SO COLD (18+) currently editing

Chapter 76.5

SO COLD

MY EYELIDS BURNED with exhaustion. The sort of tiredness that felt like I was seconds from caving in on myself, a skeleton frame held together by a well of drying energy, a yawn away from inhaling and exhaling into suspending consciousness. It was five-something in the morning. I was sat at the breakfast bar in the new apartment, on a bar-stool that spun into sickness and twisted stomachs. In front of me was my phone with a half-full energy bar and a cold mug of tea with a murky trickle and the price sticker on the outside bottom.

The apartment was far smaller than the previous homes. There were marble tables, low-hanging lights, a spacious living room with glass ornaments and a grey-white-black colour scheme. The bedrooms were on the same floor, a double and a single where Trevor was snoring softly with the door ajar, soft yellow light falling on his dark-brown skin and tattooed eyelids. Having stepped out of the shower after coming back from a food shopping trip at a 24/7 supermarket, Vyacheslav was outside on the balcony overlooking a blearily-rising city of twinkling light, grey skies and early-rising business men.

I sifted through social media to pass the time, scrolling through Twitter, double-tapping on stories on Snapchat with the speed of light, and watching videos on Instagram of make-up artists using hot dogs and vibrators to slather on foundation. I ventured too far: Someone was hitting their face with their boyfriend's balls. They both looked musty. I logged out.

My feet hit cold tiles. I opened the fridge and pulled out a bottle of red wine. I uncorked it, poured two glasses and joined Vyacheslav on the balcony. It was a small narrow space with a round table and two black chairs tucked under. Handing him a glass, I took my first sip, briefly reminiscing on being wine-drunk with my friends from college. it was a different sort of tipsy from alcohol: more gentle, floaty, the type to make you romantic and feel good. Or the type to make you hate wine and the after-buzz. I gazed out into the city. Downtown seemed so far away.

Somewhere out there was a slum and inside, three rotting bodies. A child and two women, one so deep in delusions it was cruel to keep her alive. Or maybe that's just what I told myself to take as courage to kill her. Morality and its' questions thudded on my forehead, unkind with their intrusion, insistent with forcing my cheek to face what I hid.

I turned away. I was sleep-deprived, waiting up for Cole in the early hours of the chilly morning. Still, I crossed my arms on the metal bar and set my chin down on top, wine glass precariously tilting to spill over into whoever lived below and mind scurrying far into the folds of the city, hurrying behind commercial buildings and into neighbourhoods where mothers worried for schoolchildren crossing busy roads.

Somewhere out there was Irvin. Tall and skinny, with black hair untamed and curly and the darkest coffee-brown eyes full of mischief and light. Only lately it seemed shaded in gloom and misery, deep-sunken with a mouth that followed in its downwards depth. He flitted about from place to place, restless with tired feet, searching for a place where he could lower his guard and lie for a moment of peace.