SO COLD (18+) currently editing

Chapter 22

CHARACTER VIEWS DO NOT REPRESENT MY OWN. Please be civil in the comment section.

The trip back started off quiet. I felt like a little girl's rag doll: dragged by my hair, thrown between feelings of artic cold fear and dizzying helplessness, torn, beaten, bruised, split down the middle. My limbs were made of wool and my stitched smile was becoming undone, each thread becoming looser and looser, plucked apart my invisible grubby fingers, broken. I did a couple of breathing exercises, in out in out in out, faster and faster, my head packed with images of dad staring at me and finding me, that familiar chase, and I was running again this time from memories that chased after the car, wiggled their way in from the open window.

Early morning, bright yellow circle in the sky, calm blue day. High spirits, skipping down the stairs, it was my birthday, ninth, joyful, expectant, hopeful. The night was a blur of royal deep blue, on and on it went, until the brr brr brr of the alarm clock, wake up. My eyes stung, I spent the night praying, Dear Jesus, Please Let Mum Send Me A Birthday Card. Dear Jesus, The Postman Is Coming, Please Tell Him To Bring Me Mum's Letter. Dear Jesus... I chatted on through the night, my hands stuck together, sweaty, eyes squeezed shut, wishing, wishing, wishing, fighting off sleep.

The memory was on repeat: Young me running down the stairs, getting to the last step, and then the images jerkily rewinding, back to the top of the stairs, running down the stairs. Again and again. Hiding nineteen year old me from nine year old me, I pushed forward but I hit a murky wall, a NO ENTRY sign hanging, an invisible block.

I smelt something metallic. My arm was wet. Heavy and wet. A ghost feeling. I shouted. "Stop the car!" and rushed out.

Vomit splattered the road, wet and sparse, and I coughed, dry spit hanging from my chin. I searched the glove box for tissues, anything to rinse my mouth with and found condoms, insurance papers, a packet of mints, a comb but no scrap of tissue or water. Cole got out of the car and I heard him opening the boot, rummaging about as if there was an entire attic full of crap back there, and then he came around my side of the car. "Here." He passed along a lukewarm bottle of water and one of those cute packet of tissues that you shove in your purse and forget it's there. Gratefully accepting and bashfully embarrassed, I quickly cleaned myself, gargling out my mouth and wiping my chin. I tossed the bottle and tissues in a litterbin, there was nothing I could do about my sick, some poor street cleaner would have to clean it up or an angry homeowner. We returned to the road, and I knew I would have to explain myself, Cole was seconds away from demanding what the hell was wrong with me, I could see it in his face. "I must've ate something bad." I said.

"Hmm." He grunted lowly. The lie was rejected: I realised I had actually not ate all day and I was craving food. I should've been repulsed by the notion of food but my stomach was empty, and adding my fatigue to my state did me no favours, I could swallow a bakery. Maybe a cheesy hamburger with a handful of crispy onions and chilli sauce. I wouldn't say no to a carton of milk, neither.

He pulled up to a greasy diner ten minutes later. Next door was a lonely sandwich place. He didn't say anything or wait for me, heading into the diner and I followed him in, I should've been feeling queasy from the smell of frying meat and sizzling fries but I welcomed it: sniffing deeply, appreciatively. Behind the counter was a fat blonde, her cheeks were glowing red and she squinted at us unsurely, her eyes darting to the backroom, wondering if she'd make it alive if Cole pulled out a gun on her and shot her point blank in the face. "How can I help you?" she said. Some old 2000 pop song played behind her on a shitty grey CD player.

"I'll take a number three and a beer. What do you want?" Cole asked.

I copied his order, it was late afternoon and many of the items had been crossed out, and I didn't fancy fried mushroom pie or lumpy yellow curry and burnt naan. I sidled into a booth, the stinging red seats looked like they'd been pecked by crows and the matching table was somewhat sticky. Some bratty kid must've upended his can of Sprite after his tired father refused to give him the 'grown-up' knife and fork–at least that's what I imagined to have happened. Cole stared around the diner and his gaze swept outside, alert and always ready to jump to his toes. For lack of a better thing to do, I shook the salt and pepper shakers, they were almost empty and the white and grey grains swished to each end of the shakers. Silence and avoided gazes followed.