Haven't answered in three days.
What's the point?
Every time I open my mouth, every time I let him see me, that look crosses his face.
The one he tries to hide but can't.
"I brought food. Mom made soup. The good kind, with the noodles you like."
Like soup can fix this.
Like anything can fix this.
I'm sixteen years old, and I want to die.
Not in an active way.
I'm not going to do anything about it.
But the wanting is there, constant as a heartbeat. Every morning I wake up and for one blissful second I forget. Then I move, feel the pull of damaged skin, and remember.
Remember the fire.
The screaming.
Nash's hands reaching for me through the flames, grabbing my arm, pulling, pulling, but the twisted metal had me pinned and the fire was eating my face and I could smell myself cooking?—
"Rex. Please."
Something cracks in Nash's voice. That raw edge of guilt that makes me want to punch through the wall because it's not his fault.
None of this is his fault.
But try telling him that.
"Go away," I finally say, and my voice comes out wrong. Distorted.
"I can't." The door handle rattles. "Rex, you've been in there for a week. You have to eat. You have to?—"
"Have to what?" I'm on my feet before I realize I'm moving, crossing the room in three strides, yanking the door open with enough force that it bangs against the wall. "Have to what,Nash? Show my face? Go back to school? Pretend everything's fucking fine?"
Nash stumbles backward, soup sloshing in the bowl he's holding. His eyes—the same ice blue as mine—meet mine for exactly one second.
One second where I see everything.
Love. Horror. Guilt so thick it's choking him. And underneath all of it, that animal instinct that screamswrong wrong wrongat the sight of me.
Then he looks away.
My own twin. The other half of me.
He can't do it.
"You can't even look at me," I say, and my voice is hollow. Empty. "My own brother can't even look at me unless I wear a fucking mask."
"Rex, I'm sorry. I'm so fucking sorry. I?—"
"STOP."