Stained Glass Souls (Wattys 2014, Collector's Dream Award Winner)

Price: The Beginning of The End

(Price: unedited)

She smelled like soap. Coconut soap and mint gum. The faintest undertone of ashes had settled into the folds of his sweatshirt.

It was strangely comforting, he discovered, sharing something that belonged to you. When he hauled a line of carts through McGowan Markets in the snow and paused to fix his beanie, he could smell her, as much a part of his torn-up sleeves as the ripped stitching holding them together. It was the tiniest reminder, fleeting as one of the starry snowflakes, that there was a girl in a cottage a mile away, and if she wasn’t thinking of dying then she was probably thinking of him.

Somehow, this was different than it was with Jewel. She depended upon him because he was the only person to depend upon. Ariel, though, was different. She wouldn’t settle for anything, or anyone, and she was still weakly angry about passing out in the shower.

But she had kept his sweatshirt, and that was enough encouragement for him.

“Price!” His heart stopped. From a distance, it looked like Charliegh. Bright red coat, swinging walk – almost like she was skipping, walking overtop the snow.

“C?”

“God, no.” The girl got closer. She craned her head up, trying to find his face underneath his heavy grey hood. She looked like a pixie. A little bit angry and a little bit confused, and nothing like the girl who had fled from him. “I haven’t seen her since Town Days.”

“Who are you?”

“Florence. Nightingale. I’m saving the day.” She laughed, but it came out stilted, as if she realized at the last moment he wasn’t laughing as well. And, for some reason, it seemed unfathomable to her that he wouldn’t find her funny.

Price grabbed the handle of his train of carts, snow soaking through the holes in his gloves. Florence. He had heard of a Florence before – seen the name in the school newspaper. But there was something else about her, something undefinably disgusting. “You’re friends with Nolan.”

“Nolan Endell?” She said in disbelief. “No. God, no. I mean, I know him. Know of him, is the better word.” She stuck her hands in her pockets, frowning. The conversation clearly wasn’t going in her intended direction. “Really though, is this important? It wasn’t what –”

“It should be important.”

“What is this? I, like, had a serious question for you. But I mean, if you don’t want to talk –”

Everything clicked. All at once. And for the first time in two weeks, he saw red. “You’re the girl that sent Nolan to Charliegh, aren’t you?”

“What? I mean,” she stumbled, “no. Not really. He asked me to deliver a message. It wasn’t hide-and-seek.”

“So this isn’t your fault?”

“Uhm, yeah?”

Price shoved the carts away from him. His hands were shaking. Despite the holes, despite the cigarette smell that had contaminated him, too, he was so grateful for gloves in that moment. They hid his weakness. His barely restrained anger, which he was all too willing to direct towards Florence.

He didn’t owe her anything. He didn’t care. Just like he shouldn’t care about Ariel, or Charliegh, or anyone. He was Price Olsen, and that alone carried enough merit to make him invincible.

“This was the grand plan?” He had to stop himself from stepping forward, plowing through her bubblegum-bright perimeter of personal space. “Well, congratulations. You wanna tell me how it feels to ruin someone?”