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.*･｡. EFF IT! .*･｡.
————THE PHANTOM
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051.
YOU'RE ON YOUR
OWN, KID.
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━━━━━━━☆☆━━━━━━━

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JJ's hand was warm.

Despite the cold, despite the uncertainty, despite the fear that paralysed them like ice in veins and snow on lakes. JJ's hand was warm despite it all.

And Sonny never wanted to let it go.

   He'd latched onto her the minute she'd slumped back into her seat beside him. Or perhaps she'd latched onto him. She couldn't quite remember who took whose hand first. All she knew was that she'd been trembling when she came back in, and now she wasn't.

"It's gonna be okay," Benji's whisper was almost inaudible above the raging storm outside. She wasn't sure whether the words were meant to reassure them or himself. Maybe both. She couldn't tell. "It's gonna be fine."

   Was it?

   She didn't know. She didn't know anything, anymore. This summer had turned her world upside down, and, just when Sonny thought she might've found her way, she lost it again. She'd been thrown back to the start — no mystery, no gold, no John B. Just Sonny and a storm.

Her glossy eyes glanced down to JJ's hand, tracing each knuckle and ring. It squeezed hers tightly from where they both rested in her lap, a weak effort to provide them some kind of comfort in all this mess. Hold them together, keep them from falling apart completely. Something about that made Sonny ache; it made her throat feel thick, made her chest heavy, her head pound.

What was that feeling?

Sorrow? Remorse? How did she get rid of it?

Deep down, she knew she couldn't. It wasn't the kind of feeling you pushed away— it was the kind you succumbed to because you had no other choice. You let it swallow you, it drowned you and buried you, and you didn't fight back. It always came out on top.

"What did they say, again?"

"Nothing," Sonny's voice was terse. "The radio cut out. They brought me back here."

Pope shook his head, "They didn't say anything?"

Sonny sent him a blank stare.

He let out a sad sigh, settling back in his seat. Pope knew better than to pester her. She'd told them everything. How she'd talked to John B, how he'd refused to turn back, how she'd heard the radio turn to static before being hauled up and returned to the other tent.

What else was there for Sonny to say?

"It doesn't mean anything, right?" Kiara's trembling jaw and watery eyes said otherwise. She looked around, "It... it doesn't mean anything—"

"Kie," Benji whispered.

They lapsed into another tense silence, watching the few remaining officers scurry around their tent. The ones who hadn't gone to hunt down John B and Sarah while they still had a chance of stopping them.

   It had been like that for a while. Quiet. Since Sonny had been returned, maybe. It was hard to tell. Time didn't feel real, anymore. Minutes didn't pass in the same way — not when they only had the sound of rain, howl of wind, and their spiralling thoughts to keep them company. It was like torture sitting there so silently, shivering in the cold as they waited for news, dreading the unknown, mentally retaking every step that brought them here.

   Scooter Grubs, the missing boat and the motel room, the compass and the lighthouse. John B's father, Midsummers, Sarah Cameron, Tannyhill. The well, the pawnshop, Ward and Rafe on the tarmac.

   The whole summer was a blur, from start to finish. Now there was nothing. Just silence.

Listen out for me while I'm gone, okay? John B's voice sang out like a broken record. It went round and around relentlessly. Because we both know I'm not coming back now.

   Her face twisted. She couldn't stand it anymore.

    "We should've waited," she said.

   JJ looked at her, "What?"

    "The storm. We should've waited."

    "Don't do that," he wanted to sound stern. "Waiting it out wasn't an option. He had to leave today. There was no other choice, alright?"

    "I didn't stop him..." Sonny let it out in a short, shallow breath, "I could have, but I didn't."

   Nobody said anything to that. Maybe they didn't want to agree with her. Maybe they didn't know what to say. Maybe they just didn't get the chance when three officers in yellow coats walked in and removed their hoods.

    "Did you find them?" Pope asked as they all jumped up, meeting Shoupe, Plumb and Thomas halfway.

