Can't Wait To Be Dead: Can't Wait To Be Dead, #1

By Samantha Verba

The moment I stepped foot in this house I knew I was going to die, or maybe I was dying before I got here. I don't know, Mom always said I was a hypochondriac, but this feels different. There's something seriously strange about Harker Drake and finding out the truth will be the death of me. Werewolf, wizard, shapeshifter, heck maybe he's a robot and I'm just overthinking it. I thought he was a vampire, but like, come on, that would be so obvious. At the very least, he's totally annoying and clearly has an attitude problem. I guess I can still leave wraith on the table, but human? Fat chance. How am I supposed to live with him when he clearly doesn't want me here? Classes haven't even started yet, and this school year already bites.

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Samantha Verba
• Release date: Oct 3, 2022
• ISBN: 9798215466971

Samantha Verba

Samantha Verba graduated from Southern New Hampshire University with a degree in Creative Writing and English Literature. She will not hesitate to roll her eyes if you ask her about classic literature, but she will talk incessantly about Paranormal Romance and Speculative Fiction. Nobody asked, but her favorite house pets are Ferrets and Rats. When asked about her own writing she will never claim that it is ‘good’, as that is subjective, but she will call it ‘fun and mildly imaginative.’ Can’t Wait To Be Dead is her debut novel, and the first in a three book series. Keep an eye out for future books by her and don’t forget to floss.

Book preview

1

Hotel Pennsylvania

Gravel kicks up from the tires of my mother’s old hatchback as the poorly packed boxes creak and sway in the trunk. I clench and unclench my jaw, nervously waiting to see the new house on the horizon, but the trees lining this narrow stone driveway seem to only grow thicker the further we go. I grip the steering wheel until my knuckles turn white. Mom reaches over and places her hand on the back of mine, flashing me a childlike smile and giving my hand a reassuring squeeze.

This is going to be fun, I promise, she says. I glance at her and nod with pursed lips. Nerve wracking maybe, but fun? Fat chance.

I was never particularly fond of Manhattan, so I can tell she thought I would be more excited to be out of there. I sigh and raise her one nervous mock smile. I know the only reason she let me drive here was to keep me distracted so I wouldn’t overthink the whole way from the passenger seat. Little does she know, I’m a great multi-tasker.

A college professor turned home school instructor; Mom has been granted the opportunity to be a live in teacher in a place so unheard of that I couldn’t even find it on a web map without zooming in. Even then, the picture was so grainy that it wasn’t even worth the trouble to investigate it any further. I’m excited to have a yard, if I’m being honest, it’s been a while since I’ve been able to walk barefoot on grass without worrying about stepping on someone’s forgotten dog poop bag or a pile of runny, sun warmed ketchup covered in ants.

I swallow hard as the trees continue to get thicker. Where is this place and why does it feel like I’m not supposed to know it’s here? Should I be looking for a moose crossing sign? Or maybe a Wendigo?

Bless her heart, but Mom should not have been answering job postings online without my approval. According to her, the family is ecstatic and positively delighted to have us here, and even called us a perfect fit. I personally think that that is a bit of a red flag, but she is excited, and if this will bring her peace, then that’s all that matters.

And you said they’re doctors? I ask as we approach a large wooden gate.

I stare at the wonderous farmhouse as I roll to a stop. Mom is beaming as she opens her door, dancing out of her seat. An older man with combed back salt and pepper hair comes trotting down the porch steps, waving at us, his own smile big enough to challenge hers. I note that he’s wearing a jean jacket and overalls, and an overwhelming realization that I’m not in New York anymore consumes me. I swallow hard one last time before plastering a smile of my own to my face and sticking my arm out of the window to wave back at him. Mom runs up to meet him at the gate and they chat for a moment, and she points to me before throwing her head back with a laugh and some arm gestures that I don’t think express any human emotion I’ve ever experienced.

I stare skeptically at them and wait for instructions. I pull my sleeves down over my hands as a sunbeam creeps its way through the windshield. The clock says 4:04pm. Typically I have no qualms about going outside after 4, but there is so much open sky that I feel better off just slouching down in my seat, pulling my baseball cap down over my eyes, and waiting to find out where I’m supposed to park the car.

