"You're going to make me do bad things to you, sweetheart." | Frank Rider is the new teacher. His favourite word is 'detention'. He's iniquitous, rude and vicious. To get on his bad side would be suicide. Unfortunately for Cleo, she's already dived...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
CHAPTER LXXII
THE SUN SETTING WAS a scene out of a novel: melting into the far-west, somewhere downtown in the grubby cold streets, glinting of broken windows of shut-down stores. With the sirens a constant ring in their ears, someone, close by, on their way home from a convenience store, or after stepping off a train would catch the glimmer of soft oranges and faded pinks and streaks of red and their face would be bathed in the glowing yellows and they'd squint, turn away, and scurry in the opposite direction, finding irritation in the death of the sun. Or, if I detangled myself from the old mindset of a misanthropic and dying generation, perhaps their gaze would sweep across the sky, an admirer, fumbling to reach for their phone to snap a photograph that would receive nine likes. Click. Maybe I was wrong altogether and the sun would set like it always did, without anyone present, without attention, and without its rest romanticised by an author who needed to fill their word count.
A brown hand softly grazed across an expanse of bronzed gold; beguiling with its charm and glimmer and softness. Heavy-lidded eyes watched its wander, powder-grey eyes transfixed, until exhaustion became too heavy to fight, and with a splash into the bathtub of scalding hot water, my hand fell from my thigh, knuckles against the marble underbelly.
A sigh escaped me. I slid further, the water reaching just the tip of my lip. I sunk, completely submerging myself in the unobtainable heat. I covered my nostrils with the tips of my fingers, pressing tight, counting the seconds until I could no longer hold my breath. I didn't break the surface with urgency, and submerged once more, eyes closed, feeling the freeness, the lightness of my limbs, the floating sensation of just drifting.
It was enjoyable.
I was enervated, in a state of uncomfortable narcolepsy. Spiritless, and restless, I couldn't tear away from exhaustion. It was a tight grip, yellow-nailed, bony fingers, unpleasant. Unconsciousness remained, fleeting wisps of smoke, enticingly inviting. Uncle Hektor was a stubborn rock, forcing me to drink a tall glass of cool water and telling me to wait for the doctor's call. I had set my feet on the floor of the living room, uncertain in consciousness, but undoubtable about what I wanted: I'm not going to see a doctor, I'm fine, Uncle Hektor. I've just been stressed about college applications.
He didn't believe me, of course. But I was created with the same blood, and just as, if not more, recalcitrant and obdurate, refusing a check-up. I need to wash up. I'll be down for dinner.
Stiff-lipped, dissatisfied but unable to push the argument any further, Uncle Hektor backed down. That didn't stop the prods, the pokes, the back of hands to my forehead and concern, though. I didn't brush him away, not as hard-headed as described, allowing him half of the battle.
Bottom-heavy, I had traipsed up the stairs, shutting the bathroom door after me, turning the lock. Gripping the cold sink, my head had weighed heavily, and I had turned the cold tap, splashing my face with water.
