it.
Without an awareness of my body, dread doesn’t feel the way it should. I miss the beat of my heart. It should be racing—galloping—instead I only feel the weight of fears lying heavy on my soul. It’s not just Breckon I’m afraid for, it’s me. There are reasons for my prebirth memories that I’m not ready to face, the very same reasons that Breckon Cody’s life is being revealed to me in such elaborate, painful detail.
My fifteen-year-old brain didn’t invent him for its own amusement. What’s happening in front of my eyes is much bigger than that.
He’s nothing but a dream creation , I insist, battling back against the terrifying revelation rocketing up inside me. Just a puzzle to solve. Busy work to keep my mind well-oiled .
You know that’s not true , the more knowing side of myself proclaims. You understand what’s going on here, Ashlyn. No one remembers moments from before her birth, not unless …
And when Breckon pushes his left hand under the scalding-hot water and marshals his willpower to keep it there, I howl like the moment I was born.
six
breckon
Instinct kicks in. I should be able to take the pain—worse things happen to people every day—but I can’t. I stumble back, losing my footing as my vision starts to close in on me. Then Moose sprints into the room, barking like a maniac. He runs in panicked figure eights as I fall smack down onto the kitchen floor.
“Shut up!” I shout from the tile. “Shut the hell up!”
&gn="justify">Moose whimpers, the speed of his figure eights unchanged. My left hand hurts so much that my lungs have forgotten how to suck in oxygen. I fight for air, my head propped against the washing machine and my left ankle shaking like an epileptic’s.
Moose barrels out of the kitchen, his high-pitched barking making my heart beat even faster. “Moose!” I roar after him. What the fuck does he think he’s doing anyway? And when has rushing around in the shape of a figure eight ever helped anyone?
The pain crowds out everything else. I can hardly think. I breathe in and out but the air doesn’t feel like it’s catching in my lungs.
The second Moose is sure there’s no one to alert he scrambles back into the kitchen with me, panting hard. A steam cloud’s wafting up from the sink where the hot water’s still flowing and I force myself onto my feet and whack the tap with my right hand, shutting it off.
I flop to the floor again, my head slipping back to its previous position against the washing machine.
“Sit,” I command before Moose can start his barking routine again. If I have to watch him careen around in figure eights again I’ll end up banging my head against the goddamn tiles.
Moose does what I say, but not in the way I want. He drops down so that his left side snuggles against my thigh. “I’m okay,” I tell him. “Relax.” As long as he stays quiet, I don’t mind him next to me. I’m in too much pain to care.
My ankle’s stopped quaking but my left hand feels like it’s being eaten away by battery acid. I train my eyes on the furious red skin, and seeing the evidence makes it hurt worse. I’ve never done anything like this before; never even thought about it. I can’t believe I really did it.
The physical pain’s so intense that it’s taken me over. I’m 17 percent Breckon and 83 percent burnt skin. It’s a relief, ten times better than just being me. As much as my hand hurts, part of me wishes it would never stop. It blocks out almost everything else, or at least shoves it to the back of my mind.
God, it burns. I pinch the fingers of my right hand around my trembling left forearm to hold it still. Running my hand under cold water might help but I don’t. I decide to let it sear for as long as I can handle. Moose keeps me company. I’ve thought it a hundred times before but here it is again—if Moose was in the house last Friday night to howl up a storm when
Without an awareness of my body, dread doesn’t feel the way it should. I miss the beat of my heart. It should be racing—galloping—instead I only feel the weight of fears lying heavy on my soul. It’s not just Breckon I’m afraid for, it’s me. There are reasons for my prebirth memories that I’m not ready to face, the very same reasons that Breckon Cody’s life is being revealed to me in such elaborate, painful detail.
My fifteen-year-old brain didn’t invent him for its own amusement. What’s happening in front of my eyes is much bigger than that.
He’s nothing but a dream creation , I insist, battling back against the terrifying revelation rocketing up inside me. Just a puzzle to solve. Busy work to keep my mind well-oiled .
You know that’s not true , the more knowing side of myself proclaims. You understand what’s going on here, Ashlyn. No one remembers moments from before her birth, not unless …
And when Breckon pushes his left hand under the scalding-hot water and marshals his willpower to keep it there, I howl like the moment I was born.
six
breckon
Instinct kicks in. I should be able to take the pain—worse things happen to people every day—but I can’t. I stumble back, losing my footing as my vision starts to close in on me. Then Moose sprints into the room, barking like a maniac. He runs in panicked figure eights as I fall smack down onto the kitchen floor.
“Shut up!” I shout from the tile. “Shut the hell up!”
&gn="justify">Moose whimpers, the speed of his figure eights unchanged. My left hand hurts so much that my lungs have forgotten how to suck in oxygen. I fight for air, my head propped against the washing machine and my left ankle shaking like an epileptic’s.
Moose barrels out of the kitchen, his high-pitched barking making my heart beat even faster. “Moose!” I roar after him. What the fuck does he think he’s doing anyway? And when has rushing around in the shape of a figure eight ever helped anyone?
The pain crowds out everything else. I can hardly think. I breathe in and out but the air doesn’t feel like it’s catching in my lungs.
The second Moose is sure there’s no one to alert he scrambles back into the kitchen with me, panting hard. A steam cloud’s wafting up from the sink where the hot water’s still flowing and I force myself onto my feet and whack the tap with my right hand, shutting it off.
I flop to the floor again, my head slipping back to its previous position against the washing machine.
“Sit,” I command before Moose can start his barking routine again. If I have to watch him careen around in figure eights again I’ll end up banging my head against the goddamn tiles.
Moose does what I say, but not in the way I want. He drops down so that his left side snuggles against my thigh. “I’m okay,” I tell him. “Relax.” As long as he stays quiet, I don’t mind him next to me. I’m in too much pain to care.
My ankle’s stopped quaking but my left hand feels like it’s being eaten away by battery acid. I train my eyes on the furious red skin, and seeing the evidence makes it hurt worse. I’ve never done anything like this before; never even thought about it. I can’t believe I really did it.
The physical pain’s so intense that it’s taken me over. I’m 17 percent Breckon and 83 percent burnt skin. It’s a relief, ten times better than just being me. As much as my hand hurts, part of me wishes it would never stop. It blocks out almost everything else, or at least shoves it to the back of my mind.
God, it burns. I pinch the fingers of my right hand around my trembling left forearm to hold it still. Running my hand under cold water might help but I don’t. I decide to let it sear for as long as I can handle. Moose keeps me company. I’ve thought it a hundred times before but here it is again—if Moose was in the house last Friday night to howl up a storm when
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