OMINOUS: Book II (Ecstasy 3), page 27
“Hello?” My voice is hoarse, and I clear my throat as Dad exhales on the other end of the line, with relief.
“Jesus, Eli, where are you?”
I look at the apocalypse. “Nowhere,” I say, a strange noise like a giggle or a sob leaving my mouth.
There’s a pause. Nerves thread through my belly because I know I just messed up with that noise. I just fucked up.
I hit the heel of my hand on my wheel.
“I’m coming home now,” I say, starting up my car, the engine sparking to life, my phone switching to Bluetooth a second later so I can throw it down into the passenger seat.
“No,” Dad is saying. “No, Eli. Where are you? I’ll come get you.”
I roll my eyes, hand on the shifter. I glance at the passenger seat. I don’t think about Dominic in it. Eden’s legs in his lap. I don’t.
“Dad, fuck off, I’m fucking fine.”
“Eli.” His voice is sharp. A snap through my speakers, angry.
I pause, interested now.
“If you drive home, I will impound your car, do you hear me?”
I glance at the mostly empty parking lot again. The Chinese place with their lights still flickering, but nothing but darkness through the windows. The grocery store closed down for tonight, or eternity, I wonder what aliens will think about macaroni and cheese in boxes when they fly in?
“You’re going to impound my car?” I can’t help it. I’m cracking up. Don’t you know the world is over, Dad? It’s done. We’re through. Mom and Adonis are probably dead already.
I’m laughing harder, doubled over in my seat, my head touching the wheel, my neck bent. I drop my hands to my lap, a strange sound leaving my lips, and I smash the top of my head into the wheel, blaring the horn.
My abs ache, I’m laughing so hard, and Dad is quiet. Or, not quiet. I hear the chirp of his car. The soft slam of a door.
He’s coming to get me.
He’s coming to get me, isn’t he? But where is Eden? Did she die too?
“Eli,” he says. “I’m going to stay on the phone with you, okay? Just… don’t drive. I’m going as fast as I can.”
“Don’t wreck.” Before I can even get the second word all the way out, the laughter shakes my entire body and I smash my head against the wheel again, the horn blaring in the emptiness of earth.
I hear something through my speakers, a sigh, or a moan, or something like anguish. It just seems so funny, and I close my eyes, hunched over in my seat, my arms crossed over my middle, and all I can think about, laughing still, is the fact Eden left me in this fucking parking lot without a single text, not one call.
It’s hysterical.
It’s fucking hilarious.
23
Eden
Waking up feels heavy. I blink in the darkness, a weight draped over my shoulders like a chain, pressing against my eyelids, it takes effort to pry them open. The night has passed too swiftly, one of those where sleep is but a second, then it’s over before I’ve even fallen all the way through. I’ve been so energetic, last night Ansel and I got through so much, but now I feel like I’ve been hit by a freight train.
With gritty eyes and a groggy mind, I grope for my phone, my alarm buzzing under my pillow, Mom thinks I use the old, red-lit clock on my nightstand to get up now my phone has magically disappeared.
I roll onto my back, hating the way the sun hasn’t risen yet, not even a watery light slicing through my blinds with December’s arrival. Every bone in my body feels sore, every muscle laden with a need for rest it won’t get.
But when my fingers find my screen and my eyes fight past the sandiness to focus, I see the time.
It’s only three in the morning. I have three more hours to try and feel whole again before I have to get up for school.
My phone is still buzzing though.
And it’s not a call.
A second of confusion seems to suspend in the air.
Then focus blares through me sharper than any alarm, and I’m sitting up too fast, knees curling up to my chest, my body still huddled under the sweaty warmth of my sheets as I grip my phone with both hands, my stomach dropping.
Texts.
From Eli.
He’s sent me… almost a hundred, according to the number which keeps climbing upward even as I watch, every message lighting up my screen, vibrating in my hand, just like the steady buzz of my alarm, because he doesn’t quit.
