Liv, Forever by Amy Talkington Read Free Book Online Page A

get my toothbrush. I was exhausted.
    EVERYTHING WAS BLACK. I could feel myself moving through the darkness. It was thicker than water, more like oil. As my eyes adjusted, I could see subtle colors in the murkiness: browns, purples, reds. It felt like I was being born or likeI was a piece of film being developed … until I emerged and found I was kissing Malcolm.
    My eyes were closed, but I knew it was him. I could
feel
it. He was warm and gentle. And it felt good. I wanted it, but I felt out of control. I couldn’t have stopped if I’d tried.
    I separated from myself, imagining what we looked like. From above, I could see we were lying on a deep red velvet blanket, two teenagers making out in the dark Founders Tomb. But then images started to emerge from the darkness around us. At first they were pleasant: a Titian cherub, a Chagall angel. But then one of Bosch’s devils appeared. And Munch’s screaming terror. Francis Bacon’s agonizing
Pope.
And one of Basquiat’s jagged skulls. We were surrounded by ghouls and ghosts, yet we were still kissing, oblivious.
    Then another ghost appeared. She was from a painting I didn’t recall ever having seen—glamorous but haunted. She could have been painted by Kirchner or Emil Nolde. She was so vivid, a beautiful girl about my age with her copper red hair in pin curls and a beaded flapper dress. But the dress was caked with dark blood that had clearly drained from a slim wound across her neck.
    She leaned down and tapped my shoulder. “Stop yourself!” she whispered to me. But I kept kissing Malcolm. So she shook me harder until finally I pulled away. At once, I was back in my body, and I looked directly at her as she warned me, “Stop yourself or they’ll get you, too!”
    Suddenly I realized what was happening. It was a nightmare. I was plagued by nightmares as a child and had learned long ago how to wake myself from one. I blinkedmy eyes several times—that usually did the trick. And it worked.
    I bolted upright in bed, panting with thrill and fear. It had seemed so real. But it wasn’t. I flipped on the light, grabbed my notebook, and started to draw what I’d seen.

 
    I should’ve known something was horribly wrong when Cyrus Huckle came to the woods with us to sneak a cigarette. Cyrus Huckle didn’t smoke. None of the Preps smoked, at least not with us.
    At first he kept to himself, pacing, but then he sat next to me. I ignored him until he offered me a swig from his flask. I didn’t even know what it was. I didn’t care. I had two. I played Echo and the Bunnymen on my boombox—“The Killing Moon.” I remember he laughed when I told him the name.
    It was unusually cold for October, and someone had a blanket so we all shared it. Under the blanket, his hand reached out for mine. Our fingertips touched. And even though he was a Prep whom I despised on principle, I held his hand secretly. All my friends—the Freaks (at least that’s what the Preps called us)—were sitting right there, and none of them had a clue.
    As we all walked back to campus for curfew, he quietly asked me to meet him at the nook in the catacombs under Main. At midnight.
    I checked into my dorm. I had to fake out even my roommate. Icouldn’t tell anyone I was meeting Cyrus Huckle. No one would’ve believed it. Not possible. Not real. So, I put on my pajamas. I even ate a Tastykake like I did every night, just so no one would think anything was off. That was my last meal. A butterscotch Tastykake because Katie Milton was out of chocolate.
    I hid an outfit in the shower. At eleven forty, I slipped into the bathroom and put it on—my crimson Doc Martens, well-worn Dickies, my favorite Smiths T-shirt, and a flannel. I grabbed my Walkman and listened to more Echo and the Bunnymen while I stole across campus.
    When I got to the nook, he wasn’t there. I started to think it was a joke. Of course. Just as I was about to leave, he walked up. He grabbed my waist and pulled me deeper into the