I notice a boy in a red flannel and sunglasses half hidden by the shadow of a small tool shed in the yard just beyond the fence. With a cigarette hanging from his lips, he plucks the strings of an acoustic guitar, nodding along to a song I’m too far away to hear. That must be Harker. 

I don’t know if it’s Mom’s nervous influence or if it’s secondhand paranoia that leeched off her and on to me, but I’m not about to let myself start scabbing over from the sun right before I meet this boy. I mean, meet this family. My anxiety begins to boil behind my eyes as the sunbeam creeps across the dashboard closer to me. What could they possibly be chatting about up there that they can’t discuss when I am safely inside the house? Did they suddenly forget that I’m here?

I let out a frustrated sigh that has been building up inside of me and I look out the window to my left. The woods surrounding the driveway abruptly end at the gate, how peculiar. The house itself is set in a beautifully large clearing, at least 10 football fields long and twice as wide, before the trees start to accumulate and cluster again, surrounding the perimeter like armed guards. They’re so thick that you can’t even see into the darkness beyond the branches. A real smile finally makes its way on to my face at the thought of walking through those thick trees, not a sunbeam in sight. Mom must have noticed the scowl having left my face without surgical removal and practically skips back to the car.

Hey sweetie, that’s mister Scott Turner, he’s the groundskeeper here and he’s going to open the gate for us, okay? Just follow the driveway to the right and park the car in front of the house. Isn’t this so fun? They have a groundskeeper! she squeals.

The most fun, I say, and allow myself to keep smiling. This time I can’t even pretend its fake. I’ve never lived anywhere that has a groundskeeper before, even if he is the master of denim.

I do as I’m told and drive the car down the driveway to the right. The gravel turns to pavement that loops around a large flower garden and looks to have another stretch that leads to a big red barn. I pull the car right up to the front of the house, wondering what kind of animals they keep in the barn. Mom and Mr. Turner walk around the garden, still chatting. He opens the car door for me, and motions for me to join them. I steal a quick glance in the rear-view mirror, looking for Harker by the shed, but he’s gone.

Good evenin lil lady, you must be Eleanor, Mr. Turner says, still grinning. He doesn’t speak with a southern accent, but he most definitely sounds like he wishes he did. Maybe this is just what Pennsylvania people sound like. And why is everyone so smiley? Am I the only person here that’s awkward around new people?

Scott Turner, he says, holding his hand out for me to take.

Ellie, please, I reply, giving his hand a loose shake. I slide out of the car and stand between the two of them. I must have been sitting for too long because the head rush I get almost knocks me back down into my seat.

Well, Ellie, the Drake’s will be arrivin home a lil later this evenin, so how bout’ we getcha inside and settled while we wait. Musta been an awful long drive here from the city, you must be exhausted.

I’m okay, I assure him. Right now, I’m just curious about what kind of animals you’ve got down there. I nod my head towards the barn, trying to see if I can catch a glimpse of anything in the yard. I’ve never seen a farm animal in person before. I can feel my cheeks flush with embarrassment, though I don’t know why. It’s not my fault that 90% of my life has been restricted to city apartments and hospital beds.

Mr. Turner lets out a laugh and claps me on the shoulder. I hate to break yer heart so early on, but there’s no animals down there jus yet. We usually have a few horses, but we hadda put down our last one yesterday. He wasn’t doin so well, didn’t want em to suffer, but we’ll probably be gettin a few more in the comin months or so, see how things go. Maybe I can even teach ya to ride!

My eyes widen at the thought of me sitting on the back of a horse. Mom stifles a giggle, biting her lips as she looks at my expression.

Mr. Turner climbs the porch steps and waves us on to follow him inside. This place is just like every photo of a typical farmhouse I’ve ever seen. Equipped with water spigot by the garden and a two-seater wooden swing, the porch extends across the whole front of the house. Part of me wants to see if there’s any wicker furniture to complete the scene. Hopefully he lets me explore a little before the Drakes come home.

