Ashes and Ice Read Online Free PDF Page A

rejected.
    From the back, I can see I turned down a girl, not a guy. She has black hair dangling to the middle of her back. She’s wearing long-sleeves, so, obviously, she’s crazy. She turns and I suddenly regret my antisocial behavior. She isn’t elegant or a bombshell, at least not by Hollywood standards. She’s beautiful in a way, demanding stares. Her skin is honey. She wears a fitted shirt that says, “The voices in my head don’t like you either” above a skirt poofing out over fishnet stockings and knee-high boots. Her slight, muscular form is blessed with killer hips. I swallow hard, tracing my eyes back up to her face.
    Just then, her eyes flutter up to meet mine. I choke on the bite of food in my mouth. Her eyes, a startling green, don’t look at all happy to see me. I snap my head forward, embarrassed she caught me staring. I hold my breath for a long moment. Her eyes are so beautiful and so very harsh. They are cold, brutal eyes and they glared right at me. Half of me thinks: Idiot, idiot, idiot! Beautiful, totally hot girl had her hand on my shoulder and I ignored her. I curse myself for missing a chance to have her sit next to me. The other half of me, though, is relieved. Somehow, I know eyes so sharp and penetrating could slice me open.
    I hunch forward, leaning my head on my palm. I think of spit up blood, black suits, roses, eulogies, and wet pillows. I think of lonely guitars, quiet houses, pointing fingers, and scraped foreheads. I think of falling and not wanting to get up. Yeah, her eyes could slice me open, but in so many ways, I’m already bleeding.

Chapter 7
    Jade
    Blonde hair, silver piercings.
    Smiles and curious looks.
    Bright lights flickering off.
    Heat.
    Cold.
    Cold, so cold.
    Blood, so much blood.
    A green street sign.
    Water drowning, ice freezing me.
    Screaming no one can hear.
    Tears never come.
    I wake up, my eyes lazily blinking open. Snippets of my dream nag at me; they always do. I reach for the flitting images, but they evaporate into nothing. I sigh, looking up at peeling floral wallpaper.
    I sit up in bed, pushing the quilt off me. My fingers trace the stitching along the outer seam. Nanan made it. She bubbled with pride when I said it was beautiful. Nanan. She is probably already downstairs, sitting at the table, newspaper in hand, news radio on, and piping hot coffee ready and waiting beside her grits. She’s predictable, but I like it. It was a week ago I woke up on the dock. I didn’t flinch away when she wrapped her robust, doughy arms around me. I melted into her, happy to leave the dock, happy to have the cold chased away with a warm body that didn’t let go. It wasn’t until we were off the dock and the cold was gone that I realized I didn’t let go of her either. I didn’t let go until we were home.
    I’ve only been living in this bedroom in the attic for a week now, but I’ve picked up her habits and find all her little quirky mannerisms—predictable and odd as they sometimes are—solid and comforting.
    7:00am. She is already listening to the radio, sipping on coffee, writing in a crossword puzzle. I don’t see her doing it, but I know she is.
    The radio alarm clicks onto the news broadcast.
    “Another victim of the Etcher was identified today in California…” I slap the radio off.
    The announcer’s words gouge into me. The red haired girl from my woods was pronounced a victim of the Etcher. The name crawls under my skin, grates against my bones.
    I shake my head as if that would disturb the thoughts enough to have them tumble off the shelf in my mind and shatter into a million pieces. I breathe in deeply, tasting the humidity. Swinging my legs over the side of my bed, my foot knocks over a stack of DVDs. I get out of bed and stack them, smiling as I look at the various titles in my hands and the dozens scattered throughout the room.
    Clara. She gave me smiles and memories. She gave me a place to stay and a stack of movies because she thought it was