shooting stars

I’m lying face down into a grassy patch of land.

I’m pretty much numb from the waist down, and for some reason, I can’t move my legs. Groaning, I use my arms to turn myself onto my back, but when my hands touch the ground, shards of glass nip into my palm. I scream in agony at the sight, but my body doesn’t register the pain. Soot and blood cake my sneakers, my elbow, and my neck. Molten hot coals dissolve into the distance. Beside me, frothy seawater washes up on the sand, the foam leaving a trail of bubbles as it reels back like a pendulum. Under me, a pile of dry red leaves rustle as I turn onto my stomach.

I see September with her arms tied lying a few feet away from me. Holy fucking shit, this is my chance to save her. This is how I redeem myself. This is how I repay Geo for essentially killing his daughter.

I use my hands to crawl toward her, and the shards imprint themselves deeper into my skin. Splinters poke the sides of my face, but I don’t care. All that matters is that September’s alive and she’s next to me and everything’s going to return to normal. The wind blows a gust of dirt in my direction, and it stings my nose, but I keep crawling. I can’t let her die again. I won’t.

I scream her name, but she doesn’t answer.

Panic mode on, I shake her arm, but she doesn’t move a muscle. Too still. I don’t even think she’s breathing. When I turn her onto her side, my heart drops.

Her eyeball is gouged out and her left leg is completely cut off.

“No,” I whisper into her ear, picking up her face with my hands, “it can’t be!”

Tears streamed down my face uncontrollably, pouring down my chin like a river, and they dripped into the hole in her skull.

I’m too late. Again.

Suddenly, everything goes black, and I’m seated in an uncomfortably tight desk with my book sprawled on top.

“It’s all your fault!” Mr. Eng strikes his ruler onto my desk, “you killed me! You could’ve saved me, but you didn’t.”

I sink my nails into my palm. There’s nothing I can say to him. He’s absolutely right.

Mr. Eng pulls at the hair at the base of his head, and his face is flushed red. He’s angry, there’s no doubt about it.

“And for that,” he snarls, reaching into his suitcase, pulling out a large butcher knife, “you will pay.”

I try to run away, but my limbs are glued onto my desk. Mr. Eng wastes no time. He starts by cutting off all my fingers, one by one, watching me bleed out. Then, he grabs a skin of a deer and proceeds to sew it in place of my fingers. A rush of endorphins releases from my hypothalamus. Oddly enough, the pain feels good. He’s taking his time, slowly killing me so I can feel the most pain before I die.

Something changes in his eyes. They darken to an almost inhumanly shaped iris. Without hesitation, he presses a knife on my throat, but before he can slit it--

I wake up in a cold sweat. My chest heaves and my heart is racing at a million miles per second. Same reoccurring nightmare for a week straight. Doesn’t make it any easier to deal with though.

Rolling over to my side, I pull the covers over my head, trying to curb my anxiety. Unfortunately, my heart rate only accelerates.

I feel around my stand, grabbing my phone. Keyson’s name flashes across the screen. Should’ve known. Who else would it be?

“What?” I snap into the speaker, slightly annoyed.

“Eoyang,” he coughs. “I need you to do me a favor.”

“Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” his voice is still hoarse with an urgency that I’ve never heard from him before. This must be serious. “I just need you to meet me at school as soon as possible. Can you do that?”

“Yeah,” I answer, pushing off my bed, not bothering to press him for more questions, “I’m on my way. Bye.”

***

Still very much in my pajamas, I unlock the chain to my bike, mounting on left leg first. Drills of chilly air penetrate the thin fleece of my top, sending a million prickles of ice down my spine. In the dark, everything is covered with a murky filter, and the trees that were once vibrant green in the day have been painted black, distorting my vision. Turning my wheels streamline down the empty road, an unpleasant pittering noise omitting from the tires every time I cycle. Balancing has proven to be quite difficult when I’m barely conscious and freezing to death.

Keyson hasn’t really talked to me since the vigil. The only time he’s really talked to me is to tell me that the number that sent me those texts were from a burner phone. Which, honestly, I expected. Zodiac’s pretty smart, and I doubt they’d leave such an obvious trail. But other than that interaction, it’s been completely crickets on his end. Not even a single glance in my direction. Not that I’m entitled to his acknowledgement, but it’d be nice, especially when he expects me to do him a favor.

For what feels like years later, I finally arrived in front of the campus, which has ivy vines twisting around the bars, apparently. Never noticed it before. Hopping off my seat, I lean my ride against a wall, between two large metal hoops used as decoration. Pushing at the gate, I realize that for some dumb reason, it’s open again.