The inside of the house looks like a painting. Everything is spotless and in its perfect place, which seems odd for a farmhouse. I don’t know what I was expecting, but muddy boots and a golden retriever come to mind. The dark hardwood flooring almost glistens without a spec of dirt or dust in sight.

Feel free to get acquainted with the house, as I’m sure you’ll be spendin a lotta time in here, Mr. Turner says with a wink. Just how much did my mom tell him about my condition? I’ll go start unloadin yer boxes. Won’t be too long, by the looks of it, you gals pack light.

We move around a bit, Mom says, which is a lie. Just tell him that between dad’s funeral and my hospital bills, we now live just along the poverty line. Hard to accumulate material possessions when you never know where you’re going to put them down. She follows him back outside, and this is just the break I’ve been looking for.

I’m not sure where to go or what to do. Everything is so clean that I’m almost afraid to touch any of it in fear of leaving a smudgy fingerprint. I look at the staircase in front of me and then at the two large glass doors to my left. I’ll start there.

I pad softly across the floor, avoiding any type of noise in such a quiet house. An uncomfortable feeling crawls down my spine, like I’m being watched, but when I look around no one is there. Must be my own awkwardness.

A large L shaped suede couch fills most of the room, piled with thick, comfy pillows. I enter cautiously, running my hand along the back of the couch, feeling just how expensive it is. My eyes immediately find two large, fluffy plush blankets, perfectly folded on top of an ottoman, and I can’t help but sink my fingers into them too. These may be the softest blankets I’ve ever touched in my entire life. I spy a record player and a large piano, but no television. Maybe this room is where Harker and I will be doing our schoolwork.

Another set of double doors, wide open, lead to a dining area attached to the biggest kitchen I’ve ever seen outside of a magazine. I see the entryway where I came in and realize the rooms connect in one big loop.

It’s big isn’t it? a sharp voice snakes through my ears. I turn around and leaning against the door frame is the boy with the red flannel. Mom said he’s 18, but he looks a little older. His illness must have aged him.

Suddenly I’ve forgotten every word in the English language.

Unnecessarily large, he says, enunciating every syllable. He removes his sunglasses and stares at me, masking his own curiosity with an essence of disinterest. Elizabeth, was it? He holds his hand out to me, I think he’s expecting me to shake it. I grab it slowly and a quick shock runs through my palm and into my forearm. His hands are both clammy and freezing. He grips my hand firmly for one second, two, and then retracts it, stuffing it back into his pants pocket. My hand still hovers there in midair for a moment before it floats back down to my side.

Eleanor, I correct him, my voice sounding dazed and nervous all wrapped into one. I mean, Ellie. My tongue practically sticks to the roof of my mouth.

His appearance is captivating. Skin greyish white bordering translucence, like I might be able to count every vein and ligament that runs through his hands and up his arms. And I thought I was pale. His black shirt clings to his too thin frame and his red flannel hangs around him, at least two sizes too big. I wonder if he bought it that way, or if it’s just an outcome from being sick. Strands of tousled black curls shower his forehead, ending just above his eyes. His burgundy eyes. Is that even a real eye color? Must be a side effect or something. Or this is just how normal teenage girls react to meeting boys their own age. He stares firmly at me, looking me up and down. I hold his gaze briefly before he puts his sunglasses back on. His eyes were definitely burgundy.

Well, cool talk Ellie, he says, turning to leave.

Wait, I say, harnessing every drop of saliva I can find in my mouth. I clear my throat as he turns back around, sliding his sunglasses down the bridge of his nose, staring at me with amusement dancing on the corner of his lips. You must be Harker? Is it really a question? Obviously, he’s Harker. Why is it that every time I open my mouth only stupidity falls out?  

Well, I’m most certainly not Elizabeth, he replies, hand to his chest, like he can’t believe I would ask him such a thing. And before I can figure out any other words that could possibly exist or help save this interaction; he’s gone so quickly I could have sworn he simply vanished into thin air.

