In Which I Find A Way to not Die (Ransom 6.2)

“What? I—”

“Those are your last words? Okay, I’ll make sure they’re on your gravestone when—”

“Harlow?” He rubs the back of his neck, refusing to meet my eyes and I notice there’s something more on his arms. “I’m sorry, I’ll…I’ll think of something.”

“Uh, ’kay.” Squinting, I try to make sense of the red and white lines crisscrossing his skin; perhaps they spell a message like on his wrist. But the more I look, the less sense they make.

Ransom folds his arms behind his back, staring at his feet with such intent I’m scared he’ll burn holes through the floor and I’ll have more to cover up.

I take a deep breath. There’s my normal voice, and then there’s the one I use when approaching stray cats or the kids who hide in the tight nooks and crannies of my house.

“Can I see your arm?” I ask as calmly as possible, as if it’s no big deal if he says no. I blink once, twice, keeping my face neutral and hoping I’m your friend and not a threat is all but tattooed across my forehead.

When he shakes his head, a hole opens up in my gut, threatening to swallow me up in its jagged purple depths. I know what I saw, but pressing him more will only make him skittish, so I just say, “Okay.”

After a moment of silence, my phone buzzes in my pocket. Maybe it’s Risa.

My face contorts without my permission as I read the text from my mom.

I need you home for dinner.

I don’t want to say yes or even reply for that matter, but I know what the consequences for that will be.

Fine

Tossing my phone from hand to hand, I chew on my lip and try to think of things that pertain to escaping this death threat, not the one I know is coming if we survive this. My mom is a formidable woman. While it’s good, considering her line of work, at the end of the day there’s no patience left, just all that…well, formidableness.

Ransom’s stomach growls and I remember with a stab of guilt one of the first things he said to me, “I’m hungry.” I should have fed him before the shower but then I got sidetracked and here we are now, roughly an hour and a whole awkward hug later.

“I’m practically starving, so let’s get something to eat.” I’m pretty sure he wouldn’t agree to it if I didn’t make it sound like the loud noise emanating from his stomach had nothing to do with my decision to dig Twinkies out of the pile of dirty clothes stuffed in Risa’s closet.

I think Risa’s closet is a little side-project of aliens they tinker with when they have a day or two off. Despite being the size of a matchbox, literal mountain chains of clothing hide in there. It’s not safe; you never know when you might be buried under an avalanche of soda stained sweats. Though Risa’s quit soda for the most part, but I digress.

“You go down first. I’m gonna pick this stuff up.” I wipe my sweaty forehead. “There’s drinks and some leftovers in the fridge, so don’t feel like you need to wait for me.”

"I-I can help."

"No, that's okay."

He stands there for a second longer and I start to wonder how long I'm going to have to wave my hand at him for him to go.

"Okay," he says.

I act as though I'm turning my back to him but as soon as he steps onto the first stair, I whip around. Sure enough, where his arms had been are little spots of maroon on the bright fabric.

Most of those scars are old, judging from their white color, while some are still healing. But there are also fresh cuts, bleeding cuts. He didn't just do that, did he? No way did he grab a knife from the kitchen because he was right behind me all the way to the bathroom.

That wasn't a razor, either. At least, not the kind you shave your legs with, and I know for a fact those are the only ones in this house. So they must have already been there, right? Maybe they're just another aspect of the curse, but if that's the case, why didn't he want me to see them?

It's none of your business, Harlow, I sternly remind myself.

But— the other part of me argues.

No buts!

I didn't bring butts into this.

This is so stupid, arguing with myself like this. I'm stalling for time, running in circles around the issue and hoping my brain will tire itself out.

Finally, I've cleaned the snack food up so I grab the vacuum and lug it back downstairs. With each step, my panic increases; I have no story, not even the inkling of an excuse for Risa's mom and while I don't want to be the target of her wrath, it's better than Ransom taking it all.

He's just so...

I don't even know what word I'm looking for, but when I look at him, I can't breathe quite right. It's not like the time I had a crush on Kevin Jay in the sixth grade and almost passed out when he walked by me, shrouded in a haze of Axe bodyspray—this hurts.

My mother and I are too alike.

"Oh," I say, shutting the hall closet door. "Oh."

Hurrying to the kitchen, I grab a water from the fridge and toss a freezer bag of leftover pizza at Ransom, who has yet to eat anything.

"You haven't lived until you've eaten cold pizza at three a.m.," I say when he catches it with surprising ease. "It's three o'clock in the afternoon, so it shouldn't be too different."

Even though he's too busy scarfing down the cheesy goodness to notice, I try not to look at his arms but the bloody lines do not escape me, half-scabbed over.

So at least a day or so old.

Wait, that doesn't make sense! He would have been a snake.

I bite back a frown because now he's looking at me with a look that tells me he's ready to bolt any second. So instead, I smile.

"We're going to get some Twinkies. And I think I have a plan for getting away with this," I say, motioning beyond the counter to the shattered display case and the pieces of what were once priceless vases.

Pausing mid-bite, disbelief flits across his face.

"It's going to be all good."

I'll make sure Mrs. Perez doesn't do anything drastic. I'll make sure he gets food and a haircut and somewhere warm to sleep. I'll make sure he's human when the sun rises tomorrow, though I don't know how yet. I'll figure it out.

All I know is that if I don't help him, no one will.