Dell’s Drugs is on the bottom floor of an apartment building on the corner of Eighteenth Street. It’s in an old brick structure, but inside, Dell’s is as antiseptic as can be. White walls, white tiled floors—even the shelves are white. As I enter, the Need continues to burn me. Tearing me up from the inside.
The cashier glances at me, but doesn’t say anything. She pops her gum and goes back to reading the latest issue of Seventeen. Toward the back I see the sign for the pharmacy and a rush of air blows past me. I reach out to hold on to the nearest shelf.
“You okay?” I hear. I nod and look up, seeing the cashier staring at me. She shrugs and flips the page of her magazine.
I reach in my pocket and touch the journal, comforted by its existence. Monroe said he’s been documenting the Forgotten. If Onika’s like me, she must be in here. And it’ll say how she fought the crossover.
I slowly start to make my way down the aisle, feeling the pain increase as I go, but wanting to get out of the cashier’s line of vision. There is a searing pain in my shoulder, radiating under my arm and starting across my chest. I know it’s my skin. I wonder if the injection Monroe gave me can keep it from peeling off.
Holding on to a cool metal shelf, I look ahead to the small waiting area next to the pharmacy counter. Sitting in the chairs is an old couple—the woman looking very frail. And next to them a mother, holding a wiggling toddler on her lap.
Nothing about them strikes me, so I walk ahead, looking for my Need. Strong cramps turn my gut and I stumble a few more steps until I can see the counter.
And then a rush of wind goes through me. Standing there is the pharmacist. He’s maybe thirty, thinning dark hair, glasses. He looks completely average until a violent pain in my head starts to blot out my vision. And again, I am blind. Then in my mind, I see him.
Miles Rodan is in bed, moving beneath the sheets. The red-haired woman with him isn’t his wife. The scene changes and Miles is home, a pretty dark-haired woman is yelling at him, threatening to leave. Planning to take the kids. He begs her to stay, but she doesn’t. She knows he was having an affair.
The vision changes and I feel sorrow, as if I am Miles. I’m sitting alone in the kitchen, bottles of medication in front of me. I’m filled with despair and the most isolating loneliness I’ve ever known. It’s like drowning in a deep, dark lake.
And then I see Miles again. He pops a few pills into his mouth and chases it with a sip of Jack Daniels. His wife is gone, and so is the mistress. Everyone’s miserable. He holds the prescription bottle in his hand and shakes out a few more pills. It’s all his fault. It feels like my fault. He takes a few more. . . .
I’m pushed as my eyes fly open and I move toward his light. I hear the shuffle of the old lady who was in front of me in line, but I can’t see her. I can only see Miles, glowing from behind the counter. Sweat begins to gather on my forehead and above my lip. He has the medication now. Tonight he’s going to kill himself.
Invisible vines try pulling me forward, but I hold my spot in line, not wanting to draw attention. Behind the counter, Miles’s light pulsates. If I don’t stop him he’ll be dead by the end of the night.
The woman in front of me turns around and asks if I’m okay and it takes all of my concentration to tell her in a nearly normal voice that I am. But when she looks away, I cover my face with my hands. I don’t want this. Every Need makes me worse—brings me closer to disappearing forever.
Miles calls for the next person in line and the woman shuffles ahead. They talk as his fingers click on the computer, but their voices sound far away. Behind my eyes I can see Miles. How he’ll gag from the pills. How he’ll mix them with alcohol for a lethal combination. And how he’ll lie crying on his bed, twisting in agony before he dies.
“Next.”
I hear it but I don’t move. I almost can’t. But the Need is there, forcing me to do this. I gasp and step forward, keeping my eyes toward the ground.
“How can I help you?” Miles asks, but his tone is cautious. I wonder if I look like an addict. With incredible effort I lift my gaze and stare at him, his light.
“Don’t do it,” I murmur. A new pain burns into my back and I wonder if the skin there is peeling off. It makes me whimper.
“Excuse me?” Miles says. “Look, do I need to call the cops?”
Cops? My fists ball up and I feel angry. The Need puts me in these situations, makes me do these things. I’m not a drug addict and I’m not the one planning to kill myself tonight. So he can save his judgments for somebody else. Somebody who’s not melting away because she has to help him.
I lean in, my mouth tight. “I know what you’re planning to do, Miles. I know about you and Gillian. And about the pills you have stuffed in your pocket.”
And suddenly, unlike my usual Needs, who move away, staring and freaking out, Miles reaches to grab my arm and pulls me toward him. He twists my wrist at an odd angle and I fear he’s going to snap it as he hisses in my ear.
“Was it you? Are you the one who told my wife?”
“Let go,” I say, my head swimming, trying to find the words that’ll get through to him. “You need help.”
He drops my hand and steps back from me. His features are tense, scared. “Get out of here,” he says. But nothing has changed and I know I can’t leave yet.
“Please,” I start to say, when a new person walks into my line of sight. She’s illuminated slightly, just enough so that I can see her. The redhead from my vision. She’s working in between the rows of pills, a clipboard in her hand. She glances at me and I gape at her in surprise.
“Get out,” Miles says again, more forcefully.
