The Untouched (The Unseen #2) - Piper Sheldon Page 0,2

it rips through me. The only thing I can liken it to is the sudden crash of an orgasm, but an intense and uncontrollable one. The relief is as intense as the pain. A total saturation of color. Burning bright. My body freezes. Every muscle locked in place.

A yell rips out of me but I don’t know if I’m actually making sound or if the light scourging out of my throat is silent.

When it’s over, I collapse to the ground, panting. Pebbles dig into my knees. I’m a live wire spurting out the final bits of energy that fizzle out onto the floor around me.

I’m empty now. Only the afterglow remains. I feel amazing and that brings on the guilt, twisting my insides with shame. I can’t bring myself to look up at the plant.

Despite what I told myself, despite knowing the truth, I had hoped maybe this time would be different. I thought if I could let it out enough to feel better without going all the way that I could stay. I’m naive enough to still hope for some sort of compromise.

But there isn’t, is there? This is what Grandma Sue and Grandpa always warned of. I can’t control it. After all the years of practice it still gets the best of me … so now I have to leave the place I’ve called home these last two years. Though physically I feel wonderful, the sadness at my lost hope keeps me down.

I crawl on hands and knees to the corner, chin tucked, still afraid to confirm what I already know.

I make my way over to the plant. I find her. Dead. Brown and shriveled. My chin trembles in time with the crinkling leaves as I pick up the potted plant and hold it to my chest. My vitality for hers.

“I’m so tired.” I blurt my confession to the dark warehouse. “I’m so alone.”

Tears sting my eyes and I feel absolutely ridiculous. Like a canary in a mine, another plant has been sacrificed for me. Such a silly thing to cry over, but it isn’t just this plant. It’s years and years of trying and failing to control this power in me. Moving from place to place over and over again, always being alone. Afraid to make connections, afraid to get close to anyone.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I’m so sorry. I tried to control it.”

A few leaves fall off the plant and to the ground. I gently scoop them up with shaking hands and drop them back in the pot.

So silly to feel this devastation over a fern. From the outside it’s all so ridiculous. On the inside, I’m crumbling like the stems of this poor plant. So many years. So many attempts. Shaking, I collect my things and head back to my Jeep.

I buzz with life. It’s like I’ve been given a B-12 shot, an extra fudge sundae, and ten cups of coffee. I’m alive. Color burns my cheeks and I don’t even have to see my reflection to know that my hair has body and life, though I could probably still use a shower. I’m sweating and satisfied but so damn sad.

Focus on what’s working, little jewel. I wipe a tear from my cheek.

After this week I will move again. I will find another town to temporarily call home. I am alive. I have a best friend and a fish. I have a good job that lets me travel the country.

There is so much to be thankful for. I have to stop wishing for a normal life.

I glance back to the wilted plant buckled into the car’s passenger seat. I think of the townspeople—the families and flourishing life all around that I never let myself engage in. I chew my lip and gather my resolve.

You cannot stay.

“I know,” I say with clenched fists.

People aren’t safe if I stay. It’s time for me to move on to the next place. I’ll forget this town eventually. At least nobody will miss me.

“Come on, Ferngully,” I say to the plant. “Let’s go home and pack.”

2

Julia

The air blows in sweet through the rolled down windows of my Jeep as I head back down the mountain toward El Lugar. The wind cools my heated skin despite it being midsummer in Southern California. Tendrils of hair whip my face and tangle but I keep my arm out the window, my hand riding the waves of air like a surfer.

The farther I drive, the more despondent I feel, despite my attempts to buoy