Page 77 of Haunting Goats

I’m not dead…

I’m scared and alone, and nothing makes sense. Flashes of the In-Between play throughout my mind. The motel. Jake. Cash. My mother. The reaper. Attie… I owe him my life. Because of him, I have a future. Because of him, I can save myself now.

Anger starts to build as a feeling of betrayal overcomes me. Attie wouldn’t do this to me, though. He wouldn’t leave me to save myself. He loves me.

There has to be another reason for this. I go through all the possible scenarios of how this transpired.

Maybe it was a mix-up.

Maybe I’m dreaming.

Maybe it’s a misunderstanding somehow.

Tears stream down my face and snot travels down my upper lip. Sobbing uncontrollably, I realize I’m making a lot of noise and fear wracks my body.

Shut. Up. Lyr.

Irritated with myself, I stand up and face toward the mirror, looking myself up and down. I look like shit. I reach for my arm and pinch it.

“Ow!” I whisper-yell.

I abruptly rub at the spot.

I sniffle and wipe away my tears as I try to breathe through my meltdown. I study myself in the mirror. Recognizing that I need to be quiet because I have no idea what waits on the other side of this door, I straighten up and pull myself together. I look the same as I did the day that I died. It repulses me to see myself this way. I can handle a lot, but not this. Remembering that night makes me sick to my stomach, and I physically shake away the thought.

I ready myself for a battle with a monster; a battle that I am not prepared to win. I swallow my fear and everything I thought I knew.

I scrunch up my sleeves and throw my frizzy hair into a messy bun. Placing my pierced ear against the wooden door, I steady myself as I listen intently inside the adjoining room. I hear something smash, and I cower away from the door. Footsteps quietly approach, and I wince at the sound. He’s coming. I inhale a few deep breaths as I accept my fate. Any minute now, Jake is going to whip open this door, and I’m going to die…

Again.

EPILOGUE

LYRIC

The bathroom door flies open. Peering down at me are big brown eyes, caged in worry and uncertainty. This is not who I was expecting.

“Are you okay, miss? Is anyone else here with you?”

He asks panicking.

Officer Hanley, his badge reads. He rests his large palms on my shoulders and gives me a gentle shake.

“Miss?”

He looks so concerned. Raising his brow, his eyes bug out of his head as he waits for me to answer. The fear taking over his face.

“Just me.” The words come out in little more than a whisper and I barely recognize my own voice.

Leaning back, he looks over his shoulder at someone nearby and instructs them to escort me to a paramedic. A tall, slender woman with medium-length hair comes to get me; she takes me by my shoulders and guides me through the room and to the ambulance flashing directly outside the motel.

As I walk out of the room with my escort, my eyes shift about, quickly scanning it for information. Jake is dead. Exactly where we left him. I assume that my parents are, too.

As soon as the paramedic is in view, the woman leaves without saying a word. I stand there, covered in my own urine, pouring sweat, and feeling sorry for myself. Did the In-Between even happen? How did I get here and why?

As I get my vitals taken, I think about Attie. He was real, wasn’t he?

The last time we were together. The last thing he said to me. It all floods my mind, and suddenly I have an idea.

I enter the library hesitantly. It feels like forever since I’ve been here, and I’m anxious for what I’m about to do. I take my time walking to the back. I decide to go the long way, walking down the aisles of rowed bookcases. Passing restrooms and study rooms, I creep up on my spot. I scan the area to make sure I’m alone.

It hurts to be here. I reminisce about Attie sitting in my spot, teasing and taunting me. I smile at the dream or memory. Pulling my chair out, I toss my bag on the floor and take a seat.

As soon as I touch the mouse, the computer screen lights up. I type in the username and password taped to the monitor. It allows me access, and I grab the mouse, moving it along the pad as I click on the Google widget and type in the search bar. I have way too much faith in Google to provide me with the answers I’m looking for.

A list of links pops up, and I begin scrolling them and clicking on the ones I think may be relevant. They aren’t. None of them are.

It doesn’t take long before an article labeled, Richardstown Obituary, appears on the screen. A picture of Attie lies beneath it.

I touch my hand to the computer screen and lightly graze my fingertips along the picture of Attie’s perfect face. A tear falls down my cheek, and I quickly wipe it away. I read the obituary, learning a bit more about him and his family, and it makes me sad to see there were none. But why? He had three sisters, none of whom he ever mentioned to me, and before I can feel any type of way about that, I read down and am reminded that he was in foster care. It clicks as to why he never brought them up. He didn’t get to grow up with them. I sigh at the realization.

As I read, I see how he played many sports, from soccer to hockey to wrestling. He was a struggling student, but with his perseverance; he was able to graduate. I read about his life with Ellie, and that’s when I have to stop.

I exit out and as I’m logging off, I push my seat back as I lean to the side to retrieve my bag from the floor. Something catches my eye and butterflies swarm my stomach at the desecration of my favorite spot and the pocket knife responsible. Carved into the front of the desk, it reads:

Love, Attie