Irreversible

by Jennifer Hartmann

It’s an intimidation tactic I’m familiar with. On most people, it would be effective, but you have to give a shit about your safety to be intimidated.

Maybe I’m not trapped in a room, God-knows-where, listening to the apologies of a ghost. Maybe I’ve been dead for a long long time.

“It’s like the world kept going,” she murmurs, her voice fading as I drift away. “But for me…time stopped the minute I entered this room.”

I feel like the simplest moments in life are the ones we take for granted. We don’t appreciate the power in them until they are nothing but soulful memories.

“She sang for me, too.”

“I don’t know…I guess I figured I’d either save the world or destroy it. Typical kid stuff.”

Once you look past the surface and stop thinking of them as scary and off-putting, they’re really fascinating.” “Well, that explains why you enjoy talking to me.” She barks out a genuine laugh, then pauses as though pondering this profound truth. “It all makes sense now.”

her laugh reminds me of the gentle tinkle of wind chimes on a breezy spring day.

His voice leaves an oily film everywhere it touches. That one dark eye roves over me like a black hole, an unfeeling void, while its icy opposite holds secrets I don’t want to ponder long enough to process.

His image is hazy; a blurry, foggy face with dark eyes and darker hair. Handsome.

I bet he’s handsome in that rugged, unapproachable way. Tall. Well-muscled. While Jasper wore form-fitting slacks and silken ties, always groomed to perfection, I picture Nick in a different way. Ratty jeans and T-shirts, with a disheveled tousle of inky hair. He’s messy. Disorder. A nightmare disguised as a dream.

That damn wall. It’s separated me from all the other men and women who have come through here. My companions in death. Tragic transients. Friends.

“Our name is all we have left.”

His tone dips, veering into that place of vulnerability he loathes to idle in.

Bee. Something shimmers inside my chest when I hear him call me that nickname again. A flutter. A little pirouette.

How I’d give anything to be lying in his arms again, appreciating what I had while I had it.

I’ve lost my mind. Then again…I’ve lost everything else. What’s one more thing?

“I’m definitely following.” He clears his throat. “By day, Chloe wants a nice gentleman who treats her like a queen and spoils her with pretty flowers and sunlit serenades. But by night, she craves a man who demands she gets on her knees, so he can fist her by the hair and shove his massive cock down her throat while calling her his good girl.”

I’m depressing today. A mere twenty-four hours have passed since our intimate chat that left me feeling bright and tingly—human. And now I’m dead inside. Empty. Things change so quickly when trapped between these walls.

his words to give me strength. My body is weak, but I’ve spent years keeping my mind sharp, my wits keen. Maybe all I needed was someone else to believe in me.

He pauses. Five more beats until he says the words that break my heart. “But the world hated me first.”

There’s a heaviness in that statement. The same weight that anchors the words see you soon. She’s still trying to convince herself there’s a chance of a sometime…or a soon.

I’m not sure why I feel compelled to bring it up when I already know the answer. “That guitar pick you have over there. It’s blue, right? Sparkly?” “Yeah.” I picture Everly cradling it in her hands like it’s something priceless. Her favorite memento. One I bought myself, years ago. It was special. Sara even gave it a name. Jewel. “It’s hers.” My sidekick. “I know.” “Take care of it for her, okay? Her answer is no more than a whisper. “Always.”

“Your name is Everly Cross, and you fucking matter. Believe it. Own it. And start fighting like you do.” I want to cry.

“Hang on for me. I’m getting us out of here.” But I hesitate a second longer than I should, laying my hand on the wall one last time. “See you soon.”

Once a choice is made, it cannot be undone. And that, I fear, is a fate worse than death.

An image comes into view: two dark, stormy eyes attached to a familiar face, scruff along his jawline, and brown, disheveled hair. His hand strokes my cheek. Just a graze. A fleeting, tender touch. The gesture douses me in warm tingly peace as I slowly twist my head to the side and blink up at him, knowing, believing, with every tortured piece of my soul⁠— “Isaac,” I breathe out. His expression changes. He glances around, face hardening as his jaw tics and his muscles clench.