The Many Faces of Tully
Mourning Day

Jace and I spend almost every night together after that. I have never been happier in my life, and apparently neither has Jace. He keeps telling me this is the happiest he has been since he was eight years old. I had to agree with him, but mine was since I was sixteen. I have no problem with my powers now and I have complete control over them.

It is just after Christmas when my routine changes. Christmas was good itself. It was a good celebration, all of us eating together in the Chinese restaurant, exchanging gifts, nothing out of the ordinary. But four days later I wake up cold. I realize it is because Jace is not next to me. I pull up the memory of last night and remember lying to Jace, saying I had cramps and didn’t want him around for that.

My body knows what day it is. My subconscious knows what day it is. It takes me a moment to realize why I feel so crappy. It’s December 29th. This day, five years ago, I exploded on Peter. This day, five years ago, I committed the worst murder. This day, for five years now, has been the worst day of the year. My body makes itself sick. I get cold chills, I feel like I’m going to throw up, and I have a pounding headache. I thank my subconscious for lying to Jace. No wonder I didn’t want him in my bed last night. It would have felt wrong, like I was betraying Peter or something. I’m already shivering, and I notice my sheets are damp. I’ve been sweating.

I check the time, and its 6:30 in the morning. Jace is probably wondering where I am. I have enough time to pull my thick brown hair up into a messy bun and put on comfy sweats before I hear a knock on my door.

“Come in.” My voice is hoarse, and I wonder if I had nightmares last night without realizing it. I try to clear it as my door opens.

Jace is standing in the doorway, looking at me with concern. “You hadn’t come out yet. I was wondering if you were okay.” He takes a few steps into my room.

“Um, I guess you could say I’m sick. It’s pretty much self-inflicted,” I admit. I dig through my drawers until I replace my sweater. It was my dads’ sweater. I wear it every year on this day. It’s big, soft, and blue. I pull it over my head and hear Jace close the door behind him.

“What’s wrong?” he asks me softly, walking up to me.

“It’s December twenty-ninth,” I tell him as I shiver violently. I fetch out thick wool socks. I sit on my bed and pull them on over the socks I’m already wearing. I shiver again. “I need some water.” I start to get up, but Jace pushes me back down.

“I’ll get you some. You look terrible. Stay here and rest, I’ll be back.” He kisses the top of my head and leaves. I sigh heavily. It’s nice to have someone take care of you, but I really hope he doesn’t plan on staying in here all day with me. Knowing him, he probably will.

I already have The Notebook playing by the time he gets back. I have a comforter thrown around my shoulders and I’m huddled on my bed. He hands me the glass of water and crawls onto the bed next to me, pulling me into him.

“Thank you,” I say weakly.

“My pleasure. So what’s with the date? Were you just stating it, or saying that’s what’s wrong?” His hand is rubbing my shoulder, and I get the chills again.

“It’s the date.” I had taken off my watch and am rubbing its cold, smooth surface over my lips. Jace looks at the watch at my lips, and then up into my eyes. I don’t look at him. I just watch the TV without really paying attention to it.

“You mean, the date you…” he hesitates. He takes a deep breath. “Peter?” he asks me quietly. I just nod, still staring at the screen. My vision is starting to blur. “I’m sorry,” he says so softly that I barely hear him.

My lip starts quivering. “I use this day to mourn them all. No use spreading my misery out on five different days. Well six now.” I take a deep breath to try to calm myself. I can’t start crying yet. The day has just started. If I cry now, I’ll cry all day.

“That’s understandable. So how do you make yourself sick? Do you want me to heal you?” He is already trying to reach into my blankets.

“Probably won’t work. It’s all in my head. Can’t cure a sickness in a head, can you?” I sniffle and blink away tears.

“I’ve never tried.”

“Go ahead and try.” I’m still not looking at him. How does he stand me? I’m a murderer.

He touches my cheek and I see it start to glow green. It’s so hot against my face and I shiver again, leaning into his palm, willing the heat to fill me up. I finally look up at him and his eyebrows are furrowed.

“What?” I ask defensively.

“I can feel it. You feel so cold, but then again, you don’t. It’s confusing my powers. I can’t heal it. You’re right,” he says somewhat angrily. “Can I keep doing this? I want to keep trying.”