   When Plumb and Thomas shared a look, Sonny felt it. Something deep inside, something that tossed and turned, a sea that ebbed and flowed before a storm.

   It lingered in the air, tickling her stuffy nose and her tired eyes. It burned her chest and scorched her skin. It made the world seem hazy and hot.

   Sonny felt it before she heard it.

   Before Shoupe slowly shook his head and exhaled a sigh, before he told them no in that awfully regretful way — the way she had been told so many things so many times in the past —, before he took another step forward and said they were nowhere to be found. She felt it.

   Kiara did not.

    "So, they got away?" She asked him, looking over at the others with hopeful eyes.

    "We, uh..." Shoupe swallowed hard, "We lost 'em."

    "What?" Benji asked.

   Pope shook his head, "You lost them?"

    "I'm sorry," the man said, throat tight. Sonny wanted to smack him, hard, right in that sorry face of his. She wanted him to bleed on her knuckles and weep, to take it back and search the water for them again.

   But she didn't.

   Sonny just stood there, staring vacantly. She knew better than to deny. She knew to accept. Even if it hurt.

    "What do you mean, you lost them?" Pope was always the pragmatic one. Always allotting things their boxes. Always getting down to the logistics.

    "Pope—" Shoupe cleared his throat.

    "What, like, they're gone?" The boy continued. "What are you even talking about?"

    "They took an open boat into a tropical depression," he told them. Nothing else needed to be said. It finally started sinking in. There was a silence.

    "What does that mean?" Kiara asked foolishly.

   Foolish because, at her core, she probably knew. Foolish because, in her heart, she didn't want to believe it. Foolish because, deep down, she always had a bit of hope. Foolish because, if you asked Sonny, hope was for the weak, those who could never face the truth.

   Sonny didn't do hope. Not before this summer. And any flickers she'd gained over the course of it had been snuffed out, leaving dull embers in their wake.

    "What are you saying?"

    "He's saying they're dead." Sonny said bluntly. Ever the pessimist. Shoupe turned to look at her, and what he found was scary. Scary, because when he looked at Sonny, he saw nothing at all. She was a blank canvas, terrifying neutrality. No pain, no fury, no denial. All Shoupe saw was a girl who was no stranger to death. No, Sonny knew death a little too well. "That's what you're saying, right?"

   Shoupe didn't reply. Kiara shook her head.

    "Is— is that what you're saying?"

    "No," Benji gulped, "No, nobody's saying that—"

    "They're dead," Sonny deadpanned. From beside her, JJ recoiled. Pope shut his eyes.

    "Stop—"

    "Right?" Sonny cut Kie off, glaring at Shoupe with such intensity in her eyes that it made him uneasy. Finally, he saw her start to quiver. "Right?"

    "We don't know," was all he said.

   But it was enough.

   Enough for Kie to burst into tears, and Benji to curse like some sort of sailor. Enough for Pope to choke out a cry and for JJ to rip off his hat and yell. Enough for Sonny's eyes to finally well up and shine in the dim light.

   Because there it was — that familiar swell of grief. Sonny fell into its embrace like an old friend, welcomed it in before the rest. They didn't know death like she did. They couldn't see it written on Shoupe's face the moment he'd walked in. They didn't know it at all, but they would. They would see it and feel it and breathe it, and Sonny? Well, Sonny Penbrook would stand there and watch.
  
    "You drove them straight into the storm, man!" JJ lunged past Sonny and at Shoupe, gripping his coat and shoving a finger in his face. He was seething and spitting and his face was puffy. "Are you kidding me?!"

"JJ—" Kiara wept.

"Come here!" It took two officers to drag him away, "I'm gonna kill you, you bastard!"

"JJ, stop!" Benji pulled Kiara into him.

"You killed them!"

"John B didn't kill anyone!" Pope yelled at Shoupe, tears salty and hot on his cheeks. "And you know it! You know it!"