I peer around the corner back into the sitting room with the soft, fluffy blankets, but he has completely disappeared. Way to make a first impression, Ellie. I wonder if he’s always this snarky or if it’s just this morning that something crawled up his pant leg and bit him on the ass.

I wander around the big house, still too afraid to touch anything. On the other side of the kitchen is a laundry room, plain and basic, not coin operated, thankfully.  There’s an office with a conference desk and a wipe board on wheels, curtains drawn over the windows. This is probably where we’ll be doing lessons. The other room must be one of those sitting only rooms. Attached to the office is a hallway with two closed doors. I wonder if one of them is my new bedroom.

Maybe the Drake’s are just never around and that’s why they need my mom to school Harker. Maybe he’s one of those angry rich kids that’s sarcastic and a little bit mean to nice girls they meet for the first time because mommy is never home. Maybe I have been watching too many movies.

I take a seat at the kitchen table and pull out my phone. No messages because anyone that would actually text me is already at this house, aka my mom, and Abby wasn’t even conscious the last time I saw her. I don’t even know if she’s capable of texting anymore. I have about half a bar of service and none of my apps will load so I guess this is a Wi-Fi only household. What was I thinking that I’d get a signal in a place like this?

The sliding glass door across from the table shimmers as the sky transitions from afternoon to evening. I spy a stone patio complete with lounge chairs and a large black grill, the small tool shed just a few yards away. I crane my neck to see if Harker is smoking again, but there’s nothing but green grass.

My phone flashes 4:58pm as I click the side button, turning it back off and shoving it in my pocket. I should probably go help Mom and Mr. Turner with the boxes in the car, but to be honest after that interaction with Harker I kind of just want to find my new room and hide. Worst first impression ever.

I see a glowing orange dot in the distance outside. It moves slowly up and down. I watch it for a moment before I realize that Harker is out there, perched on the edge of the fence surrounding the yard, and he’s staring directly at me. At least, I think he is. I’m not completely sure because his eyes are still outlined with sunglasses. Where did he come from? He wasn’t there a second ago. I don’t even know him and he’s already frustrating me. I wonder if anyone has informed him about my whole cancer thing, or if he’s just being deliberately annoying.

Miss Ellie, Mr. Turner calls through the house. I look as he rounds the corner and spies me at the table. I got yer room all set up for ya, he says, Hope ya don’t mind bunkin upstairs. The Drakes tend to be more active down here so I thought the upstairs would suit ya more peacefully.

I smile. I just met this man an hour ago and he’s already shown me more kindness than I deserve. I follow him up the stairs, the banister making a tight squeaking sound as my hand slides up it. I pull away quickly, grimacing.

Mr. Turner laughs and says, Givin a new meanin to the phrase ‘squeaky clean.’ I giggle and try to hide my ever-growing embarrassment as he guides me down the hallway. We walk past a door painted all black. It stands out obnoxiously against the off-white walls, not matching any of the other doors.

Harker’s room, Mr. Turner says with a nod towards the door. You don’t need to worry ‘bout him much, he rarely comes out. But this, he says while approaching the next door over, is your room.

I walk into the room and its three times bigger than the one I had in our apartment. My jaw slacks and my lips part as I look at the giant queen-sized bed, fully made up with blankets and large squishy looking pillows. One of the soft blankets that I saw in the sitting room downstairs drapes over the foot of the bed, and I must contain myself before I full on girl squeal out loud. There’s two doors in the room, one closed and one open revealing a walk-in closet. I’ve never had a closet before. I blink away the tears welling up in my eyes and turn back to Mr. Turner.

Thank you so much, you didn’t have to do all of this, I say, gesturing to the whole room behind me.

Oh, yer more than welcome sweetheart, he says. We even set ya up with yer own bathroom. He points to the closed door, and I run across the room to check it out. I have a room that I can literally run across. Mom was right, this is exciting. Figured, we’ve never had a young lady stayin on our farm before, might as well give ya the room with the most privacy.

