Losing Hope

climb into my car, then pull out of the parking lot without giving him the reaction he was hoping for.
    Fuck him. He’s not worth it.

Chapter Ten
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    I open the refrigerator door because I’m starving, but I haven’t had anything to eat in over thirteen months. I haven’t taken a single bite of food since Les died and it’s weird that I’m still alive after all this time.
    It takes the refrigerator light a second to kick on, even after I have the door open. As soon as the contents of the refrigerator are illuminated, I’m immediately disappointed. Every single shelf is stuffed with Les’s jeans. They’re all folded neatly on the shelves of the refrigerator and it pisses me off because this is where the food should be and I’m fucking hungry.
    I open one of the crisper drawers, hoping the food is hidden in there, but there’s no food. Just another pair of neatly folded jeans. I shut it and open the other crisper drawer and her jeans are in there, too.
    How many fucking pairs of jeans does she need ? And why are they in the refrigerator where the food is supposed to be?
    I close the refrigerator door and open the freezer, but I’m met with the same thing, only this time the jeans are frozen. They’re all in freezer bags labeled “Les’s jeans.” I slam the freezer door shut, irritated, and turn toward the pantry, hoping to find something to eat in there.
    I walk around the kitchen island and look down.
    I see her.
    I squeeze my eyes shut and open them again, but she’s still there.
    Les is huddled in a fetal position on the kitchen floor, her back pressed up against the pantry door.
    This makes no sense.
    How is she here?
    She’s been dead for thirteen months.
    I’m hungry.
    “Dean,” she whispers.
    Her eyes flick open and I immediately have to reach my hand out in order to steady myself against the island. My body suddenly becomes too heavy to hold up and I take a small step back, right before my legs give out and I fall to my knees in front of her.
    Her eyes are open wide now and they’re completely gray. No pupil, no irises. Just glossed-over gray eyes that are searching for me, unable to find me.
    “Dean,” she says again in a hoarse whisper. She blindly reaches her arm out toward me and her fingers feel around in front of her.
    I want to help her. I want to reach out and grab her hand but I’m too weak to move. Or my body weighs too much. I don’t know what it is that’s stopping me, but I’m only two feet in front of her and I’m doing everything I can to lift my arm and take her hand but it won’t fucking move. The more I struggle to regain control over my movements, the harder it becomes to breathe. She’s crying now, saying my name. My chest tightens and my throat begins to close up and now I can’t even calm her down with words because nothing will come out. I work the muscles in my jaw, but my teeth are clenched tight and my mouth won’t open.
    She’s pulling herself up on her elbow, slowly scooting closer to me. She’s trying to reach out for me but her lifeless eyes can’t find me. She’s crying even harder now.
    “Help me, Dean,” she says.
    She hasn’t called me Dean since we were kids and I don’t know why she’s calling me Dean now. I don’t like it.
    I squeeze my eyes shut and try to focus on getting my voice to work or my arms to move, but all the concentration in the world can’t help me right now.
    “Dean, please ,” she cries, only this time it’s not her voice. It’s the voice of a child. “Don’t go,” the child begs.
    I open my eyes and Les is no longer there, but someone else has taken her place. A little girl is sitting with her back pressed against the pantry door and her head is buried in her arms that are wrapped tightly around her legs.
    Hope.
    I still can’t move or speak or breathe and my chest is growing tighter and tighter with each sob that racks the little girl’s body. All I can do is sit and watch her cry, because I’m physically unable to even turn my head or close my eyes.
    “Dean,” she says, her voice muffled by her arms and her tears. It’s the first time I’ve heard her say my name since the day she was taken and it knocks out what little breath I had left in me. She slowly lifts her head away from her arms and widens her eyes. They’re solid gray, identical to Les’s. She leans her head back against the pantry door and wipes away a tear with the back of her hand.
    “You found me,” she whispers.
    Only this