The Drive Home

11: Scorch

The sprig of heather Muphrid had tucked under my bandana sits on the dash. It gets me all tingly when I look at it. Butterflies, I think most people would call it, but it feels like worms to me. A writhing mass of worms.

The unease, the dread, the itchiness - it just gets worse and worse, and Muphrid gets closer and closer. He touches me all day and night, like he can't help himself. Just these soft, little touches. Bumping our knuckles together when we play cards, walking his fingertips across my arms as I sit idly in his chair. He cards his fingers through my hair at every chance he gets, and he always gets stuck in the knots and jolts my head back and we laugh about it.

It leaves my skin hissing, buzzing, tearing apart. Makes me red hot inside, like I could combust. My heart stammers, breath catches, skin heats. I hate it. I hate it all, hate the dread and fear that spews from his hands. My past won't stop haunting me until I'm behind bars, and until then, his touch will continue to spread like fungus in a petri dish. But it's addicting: I find myself craving it, waiting for those touches, those fireworks scattering over my skin. They make me so breathless and afraid it feels like I might die, and yet I want more and more. Want it to destroy me, maybe.

~~

"There. Are. Solar. Showers." Muphrid arrives at the door of my ute, panting. He leans against the frame and catches his breath.

"Fuck off, you're kidding."

"No joke," he gasps, swelling with pride, "Pavo, we can be clean."

I tuck my phone back into the glovebox. It didn't have any signal. But still, I'd found myself trapped by its glow, waiting for those bars to appear, while Muphrid was off having a gander at the new campground.

Maybe I'm sabotaging myself, dousing myself in guilt and shame needlessly. Maybe the fire lives in my phone, in the ute - in the smudged fingerprints of charcoal in the seats, in the smoke melded into the fabrics. Maybe, I can let it all go. Pretend it's me and Muphrid against the world and nothing else.

"Quick then, grab the towels."

I shit you not when I say we bundled up our shit and ran. Showers are hard to come by in the outback, and everyone knows it. Heated water is even more of a miracle, and god knows it's gonna run out fast. The place is gonna be packed once dusk settles in.

The concrete is wet underfoot like someone's had the same idea to get in early, and I leave a brown trail of soggy footsteps on the concrete behind me. 

And god, fucking hell, the feeling of warm water. It's glorious. It weeps down my body in streams of brown and red and spins at my feet as it gets sucked into the drain. I pretend that all that guilt, all that god-awful gunk gurgles down with it. Gone. I scrub that measly bar of soap over every inch of my skin, every strand of hair on my head. Over and over till the water that spills down my ankles is clear.

I've never been one for hot showers but I crank the hot tap till it's scorching and leaves red trails down my torso. It seeps right through my skin, into my muscles, bones, and the air gets all hot and steamy and I never want to move again. Maybe it'll burn the shame outta me. Burn off all my old skin and I can walk out of here a different person.

I want the kiss to be all I can think about. I don't want it crammed to the back of my head. I want to be light. I don't want my past looming over me, rumbling like distant thunder. I want so desperately to fall into this camping routine, the nomadic life. A life with Muphrid. Okay, maybe just a month, or whenever he gets sick of me.

Or, until he figures me out.

Because I've never been that great at keeping secrets. They just climb outta me, crawl over my body in the form of sweat, a creeping blush. I'm just waiting for that breaking point. That bit where I crumble and spill it all. It's harder than I thought to slip into the concept of 'us' with all of this poking me in the back of the neck. It feels scandalous enough as it is without all my looming crimes.

I dry off and sit in the ute while Muphrid showers, soaking up that clean feeling. The desert shrubs droop under the sweltering afternoon sun. The horizon is white with the heat. 

Opposite to us is a trio in a Wicked van, the sides spray painted up with neon flaming skulls. I watch them set up firewood in one of those little concrete pits while I twiddle my thumbs and try not to make eye contact. One of the women has a side shave, like Jackie. I wonder if she's forgotten about me yet, or if she's still pissed.

Who am I kidding? Of course she's still pissed.

I watch Muphrid dance out of the shower, towel folded under his arm. He's all fresh and glowing, doing that stupid duck waddle so his thongs don't flick up dust on the backs of his legs. And, being the guy he is, he bypasses me and heads straight to our punk neighbours to introduce himself. God, he's exhausting to watch, so happy and full of life and enthusiasm. He's introduced himself to every single soul we've seen. Although, I should be grateful that I'm one of those souls, I guess. I'd be dead otherwise.

He catches my eyes and waves so obnoxiously it would be more embarrassing to ignore him, so I go over and introduce myself as Pavo. The three are all friendly as and encourage us to pull our stuff over, set up next to their fire, and as the sun sets we exchange stories and adventures and laugh at the growing line to the showers. After dinner a guitar is pulled from the van and a woman with neon purple dreadlocks sings softly while the side-shaved woman pokes small yellow grass flowers in her companion's beard, and just like that, like instinct, we all shut off, and it's like her strumming, those notes gliding through the air, have personally flown over and sewn our mouths shut, and we're all entranced just like that.

Muphrid points to a satellite but I don't see it because I'm looking across at his hand, the hand that's touched me all over. I look at all the rings he's wearing today, glowing orange by the fire, like they're made of molten metal.

"Pavo, c'mere." His hand reaches across and tugs at the nape of my jumper, and I dunno where the bugger wants me to go cos I'm literally right here.

"What?"

"C'mere, sit with me."

"What? No."

He yanks me so hard I nearly faceplant into the armrest of his chair. "I'm cold."

"Muphrid, there's all these people," I hiss, our foreheads pressed together. I can feel the heat of him - that bastard can't be cold.

"They don't care, look at 'em."

"That's too much PDA. I hate PDA people."

"What? If you sit next to me? That's not PDA. That's just... being efficient at warmth." He tucks my hair behind my ears, but it's so clean it falls right back down again. "Please?"

The rustling of my clothes against the canvas of the chair is impossibly loud. It's the loudest thing I've ever heard, as I nestle down next to him. He ruffles my hair and I scowl. I don't dare look up, beyond the flames, beyond the shadows bouncing across dimpled sand. I already know that all eyes are on us. They have to be, with all that racket I just caused. My heartbeat is in my ears. There's a colony of ants in my chest.

He loops an arm around and sweeps his fingers over my shoulders in all sorts of swirls and shapes. I dunno what to do. I just freeze under him. The weight of his shoulder against mine, his thigh pressed against my thigh, it fizzes like sparklers. I pretend it doesn't make me wanna vomit.

In my head, I chant: it's okay, it's okay, it's okay. Breathe, dickhead. Smile at him. Touch him back and pretend you're not running for your life.

I trace shapes into his other wrist. My fingers shake. I draw a penis, over and over. He has no idea. It helps keep me grounded, see, cos when I stop all I can feel is the heat of him and the fire smothering me. I spell out, in cursive, I'm scared. Muphrid, Muphrid, Muphrid. I bleed all my fears into the flesh of his wrist as the night devours us.

Meanwhile, the guitar strums, and another verse starts.