“Gillian,” I call. My Need zooms in. My knowledge of Miles fades away and I see that Gillian doesn’t know what he’s planning to do. She thought she was doing what was right by breaking it off with him. She was trying to protect his family.
“Yes?” she asks, stepping toward me.
“Don’t,” Miles orders, waving her away. But she’s watching me, like she’s sensed something was wrong all along.
“Gillian,” I say, outstretching my hand to her. “He has pills in his pocket that he’s planning to take tonight. He’s going to take all of them!”
Miles shouts that I’m crazy, that he’s calling the police, but Gillian looks at the back of his white coat. When she glances at me, I see the widening of her eyes and I’m sure they’re glazing over with the knowledge. She’s listening to me.
“Miles?” she asks. She knew something was off. She’s felt suspicious because while she was taking stock, she’d noticed the missing pill bottle. The light around her starts to fade and my sight returns.
Miles turns to glare at her, the phone at his ear. “She’s some psycho, Gill,” he says. “Probably a junkie. Let me handle it.”
“Do you have pills in your pocket?” she asks, her voice weak. Just then another pharmacy worker comes over, catching the end of the conversation.
Gillian touches her lips like she’s figured it out. The man she had loved was going to kill himself tonight. Partly because of her. The other pharmacist takes the phone from Miles and begins asking him questions.
Gillian looks up at me and I expect a thank-you. But as I stand in front of her, I watch the recognition drain away.
“Sorry, miss,” she says to me. “We have a situation. You’ll have to come back later.”
Suddenly the tension releases and I’m struck by a wave of euphoria. My eyes roll back in my head for a second and I stumble over to clutch on to a shelf of decongestants. And then just as quickly, I’m exhausted, wiped out. I glance up again to see Miles with his head in his hands. Gillian is wiping her eyes while the other pharmacist is on the phone. I saved him. The Need saved him.
But it hadn’t taken long for Gillian to forget me, and that bothers me. Is it getting worse, or am I just noticing it more? I close my eyes and wait for the room to stop spinning. It feels like I’m missing more skin, but I don’t have the strength to look. When I feel steady enough, I move down the aisle.
There’s a tingling on the back of my neck, like someone is staring at me. Uncomfortable, I turn toward the waiting area. Onika’s there. Any relief I’d felt is gone, replaced with fear. Monroe had called her a beast.
She smiles as she sits next to the woman with the squirming toddler. Onika’s long hair cascades over her shoulder onto the fabric of her black jacket, effortlessly beautiful.
The child next to her lets out a harsh squeal as he tries to break free of his mother. Onika flinches and looks sideways at the toddler, her eyes seeming covered in shadows. I see her dark red lips move, murmuring something I can’t hear. I’m frozen in place, watching her.
The child suddenly turns to her, eyes wide. Onika stops whispering and glances back at me, grinning again.
Still in his mother’s arms, the toddler starts to whimper and clutches on to her before resting his head on her shoulder. The mother pats his back and says something like, “Oh, see. That’s my big boy.” But it’s obvious that the kid is scared. That whatever Onika said—or did—to him has frightened him into silence.
Sickness starts to churn inside me. Onika stands, flicking out her gloved hand in a quick gesture, and the pain is gone.
“God, Charlotte. You look like hell,” she says as she walks toward me.
“Monroe told me not to talk to you.” I take a step back from her. She looks offended.
“Why? Because I’m trying to help you?” She groans. “He is nothing if not predictable.” She reaches out to take my arm and leads me into the aisle, where we’re hidden by shelves of feminine hygiene products. She crosses her arms over her chest. “Monroe Swift is a liar, and the sooner you realize that, the better off you’ll be.”
“He said you were lying about being able to help me.” My heart is racing even though I don’t feel scared anymore. It’s like the fear ran out of me.
“Yes, love. Because he wants you to dissolve. The sooner you do, the sooner he’s free.”
“What? How will he be free?”
She reaches out to brush my hair back behind my ear, a mothering gesture. It puts me at ease. “Because as your Seer he’s trapped in servitude. But from what I hear you’re his last Forgotten. And once you’re gone, he can live a normal life. And here’s a secret.” She leans close to my ear. “He used to be my Seer too.”
She moves back, continuing to smile. “And look”—she motions over herself—“I’m still very much here.”
“How?” I’m suddenly desperate. She proves it. There is a way to stop the Need.
She waggles her finger in front of me. “No, no. Not yet. You have more to show me before I can tell you all of my secrets.”
“But—”
“Shh . . .” she whispers, and I’m struck silent, unable to move or talk. My thoughts don’t race, my heart doesn’t pound. I’m content as I stare back at her, her words fading to the back of my mind. “I’ll see you soon.” Onika turns and walks toward the front door of the pharmacy, but when she’s halfway there she looks over her shoulder at me. “Oh, and give my love to Mercy.”
I try to ask what she’s talking about when there’s a sudden vibration in my pocket and I yelp, jumping back, no longer mute. My breath comes out in jagged gasps as if I just woke from a nightmare. When I look up, Onika is gone.