The bathroom, fully stocked with towels and toiletries, is just as spotless as the rest of the house. A waterfall shower glistens with small, black square tiles, and it looks brand new and unused. There was a bathtub with a shower in our apartment, but it had some stains in it from the previous tenants and I hated seeing it every time I had to bathe. I breathe in my nose and out my mouth, trying my best not to full on cry in front of Mr. Turner. No need to keep adding to the list of reasons as to why I can’t look anyone in the eye here.

Thank you so much, I don’t even know what to say. I don’t think there’s enough word options in the English language to express just how thankful I am for this.

No need to say anythin more, Ellie. We’re glad to have ya here. In a couple of days, once ya get settled, I’ll take you and yer Ma into town, and you can go and pick out all yer personals for the bathroom. Lady things and whatnot, he chuckles. The Drakes want you two to be as cozy here as possible.

2

Cotton Candy Kittens

Ihelp carry my few boxes up the stairs, eyeing Harker’s black bedroom door with every trip I make. I tiptoe past it, but I don’t know why. He didn’t really give me a warm welcome, so I’m not sure what I’m so afraid of. I know it must be weird to have someone coming in and invading your space. Maybe it’s different when its someone the same age as you. Maybe he feels obligated to hang out with me, or maybe he's just as socially inept as I am. Either way, it’s going to be a very long stay here if we’re avoiding each other. I’ve only just got here, so I’m just going to wait it out. I should give him the benefit of the doubt, or I’m overthinking all of this and he doesn’t care that I’m here at all.

Slowly creeping past Harker’s door again, I make my way back downstairs. He’s probably not even in there, and I’m just being paranoid. Why do I care what he thinks of me anyway? Calm down Ellie, you’re going to give yourself an aneurism.

I can hear laughter pouring out from the kitchen, so I gently poke my head around the corner to see if it’s my mom, and it is, along with two new people, and Harker. He’s dressed in a black button-down shirt, a small upgrade from the flannel. There’s a tight look to his expression as he stares at her from across the kitchen, but I can’t tell if he’s just pretending to be unimpressed or if he really is.

Oh! This must be Eleanor, the other woman says. This must be Mrs. Drake.

Her short, black hair bounces as she trots around the kitchen counter. I see where Harker gets his looks from. She’s dressed in a white blouse and black jeans, her heeled boots clicking against the kitchen floor as she pushes past everyone, embracing me in a hug. I have to stop myself from recoiling at her touch. Unexpected human contact has never been my favorite. Harker smirks at me from over his mother’s shoulder. The car alarm in my brain goes off, Danger! Danger! But I manage to pull my arms up from my sides and hug her back.

It is so wonderful to finally meet you.

I send my mom a very forced smile, unsure of what to do. It’s so nice to meet you too, uhm...

Oh, where are my manners. I’m Dr. Madeline Drake, and this is my husband Dr. Finnegan Drake. She motions to the tall, thin, red-haired man.

"Well, it’s nice to meet you Dr.-

Oh hush, my mistake. I didn’t mean to be so formal. You don’t have to call us doctor anything. We’re going to be living together sweetie! Mr. and Mrs. Drake is just fine.

Okay, I say, and settle on a smile, giving up on the proper introduction.

And this is our son, Harker. She holds her hand out to Harker as he acts like he’s meeting me for the first time. He must not have mentioned our interaction earlier, so I guess I’ll just keep that between us. He bows slightly and allows a small smile to tug at the corner of his lips.

You two are going to get along wonderfully, I just know it. Now come, come, sit with us and let’s get acquainted. We are so blessed to have you and Ms. Melissa staying with us. I know it's going to take a few days to settle in, but the wonderful thing about schooling from home is that we’re going to be here, becoming one big family. I’m not sure if she’s endearing or toxic. Toxic might be an understatement.

I slide into one of the end seats at the table, Harker taking a seat at the opposite end and crossing his arms over his chest. Now that he’s, politely, not wearing sunglasses, his eye color is prominent and most definitely burgundy.