My throat feels dry, acid burning in my gut.
Eli, baby, what’s wrong?
Yesterday morning, he didn’t bother to return my text about work. Our only exchange was in Latin, when I did my best to stop him from murdering the girl who constantly grates on his nerves by kicking his chair.
Mom picked me up right at the door at Fit4Ever last night after my shift ended and I’d worked with Ansel on our project.
I had no word from Eli.
It took effort not to send him another text, but I distracted myself with messaging Janelle, even responded to an old text from Amanda. Dominic sent a few, but those I left unanswered, out of some misplaced loyalty for Eli.
He ended our night Sunday with a cold dismissal. It was a knife to the chest, what he said. “You should go home now.” I had to walk home in the dark alone while he slowly drove by. Rejection doesn’t cover it. Humiliation tore through my head all night.
Even hearing those words in my mind now as I unlock my screen and see he also called me, around one in the morning, I feel the slice of betrayal in my heart, the burn to my cheeks.
What does he think of me now? Why did he let it happen, encourage it, even, if he was just going to throw me away afterward? But he was already starting to discard me, wasn’t he?
His messages are still coming in, rendering me unable to scroll up and see his previous ones. Every time a new text comes through, my phone automatically lands me at the most recent message.
With shaky fingers, digesting the words as I dart my eyes over my screen, I try to calm his panic by stumbling over my keyboard, but I can’t quite get anything out. It’s like I’m paralyzed, clumsy, afraid.
Eli: Baby girl.
Him: I need you.
Where are you?
Wake up.
Wake up.
Wake up.
He sends it half a dozen times, and it takes me several tries to work through the nerves in my hands to respond.
Me: Hi.
Me: Hey.
Me: I’m here.
There’s a pause. He’s not typing. I’m holding my breath, staring at the time. 3:03. Why did you wait so long, you fucking asshole?
Eli: Baby.
Me: What’s wrong?
Eli: I can’t sleep.
I pull my bottom lip between my teeth, relaxing only marginally in bed, resting my head against a stack of pillows as I slouch down, phone still gripped tight between my fingers. You can’t sleep, so you sent me one hundred text messages, at three in the morning, instead of responding to the one I sent you almost twenty-four hours ago?
I let my eyes flutter closed, trying to breathe evenly, letting the initial panic subside.
But it doesn’t ebb entirely, even though I’ve got him here, talking to me.
Something is wrong. Him getting drunk Sunday night, what happened in the car with Dominic. He’s getting bad again, or maybe he always is that. Maybe his performance is wavering.
There’s another vibration in my hand.
I open my eyes.
Eli: I’m sorry.
Me: For what?
Sleep still pulls at me, but I know, for him, I’d do anything, no matter how annoyed and confused and tired I am.
There’s a heaviness though, yanking me down, pulling me under. I wonder if Eli feels it too.
Not two halves of the same whole.
Not soulmates.
Something horrible.
We experience the dark moods together more vivid than anything else. An invisible tether, binding our souls to the same hell.
Eli: Promise me something.
I slide down onto my back, rolling heavy lidded eyes at his non-answer, his non-apology. “I’ll always mess up.” He warned me, didn’t he? Every interaction we’ve had has been a warning, every secret he’s let spill, a cautionary tale.
I’m the one still here.
I’m the one not heeding the omens.
The fan spins, cooling the sweat along my forehead, under my arms. Adrenaline and relief, whiplash courses through me, leaving me dizzy.
But the longer I wait to answer his request for a promise, the more my heart picks up speed, loud, vibrant thumps in my chest.
It will take a long time now to slide back into the bliss of dreams. Staring at my screen, I inhale deeply, and decide to stay in this nightmare with Eli.
Me: What is it?
He’s typing immediately, and I wonder how long he would’ve waited before he texted me again, and again, and again.
It should be fear across my belly. Instead, it’s desire that makes my stomach jump, thinking of all those texts. All that need.
