A Need So Beautiful (A Need So Beautiful #1)(45)
Author: Suzanne Young

“He’s hurting,” Onika mocks with a fake pout. “Being a Seer isn’t a walk in the park, dear. Watching the people you care about leave, over and over. He has to self-medicate somehow. My . . . imagine when you’re gone—his last Forgotten. I bet it’ll be such a relief for him.”

“What are you saying?”

“I’m saying that Monroe wants you to go into the light and set him free. He’s not getting any younger. And his headaches sure aren’t getting any easier. And once you’re out of here, he can have his life back. That’s pretty strong motivation, don’t you think?”

I step back from her, knowing the times I’ve heard him complain of migraines. Seeing how he’d wince when I asked about the Forgotten. He looked tormented. I narrow my eyes and glare at Onika. “That doesn’t mean he’d—”

“Get rid of you? No. Of course, you’re right. He’d never be that selfish.” Onika glances around the quiet street and then stands up. “I should really get going. I suspect we’ll be in touch, love.” As she flips her hair over her shoulder, the pain returns to my gut, making me groan.

I stumble over to the bench and sit, waiting for the pain to pass. And when Onika’s gone, it does. I push my hair away from my face, but when I look to my side, I see something next to me on the bench. Is that . . . is that Monroe’s journal? Onika must have left it for me, but I’m not sure why, and I’m not sure I should touch it. I look around for her again, but I’m alone.

I can’t resist anymore. Picking up the leather-bound book, I feel my heart pounding in my chest. It looks the same and I’m confused as I flip through it, but then I stop. The missing pages!

At the end of the book there are crinkled pages tucked in where there used to be nothing but jagged strips of ripped-out paper.

9/9

I met a little girl today, and I knew it was her. First I saw the light shining through her fractured bone on the X-ray, and then there was the incredible pull to protect her. She’s the first Forgotten since Onika. I’d thought that maybe my curse was broken, but now I know that it’s back. And she’s a seven-year-old named Charlotte Cassidy.

I gasp. This is what Monroe had torn out! Pages about me—about me being a curse?

9/24

Mercy Hernandez is taking care of Charlotte and I’m glad for this. It gives me constant access to her, to watch for signs of her crossover. I now wonder if Onika turning to the Shadows kept me from my freedom. I can’t let the same thing happen to Charlotte. The whispers in my head have told me that Charlotte’s my last, and that she needs to cross over. I have to make sure she goes into the light. I can’t survive another Forgotten. I can’t.

10/12

I’ve felt a presence lately, like I’m being followed. I fear it’s Onika, looking for my Forgotten. I don’t think she’ll try to find it in a child, at least not yet. Charlotte came in today with a cut on her hand, a deep scrape that required a stitch. She says she fell—again. This is the second time she’s come to me with an injury, and I suspect the compulsions have started. I hope they speed up soon. I’m not sure how much longer I can hide her. Or how much longer I can keep going.

Cold air prickles over my face as my eyes begin to tear. Was Onika right? Maybe Monroe never cared about me. Maybe I was just a way to finish his destiny. He never wanted me to have a choice. He just wanted me gone.

I flip through a few more entries, feeling sick from the clinical terms, the unemotional way he describes me. It’s like I’m not a person at all. He’s been studying me like a goddamn lab rat. The next two pages are the same, just writings about my life. I’m thirteen, fourteen, fifteen. Each entry preceded by my medical stats. Like a patient—not a friend. Not family. With only two pages left, I just let the tears stream down my cheeks.

2/15

There is a boy in Charlotte’s life. She’s never really expressed interest in dating before, so I was surprised when she mentioned him at work today. I’m worried.

If Charlotte doesn’t choose the light, I fear I’ll be trapped forever. I used to dream of her on the bridge, standing in the rain, ready to cross over. She would fall and then I would be free to walk away, leaving the journals for the next Seer to carry on.

Only now, my visions of Charlotte have stopped, and I wonder if it has to do with her boyfriend. That maybe he’s a Shadow, or that maybe . . . she’s falling in love with him. Charlotte has to make the right choice. I’m hoping her process will speed up because I’m tired. So tired.

9/12

It’s happened! She’s changing and I can’t believe how beautiful it is. It’s been so long since I’ve seen it, and now that I have, I’m filled with such calm. Amazement. I know now that it’s been such a gift to help this higher purpose, even if it’s the hardest thing imaginable.

But this time is different. I know what I’m supposed to do and I know that I want my part in destiny to end . . . but I’m not sure I can let Charlotte go. I care for her. I don’t want her to experience the heavy loss that’s coming.

“Help her to her end.” That is the mantra that’s running in my head, a thought placed there by something other than myself. And I know I have no choice but to do what I’m told. But when Charlotte goes over that bridge, the last piece of my heart will go with her.

After I read the last page, I let the journal fall from my hands and onto the cement before I cover my face. I fight back the urge to scream as I squeeze my eyes shut. I’m going to disappear. There is no way to stop it, not unless I go with Onika.

The sound of an approaching bus breaks the silence in the air, and I pick up the journal, sliding it into the pocket of my coat.

When the bus stops in front of me, I climb on, half-dazed. Monroe’s been studying me. Even though he claims to care now, maybe it’s because he’s so close to being free of me. Free of the Need. Can’t really say I blame him.

I’m about to lay my head against the seat when I see Sarah’s high-rise condo on the water. I wonder if she’s home. She hasn’t texted or called back, and I’m worried as I jump up to get off the bus.

A doorman stands in front of the building—someone I’ve known for years—and I smile at him as I pass. But he just nods his head politely without any hello, like maybe he doesn’t know me.

Don’t let it bother you, I tell myself. Instead I cross the lobby to the call boxes and punch in Sarah’s number. When there’s no answer I try it again, but after a few minutes, I realize she’s not home. What if she’s in the hospital? I take out my phone, about to call her again, when the double doors at the front of the building open.