We make eye contact and even though its rude to stare, I can’t break it. Even when it feels like he’s trying to suck my soul right out of my body through my pupils, his cherry chocolate eyes hold my gaze steady. I practically jump out of my skin when my mom puts her hand on my arm.

Ellie? she says, Mrs. Drake asked you a question. I blink my eyes a few times at her before registering what she just said.

I’m sorry, I apologize.  I think my brain stopped working for a second, what was the question?

Mrs. Drake reassures me with a smile and says, tell us more about your illness, dear. What kind of cancer do you have?

Uhm, I say, pulling my long sleeves down over my hands and bunching up the excess fabric in my fists. Well, I had skin cancer, but I don’t anymore. I cough, my voice suddenly wanting to grab on to every dry patch in my throat. Why does it feel totally unfair to admit in front of Harker that I had cancer?

I was born with Gorlin Syndrome, which is like, a genetic mutation I got from my dad. Something happened to the thing in my body that stops me from growing tumors. I glance at my mom. She nods reassuringly and squeezes my arm, encouraging me to continue. Usually, she’s the one that does all the explaining. Like, the tumors just show up whenever they want. I’ve already had to have one removed from my jaw. My hand reflexively touches the scar near my chin. I lost two of my teeth from that surgery, the tumor was growing inside the bone. I glance around again before settling back on Mrs. Drake. Two of my bottom teeth are fake, I squeak out, practically a whisper. She stares at me with wide eyes, absorbing every word I say.

You brave, sweet girl, she says. The expression on her face is sympathetic but there’s an underlying look of fascination in her eyes. A type of curiosity that I’ve never seen when trying to explain my condition to someone, especially a doctor. A doctor of what, exactly, I’m not sure yet.

I wouldn’t really call myself brave. Bravery is a choice, and I didn’t choose to be born like this. Harker snickers and his hand flies up and covers his mouth. Both of his parents give him a single warning glance, the warmth completely dissolving from their eyes, and he immediately goes silent.

Mrs. Drake looks back at me and awkwardly half laughs. I apologize for my son. It has been a long while since we’ve had house guests, his manners must be rusty. Please, keep going.

I catch a glimpse of him looking down at the table, expressionless. I clear my throat again, Well, I won’t go into detail about how gross I can be, but I don’t like walking around barefoot we’ll leave it at that. A nervous laugh escapes me, and my mom rubs my arm while glancing around the table.

I don’t really go outside, at least not until after 5 or 6pm. Now that it’s August, I’ll go out around 4 or so. Or I just don’t leave the house at all. Lots of long sleeves and turtlenecks in my suitcase. I actually don’t have GS that bad, some people have it and it’s much more intense than my symptoms. I’m a little over cautious because of my dad. He had a very mild case, so it went unnoticed until he got a really big brain tumor and died.

Everyone at the table remains silent, even my mom. We’ll just add this one to the list of uncomfortable moments I’ve had today. I look around and see everyone staring down at the table. I figured they were informed that my dad passed away, or maybe they just assumed the three of us would be coming here. It’s one of those types of topics that everyone wants to know the answer to, but no one has the guts to bring up.

I’m sorry for your loss, Harker says, breaking the silence. It must be hard to live with the same disease that killed your father. He stares at me again, holding me hostage with his eyes. I’m unsure if his comment was inappropriate or sincere. The look on his face gives me no signals to read other than his level of intensity is so high I wouldn’t be surprised if my whole head exploded clean off my neck. I choose sincerity.

Enough about me, I say, not breaking the eye contact. What about you, Harker? What keeps you in the house?

My parents keep me here because I am a sociopath and a danger to society, he says flatly, eyes still never leaving mine.

Oh, hush up, Mrs. Drake says, rolling her eyes. Ignore him. He’s just being an ass.

May I be excused? he asks, looking at his father.

Mr. Drake also rolls his eyes, as if this is typical Harker behavior. Just go. You’ve said enough.

Harker’s chair loudly squeaks across the tile floor. He walks around the table, stuffing his hands into his pockets and keeping his eyes on the ground. His footsteps echo in the entryway, and Mrs. Drake grabs my hand and mouths the words I’m sorry to me as Mr. Drake clears his throat to speak.