Is this how much he wants me? Or is he just sick, and I’m the poison masquerading as an antidote?
Him: Don’t leave me.
My response is automatic. Me: Never. I bite my tongue, wincing as I send the message. I mean it, don’t I? And when did that change, huh, Eden? When did I decide to try this? When did I realize I couldn’t live without him, even if it ruins my entire life?
Was it the slice of pain when he told me to go home Sunday night? Did I like the sting of it so much it’s that I couldn’t live without? Being pushed back and put in my place, something he could do so, so well?
Him: I don’t believe you.
Good. You shouldn’t. I’m a liar, just like you.
Me: Let me read your other messages.
I scroll up, not waiting, hoping I can get ahead of what he’s typing now. As I track upward, I see pleas, more cries for me to wake up, simple words over and over, but it’s the origin I want. The start of his breakdown.
What’s going on inside your head, baby boy? Why are you so scared of being alone? Do you frighten yourself so much?
I keep scrolling back.
I see my name, baby girl, declarations of love.
Generic questions. Where are you? What are you doing? I’m scrolling up and up and up, surprised he’s not interrupted with another text. I flick my thumb over the screen faster and faster, until finally, finally, I see the first message he sent tonight.
Eli: I think the world has ended. Come find me.
Not long after the call he made. Then there’s a gap. A half hour. And the next message, before he gets belligerent, is, Dad thinks I should be in a hospital. He wants to leave me. Don’t let him. Are you out there?
My stomach cramps.
Now, in this moment, Eli sends another message. All of the texts shift, showing me the new arrival.
Him: Scared now?
My sweet, sweet psycho. Don’t you know I like how your fear feels?
But just as I start to text him back, my phone buzzes again, and I see his name splashing over my screen, photo the one of him holding a knife to his throat.
Glad Mom hasn’t found this thing.
I answer the call, flutters in my belly like always when I start to speak on the phone.
“Hello?”
There’s a pause. I pull the phone away, wondering if he accidentally called, and already hung up.
But I see we’re still connected.
I press the screen to my ear again, pulse thudding loud in my head. I get nervous on phone calls, and I have no idea why. Maybe I’m out of practice. The last time I spent any length of time at all in conversation like this was with Nic, late at night in my bedroom, not too different from now.
Except… Eli loves me as much as I thought I loved Nic.
The butterflies in my stomach beat with rage at the thought. He loves me, doesn’t he?
“I’m surprised you answered.” His cool voice makes my nerves grow.
I bury further under my covers, flipping onto my side and hiding my head under my sheets as we speak. “Me too,” I tell him honestly.
He laughs, and hearing the sound through the phone, with nothing of his eyes or his lips to distract me, causes me to feel shaky all over, my stomach tightening with nerves.
But the laughter dies off.
I remember his words.
Dad thinks I should be in a hospital.
“Eli.” I close my eyes. “What’s wrong?”
Another moment of silence, but I don’t need to check if he’s there. I can hear him exhale. And it’s only when he speaks again, I pick up on it. The rawness in his words. The edge. Like maybe he’s been crying, or screaming, or he’s barely awake at all. “Nothing now,” he says, and I hate how much I adore the last word. “I wish I could come over.”
I think of Sunday night, and I’m blushing all over again. “Yeah, well, the last time you came over, you ended up ignoring me for a full day, so…” I trail off, wanting an explanation but I’m too soft for this boy to yell at him right now, when he sounds so fragile, and all of those messages and his words about Eric and the hospital… I want him calm.
I want him soothed.
I want to soothe him.
His voice buoys my thoughts when he says, “I’m sorry.”
I imagine him on his side, no shirt, just his choker, his elbow bent, and head propped in one hand, other holding his phone to his ear as he stares out the glass panes of his balcony door. “I just couldn’t get it out of my head. You and Dominic.”
In my mind, his expression is blank. His eyes are thick with shadows. He’s staring at the night sky with the same glazed focus he used on the girl beside him in Latin. Half here, half slipping under despondency.
