the search

Chapter 3 - Natalie

There she is. My mother. Natalie.

I gaze into my old house from across the street. I sit, inconspicuously on a bench, pretending to read a newspaper I snatched from a bin, and play with the handle of the knife in my waistband. Still, I don't feel particularly safe. I mean, it's not like I've ever had experience with knife fighting. My mother looks skinnier than before. Her eyes look hollow. I feel guilty, but also angry. I wish I could be there for my mother, but I know she thinks I'm dead. Well, technically I'm just missing, yet to be found. Watson and I are the only ones who know the truth. I was only 18.

There he is. Jolly as ever, acting like nothing happened. Like he knows nothing. He kisses my mother on the temple, and she leans into his touch. God. The rage inside of me feels like a fire, like my guts and my heart and my brain are due to explode any second. I stand abruptly, dump the newspaper in a bin, and head home.

Wherever 'home' even is now.

***

It's been a week. I spend about an hour outside of my mother's house a day to make sure she's safe. It's all been well and good, until today.

I take my usual spot on the bench, and look subtly through the windows, trying to catch a glimpse of her. Before I see anything, I hear a loud crash.

'What the hell, Chris!'

I stand and walk quickly to their side of the road, not looking, forcing a car to narrowly swerve by me. I go to walk right through the front door, but stop myself. I can't let them see me. Not only would my mother force me to stay with them, God knows Watson would probably try to kill me again. Can I even die again? Can I die even in death? I'd rather not find out. The first time was bad enough. Sometimes I think I can still feel is hands on my neck, pressing, squeezing, killing. No, I need to keep a distance until I can figure out how to get someone to find my body. I also need to get Watson locked up before he does the same to my mother.

Instead of going inside, I walk across the street again and stand opposite the kitchen window, where I presume the crash came from. Probably a plate or glass being thrown. Who knows what he's mad about this time. I stand and wait. I can't see my mother, which is good. I don't want to be seen by both of them and be compromised. After all, if only Watson sees, it's not like he'll tell.

At last, he looks at me. He looks like he's seen a ghost, which, he technically has. Before he can do a double take and really recognise me, I disappear from his sight.

I decide to walk home through the park, since it's not like I've somewhere I need to be. It drizzles a little. I love the smell of pavement just after it's rained. There is no rain in the Celestial City. Plants stay alive simply by force of will, and dead people don't need food or drink. Here, it's completely different. Thirst, hunger, winter chill. The cons of earth certainly outweigh the cons of the City, but it's a worthy price. I can't help but feel paranoid walking through the desolate park, bar a couple dog walkers and runners. The food that keeps appearing beside me while I sleep at night certainly isn't getting there itself.

I continue walking, and eventually hear heavy, wet footsteps behind me. My heartbeat quickens, and I just know this is who has been visiting me at night. Creep. I take a long route home, winding down back roads I normally don't in an attempt to lose the person who seems to know what move I'll make before even I do. I sharply turn around a corner in a back street and wait with my back against the wall. I slip out the knife I now keep tucked into my waistband. I grip it tightly, shaking.

The person walks round the corner, with the same amount of determination I had just seconds ago. I grab his arm and spin him as forcefully as I can, and pin him against the wall. I press the blade of the knife against the person's throat. The boy's throat. Now that I get a good look at his body, I determine he has the stature of a boy. No, a man. The smell of one too. However I can't make out his face, as an oversized hood conceals all but his mouth.

"Why are you following me?" I demand, increasing the pressure of my knife on his neck, under which my other arm presses him to the wall. Realistically, I don't stand a chance in a fight against this guy, but maybe I can intimidate him enough to get away without a scratch.

I take his hood and guide it from his face.

"You have got to be kidding me."