I apologize on behalf of my son, please do not let his sour attitude deter you from wanting to stay with us. He’s just having a hard time right now, but he’ll adjust. He’s also not particularly fond of discussing his condition.

Could you explain his condition to my daughter? Is there anything she should know or be cautious of? Mom asks.

His illness is still...undefined, Mrs. Drake says. She looks like she is trying to choose her words very carefully. We believe it is a type of porphyria, a blood disorder. He didn’t start having these issues until he was around 6 years old. He claims it feels like his skin is burning off when he is exposed to the UV rays from the sun. Thankfully, that has calmed down a lot as he’s gotten older. Some days he has no energy to even leave his bed, while other days he’s a bit livelier, as you just witnessed. He’s gone through some surgical procedures himself over the years, bone marrow transplants, blood transfusions, but none of our tests seem to be able to pinpoint the root cause of his condition, so we figured it be best to keep him at home. As you know, it’s very hard to send someone to public school when they can’t be exposed to sunlight.

Empathy twists my stomach into a knot as I absorb everything Mrs. Drake says about Harker. It’s one thing to know your illness is going to kill you, but to be classified as ‘undefined’? Big yikes. At least I know that any day can be it for me. Realistically I’m going into the ground early, just like my father, but for Harker, he probably doesn’t know what’s going to happen next. He might not know if he will ever get better. That has got to be rough.

Well Ellie, you go on upstairs and settle in. We’re going to get dinner started, you guys must be starving, Mrs. Drake says to me. And please, just ignore Harker. He’s not the best at expressing his emotions in a more, pleasant manner. Teenage boys hardly ever are. He’ll adjust accordingly once he gets to know you.

Thank you, Mrs. Drake, I respond, putting on the sweetest smile I can find. "To be honest, I am feeling a bit drained. I think I might go lie down for a bit."

We’ll call you when dinners ready, hun, Mom says, rubbing my shoulder.

I creep back up the stairs, trying to move with the grace of an expertly trained ballerina as I walk past Harker’s black door. A low rumble of bass music vibrates under the door, and I try to listen to it without stopping to listen to it. It’s not a song I recognize. I slip past and into my room softly clicking the door behind me.

Right before we moved here I had my hair cut, now it stops right below my shoulders instead of right before my waist. It’s easier to manage, and I’m not sure why I waited all summer to do it. I figure if doctors ever need to go into my brain to remove anything, I don’t want to have to mourn the loss of long, time consuming hair on top of worrying about a brain tumor. It’s best to not become emotionally attached to my appearance.

I tilt my head to the left, and to the right, running my finger over the scar on my jaw, stopping my fingertip on my chin. Subconsciously, I run into the other various white spots on my face as well, thinking about the past lesions and skin growths I’ve had removed. No wonder Harker’s got an attitude towards me, I wouldn’t want to be stuck sitting across the table from this ugly mug either.

Stop it, you look fine. I’m right, I should stop speaking so negatively about myself. I walk away from the mirror to go test out the bed. My last mattress was twin sized and a glorified cot if I’m being honest. I swear it was stuffed with newspaper, it was so lumpy and stiff. But this bed? This bed feels like I’m being cuddled by a thousand kittens covered in cotton candy. I grab the large plush blanket and hide under it, letting it melt over me like butter. If I die while staying in this house Lord, bury me in this blanket. Let me spend eternity wrapped in its warmth and cradled in its soft plush arms.

3

Let’s See What’s Behind Door Number One

Iwake up, sweaty and disoriented from a nightmare filled with flashes of sharp teeth and blood. My skin aches to feel the cool summer night breeze. From my window I can see the purple and black night sky, the crescent moon sliver shining as bright as the darkness will let it. There’s a note on my door saying there’s a plate of food for me in the fridge, but the curiosity of my new surroundings takes my appetite away. I think I’ll just sit outside.