"We're still looking for them, alright?" Shoupe tried, but it fell on death ears. They were kids, after all. Kids who were cold and tired, kids who had hardly slept, kids who had just been told their friends were lost at sea. How could he really expect them to listen to him?

"You know he didn't—"

"Pope," Kiara sobbed loudly into Benji's chest. He had hidden his face in her hair now, he couldn't bear to look at anyone. "Stop— stop it, please—"

It was then that Pope deflated, releasing the hot air he'd built up over the last couple days. His shoulders jolted and then he was weeping too.

"Kiara?!"

She pulled away from Benji when her parents rushed in. Pope's were close behind and Benji's were after that. They crashed into their children and held them close, they held them tight, refusing to let go.

"I'm sorry," Pope repeated, "I'm sorry."

"They didn't make it, mom..." Kie tucked herself into her mother's shoulder.

"It's okay," she coo'd. "It's okay."

But it wasn't okay. They knew that.

And as Sonny stood there in the middle of it all, she was suddenly certain that nothing would ever be okay again. It didn't feel possible. Not without John B.

"Sonny!"

She didn't move, not even when Nat appeared in front of her, cupping her face in her hands.

"Sweetie..." she sniffled.

"He's dead," was all Sonny could get out.

Nat held back another cry.

"It's okay," she whispered. It wasn't convincing. Natasha adored John B. So did Ed, who was looking tearier than she had ever seen him as he stood next to JJ, placing a hand on one of his shoulders while he cried.

"I'm not upset," Sonny said, though her eyes stung and prickled at the backs. When Natasha's face twisted with so much empathy that it physically hurt, Sonny reeled away. It was all getting too much. Everything was just too much. She couldn't breathe right.

"Honey," Blake was next to her now.

"No," she whispered, stepping away. She tried to block it out. The noise, the tears, the pain. Sonny tried to push it all down like she usually did, to cram and cram until it wasn't close enough to haunt her.

Get it together Sonny, her body trembled, stop it.

Where was it? Her bubble? The silence that awaited her whenever things got too hard?

Everything was too loud, too raw. Sonny wanted it to go away, she needed it to go away, but at the time she needed it most, her bubble wasn't there to save her.

So, she bolted.

Out of the tent and into the night, pushing past anybody standing in her way. It was bitter cold, and the rain slapped against her skin like bullets, and they all called her name in the distance, but she didn't stop. Not until she was standing close enough to the embankment that she teetered right on the edge, nearly slipping into the muddy depths below, and she could see the island in its entirety.

Only then did she stop. Only then did she scream.

"John B?!" His name was a hoarse shriek. It scratched its way into the bitter air like nails on a chalkboard. Sonny felt her throat burn. "John B?!"

There was no answer. Sonny screamed again, and again, until she could no longer hear herself. Until the world was only a dull hum in her ears. But still, that pain didn't leave. None of it eased. Not even slightly.

Why did it hurt so much?

Her chested heaved, why couldn't she let go?

Was it because she didn't say a proper goodbye? Because she'd failed to warn him about the storm? Because she had chosen to let him go, not make him turn back? Had Sonny done this? Was she truly the bad omen she thought she was? Wolf in Kook's clothing, destroyer of good things — there were so many things Sonny Penbrook was, but not once had she thought she'd be this.

A scared little girl calling out for her brother.

"Bird?!"

He didn't call back.

She screamed until her lungs gave out. Her legs, too. But before she could hit the ground, arms wrapped around her and lowered to the rest of the way.

"I got you," said the person they belonged to. She felt it when Ed tugged her frozen body closer. "You're okay, we're here. We got you,"

   Another pair of arms. Another.

Until Ed, Nat and Blake were wrapped fully around her, holding her as she shivered and shook. Sonny squeezed her eyes shut and pushed her head into someone's shoulder. It only made her want to scream even more. Every shriek she swallowed tried to claw its way back up. She gasped for air, choking when it hit her throat.