Small LED light embedded into stones illuminate the pathway, leading me down a winding trail around the main building and through the courtyard.

There, I saw him, immobilized, laying on the grassy hill, the same way I was in my dream.

Before I could properly register what I was seeing, I’m running at an alarming speed to his side. In the process, mud collects onto my white shoes, caking them with dirt and various other types of debris.

His bruised right hand clutching his side do nothing to prevent the blood from pooling through his T shirt and onto the blades of grass, which have been drenched in the sticky red fluid. Little white scars imprinted onto his skin working their way up his arms, panning onto his neck and cheek. A gash on his noise is clumped with a clot and jagged at the edges.

"Fuck,” I start to panic, bending down to put my palm over his chest, “we need to get you to a hospital. Now.”

"No,” he protests, struggling onto his arms, “you can’t.”

Stunned at the force of his voice, I reel backward, confused. “Keyson, you need medical attention.”

“I’m fine,” he insists, somehow finding the strength to sweep his hair away from his forehead, revealing a swollen scab. “Just--help me up and bring me somewhere. I don’t care where. As long as it’s not my house.”

A million questions flood my mind at once, namely: what was he doing here at this hour? and who did this to him? “Why don’t you—”

“Celeste, I really don’t want to argue with you right now.”

“If you expect me to help you, then I’m entitled to an explanation,” I fire back, sitting him up straight by putting my knee behind him.

“Fine, then you can leave. I don’t need your help,” he snaps, ripping away from my grasp and flopping back onto his stomach. When his torso makes contact with the ground, he withers in pain, arching his back and gritting his teeth.

“You are so fucking stubborn,” I mutter to myself, “you are so lucky I’m nice, or I would’ve left your ass to die here, you hear me? You did not make me wake up at this hour to haul my ass here just so I’ll leave, understand?”

At this, he nods slowly, licking the cut on his lip. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”

“I can bring you to my place,” I tell him, wrapping my arm around his waist to aid him onto his feet, “I’m not a medical professional, but you seem desperate.”

To my surprise, he chuckles quietly, looping his injured arm around my neck, pulling me close. Together, side by side, we limp our way down. “You can drive my car. Just turn the corner at the end of the street.”

In response, I press my lips into a thin line. Even though I do have a license, I’ve only really driven once. We can’t afford a car, so I’ve driven Geovanni’s car, which I may have almost crashed. Can’t be that hard though, right?

I’m kinda bummed I have to leave my bike at school, but I can always bring it back on Monday.

“Hold on,” he mutters when we come to a halt in front of the vehicle. Digging through the pocket of his denim jacket, he hands me his keys, which I graciously accept. Pressing the button, I pop open the door, leaving him to situate himself on the backseat. While he curls into a fetal position, I adjust the seat so it’s closer to the steering wheel and so my legs can reach the gas.

“Do you need a car seat?” Keyson says from the back.

Sticking out my tongue at him, I flick on the ignition. “You’re an asshole even when you’re hurt.”

I peel out of the parking lot, going at least 5 miles below the speed limit. As I approach the end of the street, I brace myself for the turn, when I notice a stop sign. Slightly panicking, I slam my foot onto the brakes. The car emits a screeching sound, and I hear Keyson groan as he splats on the back of the front seats. Should’ve seat belted him in.

“You don’t drive often, huh?” he mutters as he rolls back onto the seats.

“Are you being racist right now?” I retort, sending him a glare when I look at the rearview mirror.

Ignoring my snarky remark, he laughs. “This isn’t an area where you can park.”

The blush on my cheek intensifies when I realize what he’s telling me. We’ve been parked at this stop sign way too long. I push the lever, but then the car starts to go backwards instead. Willing my hands not to shake, I attempt to make a sharp turn around the corner, but the car rolls over the curb of the sidewalk.

“Remind me never to let you drive my car again. Ever.”

“Your encouragement isn’t exactly helping,” I remind him, as we wobble between the lines of the lane.

“You’re lucky I have insurance.”

“I’m not even that bad of a driver, you’re just jealous.” Bump.

“How the fuck did you even get your license? The person that let you pass your driver’s test needs to be fired.”

“We’re almost there,” I snap, proceeding to swerve around to our neighborhood, which truly felt like entering a different dimension, since it was so much more empty than the rest of Ridgewood. Houses less cluttered, cars parked farther apart, and shrubs that seemed to be holding on my a thread.

Parking in the driveway, open the back door, offering Keyson a hand which he accepts.