The house is so still, I might prefer the nightmare over standing here in the foyer listening to the sound of my own heart beating in my chest. My footsteps echo like cinderblocks on the floor as I open the front door, trying to quickly make my way outside before someone wakes up. I sit on the porch swing and sigh, letting the breeze tangle itself in my hair and caress my face. The sway of the swing brings down my exploding heart, lulling me into a false sense of security. You are safe, I think to myself. For now. I twitch as if someone has grabbed me from behind, but I turn and look, and no one is there. Just as expected. I notice a small glow coming from the side of the house, and curiosity gets the best of me, drawing me away from the comforts of the porch swing to investigate.

Crickets and the soft squish of my socks on the grass are the only sounds my ears tune in to as I walk through the yard. The glow is coming from a small basement window, and it’s actually much more than a glow, it’s a full on florescent light.

What is going on here, I mutter to myself as I squat down near the window.

The room is bright and shockingly white, as if the paint chosen was specifically picked to blind anyone that entered. A large metal table lives in the center with a small cart of medical tools lined up next to it. Someone moves across the room quickly, and I fall backwards on to my butt and scramble away from the window. Ah crap, I hope no one saw me spying. If anyone is doing anything at 2am, it’s probably because they don’t want anyone to know about it.

Curiosity gets the best of me, again, and I lean over and look, again. Go away my brain warns me. Danger! But I get on my stomach and lay flat on the ground, trying my best not to be seen while taking a full inventory of the room under the house. I know the Drakes are doctors, but this is like a full-on operating room they’ve got down here.

I see the back of someone’s head, a mop of black hair, sitting in a computer chair. I flatten myself closer to the ground to get a better view, the chair being just a little bit out of sight. It swings around and Harker is sitting there, book in his lap, holding a mug. Something is sticking out of the back of his hand, but I can’t quite make out what it is. Tubes? Wires? I would honestly be less surprised to find out he’s a robot than a sick kid. So far, his words never seem to have emotions attached to them.

He sips from his mug, turning the page of the book. His legs are pulled up and crossed in the computer chair, and his too large shirt drapes over him like a hospital gown. Very fitting, considering. Movement from the other side of the room causes him to look up from his book. His mouth is moving but he’s too far away for me to read his lips. I’ve gotten pretty good at reading lips through hospital room windows. You’d be surprised what I’ve learned about myself from others.

Mrs. Drake walks over to him, taking the mug from his hand and placing it on the metal table. I guess that table doesn’t need to be sterile. A grumpy expression spreads across his face as he reaches for the mug, but his mother swats his hand away. She moves quickly, pestering him about something. Harker opens his mouth, and his mother shines a bright light into it, making notes on a clipboard. She clicks a small object in her hand and a sudden flash fills the room. She moves to his other side, checking a monitor I didn’t notice before. Harker opens his mouth again and Mrs. Drake adjusts the arm of a machine connected to the wall, lining up a large white cylinder with his mouth. Is she taking dental x-rays? Shouldn’t he be wearing one of those lead apron things? His organs are getting a lot of radiation exposure right now without it. Why am I the only one that seems concerned about this?

I watch as she clicks the button in her hand, the light flashes, and she changes the position of the machine once more. The look on Harker’s face reflects that of boredom and contempt, like he’s done this hundreds of times. I watch Mrs. Drake make more notes on her clipboard, grabbing a tool off the cart, and hooking it around the inside of his cheek. He doesn’t wince or flinch. He just sits there and lets his mother continue doing whatever it is that she’s doing. I am so entranced by what is going on. Does this have something to do with his porphyria? Is that why they have to do this at 2am?

I get so caught up with all the questions buzzing around my head that I didn’t notice Harker looking right at me. Like, full blown, unblinking, staring right at me through the window. Mrs. Drake continues to work around him and doesn’t follow his gaze. Go! My brain yells at me, trying to connect the thought to my legs. Now! I roll on to my back, away from the window, pushing myself off the damp ground and run back to the front porch. For a second, I just stand there, trying to understand what it is I just witnessed, and then decide that I can think about this up in my room. My shirt and pants