by Victoria Bromley
A short story which may inspire your submission to issue 05 haunt.
She was a storm who rushed into our lives upheaving everything in a vicious wind, scattering our bones like twigs, then vanished without a sound. Our parents warned us, but teenagers don’t listen to their parents and that’s why they’re reprimanded. Punishment is a threat to keep us at bay, but we were craving choppy waters and the thrill of the tide up to our necks. We were thirsty for the coppery taste of blood in our mouths when we bit down on our tongue at her suggestions to tear up our lives as we knew it. We did anything she asked. We loved her with all our impressionable hearts and desperate to please sensibilities.
She arrived at our school two months into the year, having moved to the area because her family were from here. We showed her around the school, out of courtesy, but mostly with intrigue of what life was like beyond the borders of such a sleepy town. Until that day, our adventures were contained within the small joys of sugar and consuming too much popular culture that would eventually rot our souls.
She asked us our plans for the weekend, and I was grateful to be eating an apple so couldn’t speak until I’d chewed all the soft flesh, while the others embarrassed themselves by telling her their plans to watch teen movies back-to-back while their parents were asleep. I swallowed then said I had no plans, wanting to be available for whatever she was about to propose, and not to risk saying the wrong thing.
We went into town. All four of us. We were a group before, a small selection of timid girls who went unnoticed, but with her leading, we had a purpose, and that made us dangerous. She may have only lived here for a week, but she blazed through the high street in direct pursuit of the only fashionable clothes shop there was. We brushed our fingers against the thin material draped over hangers and pointed at the accessories none of us were going to buy. In the changing room she made us try our favourite things on, just for fun. The overhead lighting made us look ill, but when she styled our outfits and gave us a twirl our bodies shimmered between the beige walls. She bunched the clothes under her coat and tucked in the tags so they wouldn’t fall out. She motioned for us to copy, that we’d been in there too long and someone was bound to check on us if we didn’t hurry. There wasn’t a chance to consider our actions. We just copied, glancing at each other but not finding the words to challenge her, not yet knowing the consequences if we were to defy her, and left the shop with bulky coats concealing our contraband.
We wore the outfits for non-uniform day at school. It was the most daring thing we’d ever done, besides stealing the clothes, and we felt untouchable. In the bathroom we strutted past the cubicles, popped our hips out, posed by the mirrors, then flicked our hair before returning to the other end to go again. Our bodies dripped in black leather and distressed denim over tops which rose to show the flesh above our belts. She wore a red bra, her top thin so the colour bled through – we took note.
We didn’t learn much in the classroom while she was there. There wasn’t room to absorb equations or literary quotes when we were revising her every move, transfixed by the psychology of her mind, studying how she commanded the attention of a room and unapologetically made it hers.
Some of the boys took a liking to her. God, they were almost as obsessed as we were, but there was a difference between wanting to touch someone’s skin and wanting to crawl beneath it, to inhabit a body and not just caress it. There’s a line between lust and infatuation; the boys stayed safely on one side while we swam over it with untethered strength, saltwater blinding our eyes, our blood pounding in our ears.
The boys flirted with her, and we craned our necks to see. Bless them, trying so hard with their raucous laughter and leaning in too close. She didn’t find their jokes funny, we could read it all over her face, and she shook their hands from her arm. But sometimes she invited it. She would cross her legs so her skirt rode up and watched as their eyes lingered, or other times she would nudge her elbow into their ribs when walking down the corridor and let them hold her bag. There was just enough give and take for them to drool like dogs at her unobtainable beauty. We all salivated at how she did it, how she did anything.
Not all the boys took to her games, especially those who were book smart and didn’t have time to persevere with her antics, so turned to us. We were so good at looking and noting down what she did, but we weren’t prepared to do it ourselves. Although our allure, through association with her, carried us through each interaction, gaining more attention and affection from boys whom we didn’t realise knew our names.
We passed the boys around, a carousel of teenage hormones and cheap aftershave which we picked up like sushi then put back if they weren’t to our taste. However, as time went on, we all seemed to have the same type in boys, favouring the thin boned, leafy haired boys who had cars and didn’t like sports, so they were always available whenever we wanted them. This only left four boys within our clutches, and we sometimes shared them when our one had family commitments or was ill. They all smelt the same and had chapped lips from too much kissing, so what was the difference really? What’s mine is yours, she would say, and we became greedy.
When we were alone, we preened ourselves with tweezers and lotions, spilt nail polish and drank spirits straight from the bottle. She taught us how to be pretty and messy, how to be malicious yet polite. It was difficult to know which version of ourselves she wanted us to be at any given moment. We would burp and howl at each other when walking down the street and she’d hiss that we were being too gross. Or when we were at a party, we would twirl our hair around our finger when speaking to a new boy and she would curse us for being too feminine. But when she was cruel to others and we regurgitated the same nasty words, she would stamp on our feet and scold us. We shared makeup and she would often wear a deep rouge, offering us the tube, but when we bought our own lipstick in the same shade, she wound out the lipstick then snapped it from its case. We only used her lipstick after that, only when she offered it, and only recited her words like a prayer when she commanded us to.
She cut our hair afterschool and coated the strands in dark dye which left us with black stains around our foreheads. She said it would wash out. Chopped to our chins, our hair was blunt with sharp edges. Necks exposed, we gulped at the stark contrast of white skin and raven hair.
There was a week where I couldn’t sleep. Insomnia pried my eyes awake as I stared at the ceiling. Shadows crept across the walls as pale moonlight seeped through the drapes. The shapes contorted into faces. I saw her face, the hallow cheeks and pointed nose, staring down at me, and my body went rigid. The next night she was at the foot of my bed. Not a trick of the light, but she was folded over herself, neck snapped, the bone protruding from the torn skin so her eyes were the same level as mine as I lay on my side shivering.
In the morning I saw her at school and didn’t say anything. We didn’t say much to each other in the day, reserving our chatter to phone calls at night, becoming nocturnal in how we communicated and lived in the world. Our eyes were sullen and bruised by staying up late, and the visions which plagued me meant sleep was scarce, and I found myself dosing off in classes.
Her presence crawled into bed with me that Friday night and wrapped herself around me. The warmth of her breath on my neck was a comfort which helped me drift off, but my dreams were invaded by her snarls and sharp eyes.
She didn’t come to school the following Monday. I asked our English teacher whether her parents had rung in. He asked me whom I was referring to, and I said her name again, a little louder this time, but his lips were pinched and his head tilted to the side. I glanced at his computer screen and couldn’t find her name on the registration list.
I asked the other girls, but they said they hadn’t heard anything about her moving schools. She would return soon, I thought, there would be an explanation.
As I was leaving the school gates at the end of the day, my science teacher waved and wished me a good evening, although when he said my name, it sounded like hers, like the teacher had gotten us confused. He did teach a lot of students, and our names were similar in length and vowels. I approached the same teacher the next day and asked him a question, then listened intently for how he addressed me as I said goodbye. He called me by her name, the snag of the harsh consonant at the end like a knock to the head.
In front of my mirror I agonised over every pore and crease until I no longer saw my face. My bones were different, my lips fuller and skin like porcelain. In bed that night her presence returned, and our hearts beat to the same rhythm. When I woke up, I felt heavier, like I was carrying another soul. Nestled within the joints of my ribcage I held her there, my breath filling her lungs, my bones decaying as she took over my body.
Issue 05 submissions close Saturday 30th September. You can find all submission guidelines here.
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