It takes a second until I realize that the vibration is my cell phone. I pull it out and glance at the caller ID. It’s Mercy.
“Hey,” I say when I answer. I feel like I haven’t talked to her in a million years, and right now I really want her to tell me everything is okay.
“Don’t you ‘hey’ me, Charlotte. You better be getting your little butt home and to bed. A car accident? And nobody calls me? Tell Monroe he’s gonna be hearing from me later.”
“It’s not his fault,” I try to say, but then realize that I won’t win the discussion. Mercy’s pretty good at standing her ground. “I’m on my way home right now.”
“You’ve got ten minutes before I come and get you myself. And then you’ll be sorry.” She hangs up and I smile a little. Mercy’s idea of sorry was scolding me for an hour and taking away my phone, only to bake something delicious because she felt guilty.
I push my phone back into my pocket, feeling normal for a minute before the day’s events flood back into me. Forgotten. Onika. The journal. Dread grips me—an overwhelming dread that threatens to drown me—until my hand closes around something smooth inside my pocket. It’s the guardian angel that Harlin gave me. It comforts me.
There’s a jingle of the front door of Dell’s as a police officer walks by me toward the back counter. I feel okay with what happened here, because someone was saved today. That’s a good thing. I know it’s good.
But even that doesn’t shake me from the horror that’s become my life. There’s nothing worse than being forgotten. Like I never existed. I straighten and begin walking toward the street, feeling determined. Because I know, no matter what Monroe says will happen, I’m going to want to stop the Need. Even if I have to use Onika’s help. I want to live.
When I open my apartment door, I’m immediately assaulted with Mercy’s hugs and questions. About every other word is Spanish as she demands to know how a car had hit me, how many stitches I’d gotten, and why I didn’t call her. I see both Alex and Georgia at the table, eating dinner, and I wave to them. Alex salutes me and Georgia goes back to twisting strands of spaghetti on her fork. I’m sad that she doesn’t seem happier to see me. I thought we’d bonded last night. That maybe we could be family now.
“I’m sorry,” I say over and over to Mercy. “I didn’t want to bother you at work.”
“Where did it happen? Who was driving? I’m very upset with you, Charlotte. You were supposed to be home.”
I look over and see Alex widen his eyes like he knows I’m in trouble. He’s the one who told her, I’m sure.
“I’m hungry,” I whine, motioning toward the table. Guilt crosses Mercy’s face.
“Okay. Enough third degree. For now,” she warns. “Sit down and have something to eat.” She puts her arm around me and leads me over; checking my stitches to make sure Monroe did a good job. She says he did.
“Looks delicious,” I say, happy to put a pile of spaghetti on my plate. I’m starving after the pharmacy incident. Too hungry to think of anything else. I immediately begin to shove pasta into my mouth, my other hand grabbing bread. It’s a hunger that I can’t fill. I feel bottomless.
“Still can’t believe the clinic didn’t call me,” Mercy mumbles. “Or one of my children.” She snatches the grated cheese from Alex as he’s shaking it over his plate, and gives him an annoyed look.
“Don’t blame me!” he says. “I didn’t know she was out running the streets. It’s not like she called me, either. I didn’t even see her yesterday.”
“Whatever,” I say to him. “I heard you and Georgia checking out my stitches while I was on the couch.”
Georgia glances up, a puzzled look on her face, but she continues to eat.
“Georgia,” Mercy says, slapping her hand dramatically on the table. “You told me you haven’t talked to her all week.”
“I told her about the accident,” I say. “And we talked about other things.” I smile at Georgia as she takes a drink, letting her know that I won’t tell about her mother or her scar. Like it’s a secret just between us. Instead, Georgia coughs on a sip of her iced tea.
“Did not,” she snaps. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I haven’t seen you in days. Don’t drag me into your lies, Charlotte.”
“Georgia!” Mercy scolds.
I nearly drop my fork. “What?” I murmur.
She’s staring at me, looking completely pissed off. “I didn’t even know you were hurt until Mercy came in all yelling about it.”
“Uh-oh, Ma,” Alex interrupts. “I think Charlotte might be using that wacky tabacky.” He laughs like this a joke. Like my life isn’t ending.
“I heard you last night,” I say to him, feeling desperate. “You don’t remember?”
“Charlotte, I didn’t see you until I found you in your room this morning. There you were with blood in your hair.”
“You had blood in your hair?” Mercy asks, touching her chest in concern. “Poor thing. I wish you had called me. You know I would have taken care of you.”
But her voice is a million miles away. My eyes tear up as I stare between Alex and Georgia, realizing that they don’t remember. They don’t even remember seeing me. The memories are blotting out.
“Are you crying?” Alex asks incredulously. “What the—”
“Excuse me,” I say, pushing back in my chair and tossing my napkin onto the table. I run for my room as Mercy calls after me, but I don’t wait. I burst into my room and collapse on the bed.
I want it to stop. I need it to stop. I sob into my hands, praying, wishing, making deals with whoever will listen. My head pulses with each tear and my bruised thighs still ache, but it doesn’t matter. Nothing will matter if I don’t find a way to stop the Needs.
Because before long, no one will even care. They won’t even remember me.