I’m not angry at his words about Dom, even as I think Eli drove us to do it. I’m not mad, although the confusion lingers, and it’ll probably grow stronger in the daylight.
Instead, all I want is for him to tell me what he’s been thinking these past few hours, when he’s tried to reach out to me. I don’t care about Dominic or Sunday or the lingering pangs of shame that hit me on and off all day long.
I care about him.
It’ll be my downfall, won’t it?
“Eli.”
“Yeah, baby?”
I fall a little harder. “Why did your dad think you should go to the hospital?”
“I was at your work.”
I frown in the darkness under my sheets. At my work? “When? Did you come after I left?”
“I went after practice.”
I shake my head, batting down my covers so I can breathe cool air. “What are you talking about? I texted you yesterday morning, you didn’t reply, when did you—”
“I know.” He keeps his voice soft. “I waited in the car. Outside.”
I dip my chin, flipping onto my back and staring up into the dark at my spinning fan. “Why didn’t you come in?”
And right before he says it, I think of him. “Ansel was there.”
My throat feels sore, raw, but I force myself to speak anyway. “You didn’t come in because… you were watching us?” My skin tingles, a shiver stealing through me.
He’s quiet for a moment. Then he just says, “Yes.” He doesn’t sound sorry.
I’m not afraid of you. I repeat it again and again, but the number of times I need to hear it inside my head, with every week that passes, makes me think maybe I’m lying to myself. Maybe I’m terrified. “How long did you watch us?”
Another pause. Another heartbeat of quiet. Then, with his voice unnatural, deep and full of anguish and not at all like the cold, accented sound I’ve come to expect from him, he says, “I fell asleep. I fucking fell. Asleep.” I hear something like a crash, like maybe he threw something, and I flinch, pulling my covers up again, hiding my head, but staying on my back.
I open my mouth to calm him, to hug him with my words since I can’t reach for him through the phone, but before I can say anything at all, there’s a horrible noise coming across the line.
I jerk the phone away from my ear, turning to stare at it. The sound doesn’t stop.
Goosebumps dart over my body, up my thighs, down my arms, on my chest and around the back of my neck. I’m trying to breathe, but nothing really comes, my lungs seized with fear, and all I can focus on is the sound.
Laughter, but it’s not normal. It’s nothing like Eli’s laugh.
It’s all wrong. Unceasing, high-pitched, then swooping low, barely a sound at all, just a rhythmic pulse, oxygen expelled from his lungs, air between snarled teeth.
Fear is cold.
I tuck in my elbows, like if I make myself small, I can stay away from this version of him. My phone is in front of my face, my fingers curled tight around it. I should hang up.
I should throw it across the room. I should get away from him.
He’s still making this terrible sound.
It’s not even quite human. It’s broken and deranged and eerie and I can admit it now.
I am scared.
“Eli,” I say, not bringing my phone to my ear. I swallow the lump in my throat, sucking saliva up into my mouth, wetting my lips so I can speak. “Eli, what do you mean you fell asleep?”
He keeps laughing.
It gets louder. Belligerent. Hysterical. I pull the speaker further from my face, like I can hold onto him with only fingertips, like I can stay an arm’s length away.
Come closer, he said. I promise I’ll fuck up your life.
“Eli!” I snap his name, anger and fear coalescing into something sharp and hot. “Eli, stop!”
He doesn’t. It’s reminiscent of a horror movie. A demon in the corner of the room, walking backward, neck twisted the wrong way.
But no. It’s more subtle. It’s the baby boy in the crib, unsuspecting, swaddled in blankets. Something just off about the way they smile, the way they blink, are they dead or alive?
Eli’s laughter reaches a fever pitch, and I hear footsteps, but they’re too close to be his dad coming to help. They’re his, and he’s pacing, and pacing, and he doesn’t stop laughing or walking and a second later, there’s a sharp thud.
Then again.
And again.