“Thank God,” he exhales, snaking an arm around my neck for support, “I thought we were gonna die out there.”

I’m tempted to drop him for insulting my driving, but I know it’s probably not the morally correct thing to do to someone that’s as severely injured as he is.

“I don’t want my dad to know you’re here, so I’m going to bring you to my room,” I explain, clicking the lock open. The house is dark, which is a good sign. It means Earth’s still asleep, and thankfully, he’s a deep sleeper, so the ruckus I’m sure is gonna happen won’t be too much of an issue.

“Can I shower first?” he asks, as I switch on a light, watching him lean against the wall for support.

I nod, guiding him down the hall to in front of the tiled doorway. “Are you strong enough to shower though?”

“Yeah, unless you’d like to join me to make sure.”

“I hope you fall and die in there, little boy,” I hiss.

Taking it upon myself to complete a mission to scour my messy kitchen for a first aid kit, I rummage through the cabinets for some bandages, ointments, and adhesive, only for them not to be in any of the ones I looked in. After about 10 minutes, I finally found them stuffed behind a large jar of kimchi, all arranged quite neatly (thank you Geo). Deciding to be a nice person, I put a container of glass noodles I made this afternoon into the microwave, heating it for 2 minutes. The stream from the plastic smokes when it comes out. Juggling all the medical shit and the food in my hands, I walk back toward my room, where Keyson’s trying his best to dry his hair with my face towel. I make a mental note to discard that and get a new one soon.

“Food,” I pass him the container and a pair of wooden chopsticks, “for you.”

“I don’t know how to use these,” he admits quietly, rubbing his thumb along the utensil. I gasp in horror. What kind of monster doesn’t know how to use chopsticks? This is quite possibly the whitest thing I’ve ever heard.

“How do you even eat?” I exclaim, in disbelief.

“Um forks and spoons?”

I shrug. “Guess you can’t eat then.”

He frowns. “You’re so mean.”

“You really don’t deserve me, but fine,” I give in, adjusting his fingers so they’re correctly gripping the sticks. His hands are unscarred which is weird because from what I saw, the rest of his arm is hurt pretty badly, likely suggesting he didn’t fight back the perpetrator.

“Here,” I place his middle finger between the two sticks, and curl his index finger around the chopstick on top, “you use this to open and close.”

He follows my instructions, but the noodles still slip from his grasp.

“You’re a horrible teacher,” he informs me.

“Well you gotta learn one way or another cuz I’m not feeding you.”

He tries again, but this time, he manages to put a small amount of noodles into his mouth. And by a small amount I mean like three. Progress, am I right?

“These are good. Really good,” he says after he swallows, “but what the fuck are they?”

“粉絲,” I answer, uncapping the rubbing alcohol and ripping open a bag of cotton balls, “vermicelli.”

While he finishes the rest of the food, I prepare the rest of my supplies. The pungent scent of the ointment fills my nasal passages.

“This might hurt for a second,” I tell him, tipping the bottle of rubbing alcohol onto a cotton ball, pressing it to his forehead.

Surprisingly, he doesn’t flinch at all. In silence, I continue to clean the rest of his wounds on his arms, neck, and on his side underneath his shirt. All the while, he spaces out, gritting his teeth to deal with the stinging.

When I finally think he won’t die of an infection, I work a dollop of the ointment between my fingers, warming it up. Palm against the dried blood, I smear the medication into his injury. Save for the scarring that’s permanently ingrained onto his body, his skin is quite smooth.

“Hey Celeste?”

“Yeah,” I mumble, using my teeth to tear through a cloth bandage.

“Thank you. I really didn’t know where else to go.”

Sighing, I wrap the bandage around his wrist, watching as he flexes the joint to make sure it’s loose enough. “Zodiac did this? Again?”

Weakly, he nods.

“What were you doing out there so late anyway?” I inquire, unable to hide my curiosity as I resume patching him up.

Stunned, he cringes. “I can’t tell you that.”

“Okay,” I fire back, passive aggressively. “Fine. Don’t tell me. Even though we’re supposedly working together, why don’t you keep that a secret. Sounds perfectly good to me.”

“It’s not that I don’t want to tell you, it’s just that--”

We’re interrupted by the sound of my phone pinging. Confused, I scroll through the notifications on my phone, only to find that a text was sent, from another unknown number.

Unknown

-another body coming soon. one you might recognize.

Suddenly, something clicks in my head.

“Oh my fucking God,” I jump from my place on my bed. “We have to go. Now.”

“What you you talking about?” he asks, wincing.

“They did give us a clue. The next victim is Gemma.”