Chills roll through me again. “Sure.” I don’t mind his hot hands on me. He places his other hand on my other cheek so my face is cupped between his hands. That one glows just as brightly as his other, and just as hot. He closes his eyes in concentration, and I close mine too, sucking up the warmth.

I don’t know why he wants to heal me. I deserve to feel bad at least one day a year. I don’t care how good Jace thinks I am. I’m still a bad person. A good person doesn’t murder innocents. They were all innocent. It doesn’t matter that Mark’s wife was trying to hurt me. She didn’t deserve to die. It doesn’t matter that the runner up pulled my hair. Jealousy is an ugly creature, but she, and the other eight girls, didn’t deserve to die for it. The two seniors, they were afraid of me. Fear is a nasty thing too, but once again, it didn’t warrant death. Sure Jack and Carl were both yelling at me at the time, but couples fight all the time. Only psychopaths killed their boyfriends for just yelling at them.

And then there is Peter. He did nothing wrong. Nothing. Only the worst kinds of murderers kill in cold blood. I deserve worse than to just get sick one day a year. I should be locked away, not near human civilization. I’m not safe. I’m dangerous. I’m too powerful. I really should have been the one who died all those time. The world would be a safer place without me. A lot safer. Fifteen people would still be alive today if it weren’t for me. Fifteen families wouldn’t be missing their children. Men wouldn’t have lost their girlfriends. The world would be a happier place without me.

I didn’t notice that tears had squeezed through my shut eyelids and were streaking down my face silently. My lower lip is wobbling from holding back sobs, and snot is starting to drip out of my nose. I don’t move to wipe it away.

“What are you doing?” Jace’s voice cuts across my misery.

I sniffle and open my eyes to look up at him. His face is blurry but I see him glaring at me. “What? Crying?” My voice is thick with tears.

“No. I can see that you’re crying. Stop whatever you’re thinking or whatever. Whatever you just did in the last minute. You’re even colder now.” He’s frowning.

“Sorry. I was just think about what I horrible person I was.” I frown too, dropping my gaze, feeling misery wash over me.

“See. That right there. You just dropped a few more degrees,” he says angrily. My frown deepens.

“I don’t think I can mourn properly with you getting angry at me for doing so. Can’t I feel sad for my losses?” I accuse him.

“That’s not sadness. I’ve felt sad people before. Their bodies aren’t cold like they have a sickness in them like you. Whatever you’re doing is worse than sadness. It’s like depression. You’re doing this to yourself, stop it.”

I don’t know why but I get irrationally angry. “What?” I demand him harshly. “You want me to stop mourning? You want me to stop feeling bad about murdering people. Maybe you don’t get it because you haven’t killed someone you cared for, but what about Veronica? Or your father? Do you still mourn them on the day they died? Do you not think about them at least once that day?”

I’m shaking in anger. I don’t know when I got to my feet but I’m suddenly towering over Jace who is still on the bed, and he’s looking at me with wide eyes. “I’ve murdered fifteen people Jace. Fifteen innocent people! I am a murderer and I don’t have a right to feel bad about it? I thought you liked the fact that I wasn’t coldhearted. I thought you liked that I wore my shame every day, but you don’t want me to mourn them? What’s up with that!?” I’m shouting at him at the top of my lungs.

He gets off my bed with his hands raised slightly. He seems unbalanced on his feet. Or maybe it’s because I’m shaking so hard. I hear a loud crash then, and some shouting. I hardly give it a thought.

“You have no right to tell me to stop mourning them. You have no right to tell me to do anything. This is who I am, Jace. I kill people and feel terrible about it. I am a gentle monster, unable to stop being bad. I am a plague to this world. I’m a danger to you, and everyone I’m near. You don’t know how often I wish I was the one who died instead of them. Everyone would be happier and safer without me blackening the earth!”

Jace pitches violently to the side then and catches himself on my dresser. “Tully!” he shouts at me. “Stop it or you’ll tear this place apart!” My TV crashes to the floor then and I finally take in my surroundings. Not only am I shaking in anger, but so is my whole room. Maybe the whole building. Maybe the whole town!

All of a sudden my door slams open and Calchas is there, with Damon behind him. “Do it,” Calchas says to no one in particular.

Sleep. I tell myself and I pass out.