    "You can let go, sugar." Blake told her.

   No, no she couldn't. She wouldn't. That wasn't Sonny. She didn't cry— she never cried.

    "Baby, please..." Natasha sobbed quietly.

    "Let go."

   And so she did.

   For the first time in years, for almost as long as she could remember, Sonny finally let go.

   A tear trailed down her cheek, another in its wake. They kept coming until she was a mess of sobs and wails, crying  into the arms of her family — her weird, little, stitched up family — so hard Sonny wasn't sure if she could ever stop. She finally let everything go in that moment, and she knew, from then, she'd never be the same.

   John B was gone. And so was Sonny.

————

   Death was no stranger to Sonny Penbrook.

   It was close to her heart; raw and thriving; because death was with her wherever she went.

   She knew death.

   It was in the mother she'd lost as a child, in the years she'd spent in foster care, in the photos of Ed's mother hanging on the walls. It was in the fallen autumn leaves, in the forgotten plants on her bathroom window, in the slam of waves on the shoreline. Death was everywhere.

   Death was the look in Rafe's eyes, the lies on Ward's sharp tongue, the aftermath of the storm. Death was John B, death was Sarah Cameron, and death was the girl who lost and lost and just kept losing until nothing was left.

   Death was no stranger to Sonny Penbrook. No— because Sonny Penbrook was death.

   What other explanation was there?

   It followed her like a shadow, it spread like a rash. Sonny really was nothing but a bad omen; she carried misery and misfortune, and now John B was dead.

   John B, her eyes watered, she never thought it would take him. Death was cruel, yes, but never him.

   But it had. John B was gone, so was Sarah, and with them those they left behind.

"What're we going to do, Ed?"

Natasha's voice was soft. Cushioned by the door between her room and the hall. They'd lingered out there for a while now. At first, Sonny'd thought they were staring at John B's room. Taking time to grieve. But now, she wondered if they were listening out for her. Waiting for her to call them. Too scared to leave, too worried she would need them. Terrified they wouldn't be able to get to her — in the same way they weren't able to get to John B.

    "We give her space. We let her grieve." Ed whispered. "We let ourselves grieve. Then we get through it."

   There was a silence, then a faint sob.

    "I miss him."

   Sonny squeezed her eyes shut.

    "I know," Ed's voice trembled. "I miss him, too."

   It was torturous. Lying there. Listening to their cries. But Sonny couldn't bring herself to move. All she could do was tuck herself further into the covers, clench her jaw and not give in to the pain in her chest.

   They left, shortly after. Maybe they decided she'd fallen asleep, that she'd be fine for a short while. Maybe they had gone to cry downstairs, somewhere they couldn't wake her. Whatever the case — she didn't have the heart to tell them otherwise. She'd put them through enough this summer. It might break them more if she did.

   With their voices gone, she noticed the storm was finally slowing down. Or maybe it was the ringing in Sonny's ears that made it seem that way.

   Maybe the world would just be quieter now. John B was always loud. Filled a room. Sonny used to find it irritating, and she used to miss the silence that came before him, but now she wished she had something else to fill it with. This silence was different. It was sad.

   But then the silence vanished, the sadness too, even if for only a few moments, when a scuffle came from outside her bedroom window.

   Her heart fluttered. She bolted upright.

   Because for just a second, against her greater judgement, Sonny thought it was him. John B.

It wasn't.

    "Hi," JJ's voice was quiet.

Her heart did a different kind of flutter.

"Can I..." he sounded unsure, "Can I come in?"

Sonny didn't say anything, just nodded her head once. It was enough for JJ though, and he slipped beneath the glass panel and onto her windowsill.

It was quiet. Sonny took the chance to wipe her face and switch on her bedside lamp. The light illuminated JJ's blue eyes. They were still bloodshot and glossy, and his hair was sodden beneath his cap.

"You're soaked," she finally said.

