.But the bones were all there.

Blackened.

Splintered.

Familiar.

My feet bled more with every step over broken glass and charred wood.But I didn’t stop.Toby was humming in my ear.That lullaby he used to sing when I cried behind the drywall.The one no one else ever heard.

“Hush, my twin…”

I climbed through the gaping hole in the wall—what used to be the kitchen.Rats scattered.The air reeked of mildew and memory.

“This is where I died,” he whispered.

I touched the scorched floor.

Still warm.

Still his.

The imprint of his life, death, a shadow we both felt.