The Lost Boys by Lilian Carmine Page B

that it was in fact a girl, around my age, maybe a year or two younger. She was sitting on the sand, watching me approach. She had long black hair and big, round black eyes too, just like mine, but she was wearing heavy eyeshadow and eyeliner. She also wore lots of necklaces and bracelets, a tight ragged top, pants and boots, all as black as the sky above.
    She eyed me curiously and, despite her heavy make-up, her face was almost angelical.
    “Hi,” I said.
    “Hello,” she greeted me in return.
    “This is a weird dream,” I mumbled to myself.
    She frowned, like she couldn’t disagree more.
    “Why are you here, Joe?” the weird goth-looking girl asked.
    “I don’t know. I’m just … here. Isn’t that how dreams are supposed to work?” I said with a shrug.
    “But you shouldn’t be. It’s best that you go now,” she said.
    “Go where?”
    “Anywhere but here. He’ll find you here,” she said, looking around uneasily.
    “Who will?” I asked.
    I looked to her left, and a blurred gray silhouette was starting to appear.
    “Just wake up, Joe,” she ordered. “It’s for your own good.”
    I blinked, and when I opened my eyes again, bright sunlight invaded my sight. I blinked a couple more times, trying to adjust to the change of scenery. Dark moonless sky was now a bright sunny day.
    I tried to make my brain start working, but my thoughts felt sluggish and murky. I glanced at my surroundings and realized I wasn’t in my bed; I was lying on our living-room couch. Parts of the previous night started to drift back. New Year’s Eve, cemetery, fireworks, pain … and ghosts. I shifted slightly and then realized a boy’s arm was draped heavily around me. Tristan’s arm. We had both slept on the couch! I smiled as I remembered hoping for a midnight kiss, and we had actually slept together last night. Literally speaking, that is, but still …
    His hands loosely held mine. He had long, thin fingers; pianist hands … Mine looked so small beneath his. It was so intimate, the way he held me in his sleep. I could feel his face snuggled comfortably against the back of my neck, and the warmth of his breath on my skin.
    I shifted slowly, trying not to wake him. He sighed heavily, but then he just rolled over and went back to sleep again.
    I was free to move, so I turned over to look at him, resting my face on the couch. He slept so peacefully, his dark locks of black hair all messed up, falling over his calm face. His bare chest was uncovered, smooth and well shaped, moving up and down with the slow rhythm of his breathing. He didn’t have a single hair on his chest, just a little trail below his belly button, heading … south.
    The soft blanket covered him to the waistline. Then I remembered he was actually kind of naked under there and I felt my face turning red. I started climbing off the couch, to give him some privacy, when he blinked slowly, awakened by the movement.
    I froze, not too sure what to do now. He looked confused for a second, but then he turned his face in my direction and his eyes registered me. And he smiled. His eyes crinkled a little and glinted in the sunlight that bathed the room. I was in awe of his eyes.
    “Your eyes are still … really … gray,” I muttered to myself.
    He looked bemused; I guess it was a strange thing to say.
    “Yours are still black as night,” he replied softly.
    “How are you feeling?” I asked in concern. It had been a rough night.
    He raised his right arm, flexing his fingers, looking at his hand like it was the first time he’d been able to do this.
    “It hurts all over,” he said, wincing, and then grinned widely. “It’s great!”
    I frowned. “It’s great hurting all over?” I asked, bewildered.
    “It’s better to feel pain but be alive than to feel nothing at all,” he said quietly “It sucks being dead.”
    I thought about that for a minute in silence. “You should have told me. About your … condition,” I said with a hint of sadness in