Jeremy longed to confess his sins to Sister Amanda, even though she was Anglican and they didn’t do confession and she wasn’t a priest anyway. He wanted her to hold him and comfort him like his mother never did.

He wandered back to his bedroom. The side of the bed was still rumpled where she’d sat just fifteen minutes ago. Tears pricked his eyes and throat again: he’d convinced her to try sunlight. He’d give anything to go back and let her fear win. How could they have been talking fifteen minutes ago and now he would never again hear her frightened, tentative laugh when he joked?

He couldn’t lie in the bed where they’d made love. He threw himself on the floor but he could still feel her in his arms, her exciting good breast and cool belly against his, her heart which would not mend weeping against his chest.

Just half an hour ago he’d hurt her feelings again when he said, not meaning any criticism, “I shouldn’t even have gone to that vampire’s house.” Her face had crumpled: she’d brought him there as a gift! Annoyed at this regular ritual, he hastened yet again to reassure her.

A good therapist might have helped him see that her extreme devotion and his lavish promises would soon have become a straitjacket to both of them. She would demand, petulant that the world did not reward her noble efforts, and he would evade. She might even get ravenously hungry for his warm, tempting parents.

But he was alone and had nobody to give him wisdom and would have rejected it if he had.

At last, grief gave way to dark dreams. He stood next to the bed where she waited for him to make love. His groin quivered but a bug crawled blackly into his discarded clothes! He was barefoot and he had to find out what kind of insect it was. But he picked up her heeled shoe and smacked it down with a revolting crunch. “What is it, sweetie?” said her sleepy voice. “A bug, a roach!” he cried, hardly able to bear the horror as the smear swarmed with other bugs and worms and he realized it was a replicant. Desperately he tried to squash the new bugs but they grew and turned under his hands—

He awoke, gasping, disoriented until the pain of his loss slammed down. But the day was passing and he would have to deal with the dead body. Could he bury her in the back yard? No, his mother would see the fresh dirt and anyway the nosy next-door neighbor would be on his back porch watching.

There was really only one thing he could do.

♦

“Where’s your girlfriend?” Roseanne Paxton asked her son with what she thought was perceptive kindness.

Five years of practice had made Jeremy adept at hiding his feelings but he was helpless now. “Gotta use the bathroom, be right back,” he gasped, not looking at her or the place on the floor where he’d scrubbed up all the blood.

Once there, he sat on the toilet and shook. Where was his girlfriend? She was under his bed. When she’d been alive (or whatever), he’d thought of letting her sleep there during the day but flushed with shame at keeping a slave girl under his bed. Now he was a murderer and he’d hid the corpse there!

He’d killed his brother and he’d killed the only girl he ever loved. He stabbed himself with that thought over and over.

Eventually he had to walk back past his parents again. “Jeremy,” she tried. “Do you want to talk about anything?”

He’d never been the kind of kid who plain ignored his parents. He was a prevaricator instead. He said to the floor, “We, she kinda, broke up with me and, aaauhmmm, I don’t want to…” The tears buzzed in the back of his head; he was going to cry in front of them!

His mother welled with boozy sympathy; his father looked at him with a speculation that left him cold.

“Poor baby, come here.” Roseanne held out her arms. His skin crawled but he let those arms pull him in.

“Poor baby, it’s okay to cry, it’s okay for men to cry.” She patted his back like he was a pet terrier. “She wasn’t good enough for you, I didn’t want to tell you but she really looked like a tramp. You’ll find someone much better. Won’t he, Matt?” Her breath was warm with wine and her speech slurred.

“I won’t argue right or wrong, but I have time to cry,” his father replied somberly. Another sixties or seventies song! Feeling no more comfort than if he’d been held by a ramshackle plywood construction, he hated the sobs which ravaged his throat as they forced their way out.

“I’m glad you’re crying about something,” his father added. There wasn’t even a stress on the word “something,” but Jeremy understood.

It wouldn’t end unless he walked away. “I guess I kinda, wanna be alone right now,” he choked out.

“Of course, poor baby, I understand.” She was relieved that she’d done her duty.

Then he could hurry back to his room, shut the door and be alone with the corner of the bed where she’d sat that morning, scared but trusting.

Oh, God, if only he’d said, “Well, maybe not, let’s just wait a while longer.” She’d have left for the day and she’d be tapping on his window right now. He’d let her in and she’d kiss him, he’d say, “I love you,” and see her whole body light up with the joy of being someone’s true love.

He could look at her right now if he wanted to.

And – and maybe she’d be back! It was after dark, maybe the sun magic would reverse in the nighttime!

His body shook like freezing rain. The hope tore worse than the numbing despair.

He’d left the blankets hanging sloppily so that (if this was the one day his parents looked into his bedroom) they wouldn’t see anything. He knelt and lifted the edge, trying to expect nothing.