"That's usually my line," he joked, but there was no real humour behind it. Simply a recycled line that probably got other girls hot and bothered, pink in the face. Sonny didn't even have the strength to roll her eyes.

"You're dripping on my floor."

"Also my line."

Sonny sighed. She sniffled quietly and wrapped her arms around herself, glancing at the clock on her desk. It was late, so late it was nearly morning, and she wondered where he'd been the last few hours, why he was still outside when there was a storm going on.

"What're you doing here?" She asked him.

"Didn't feel like facing my dad yet," he shrugged slowly, removing his hat, balling it in his hands. "And it didn't feel right going to the chateau without..."

They both flinched. JJ tried to clear his throat.

"I guess I, uh..." he pursed his lips, shaking his head, "I guess I didn't know where else to go."

Sonny's chest hurt. The idea of him walking around in a storm after losing his best friend... no, she was done with all the crying. She'd stopped almost as soon as she had started.

Snapped out of it, turned off and recalibrated, flipped a switch. Whatever you wanted to call it, Sonny had done it. She'd always hated crying.

Maybe that was why Ed and Natasha had hovered after tucking her into bed. Because instead of crying, or talking, Sonny had opted to stare up at the ceiling and pretend the tears had never fallen in the first place. She had stared and stared and stared and she hadn't shed another tear. White paint was nothing to cry over.

"I just..." JJ quivered, "I can't believe he's gone."

And the guilt returned.

Because it was her fault— wasn't it? Perhaps not directly, sure, but it was still her fault. She hadn't told John B about hearing the storm warning on the radio, she hadn't begged him to turn around and come back while she had a chance. Sonny had let him sail into that storm and now, John B was gone. He was dead, nobody would ever see him again, and she had to live with that forever.

How was she supposed to live with that?

"I'm sorry," it fell past her lips before she could stop it. JJ wiped his snotty nose as he looked up at her, a crease in the middle of his forehead.

"Why?" His throat was thick.

Sonny didn't reply. She curled into herself further, hoping she'd disappear behind her sweatshirt.

JJ frowned, "It's not your fault."

More silence.

"Sonny."

Her eyes slammed shut. She didn't like when he used her name. He never did that, and when he did, it never sounded this way — like he was begging.

"Hey," he was closer, now. When she opened her eyes, JJ was standing in front of her, cupping her face in his hands. Suddenly, Sonny wanted to cry more now than ever before. Especially when she met his teary gaze as his thumb gently stroked her cheek. "It's not your fault."

Their stares usually clashed. Collided in the middle. She found it more worrisome when they didn't.

Like right now, for example, when they melded together with soft intertwine. Gentle embrace. Sweet longing. That scared Sonny, like it always had. To feel connected was to care. She didn't want to care.

Because she was death, she was dying, and she ruined the things she touched.

She wouldn't do that to JJ.

Not any more than she already had.

"You should go."

Her words surprised him, though maybe they shouldn't have. After all, Sonny was never known for being soft. But even so, as stepped back, her face blank, JJ felt something inside him break.

"Sonny," he whispered. Her shell was hardening. It was a matter of time before she was unreachable, before it ruined whatever they had built forever.

JJ had set out to figure her out that summer. To solve the great mystery of Sonny Penbrook. And he almost had, too. Was he going to let her do this? Make him start over? Push him away and forget everything that had happened? Act as though whatever this was, wasn't easy?

"Go," she said.

He went to say something, but she turned her back. The action seemed final. And despite the grief clawing away at him, JJ felt the fire surface.

    "That's it?"

   There was only silence.

"Who's the bad apple now?" He spat.

And then he was gone, leaving Sonny alone and standing there in her room, only herself, her grief and a John B sized hole in her heart for company.

Don't act all shocked, Topper's words ran clear in her mind, when you shut 'em out and Maybank doesn't feel like sticking around.

Sonny Penbrook was on her own, again.

   Maybe she always had been.

━━━━━━━☆☆━━━━━━━

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀   ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀

⠀⠀⠀   ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀   ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