This Still Happens

Chapter Six - Mercy: Sophie

I wake as my face collides with my knees, mashing my glasses against my nose and eyes so that there are prints left on the lenses when I sit up... squinting...

My eyes are swollen almost entirely shut, and my tongue looms dry against the roof of my mouth, too huge to let me swallow. The sun is unbearable, toxic in the sky. Even down here (and where is here?) it's almost blinding, and I can't... I can't work out where I am or how I got here.

I've got the worst headache. Am I hungover? I'm wearing my school uniform, still. White blouse, grey skirt... but where are my shoes? And how did I... Why would I... Why would I be hungover in my school uniform... in the middle of the woods? And which woods?

I guess there's one way to find out. Digging in my skirt pocket for my phone... my fingers close around... nothing. My phone's not here.

I mean... I think I'm in Chase Valley Woods, but... who knows? I sure don't... but I do know that wherever these woods are, and however I might have come to be here... there's no way they go on forever. There will be an end to them. There has to be.

Wincing as my feet cry out, I force myself to stand, and stagger through the undergrowth. Undergrowth which thins even as it weaken the soles of my feet, undergrowth which peters out until the ground is smooth and well-worn.

A path. A path I know. A path I follow... right back... to the lake.

Tree branches frame the beach from where I stand, shielding my eyes with my hand, squinting across the sand, to stare... to stare... and remember.

Even from the mouth of the woods, I can see the patch of red on the sand, fine earth stained with blood. Gordon's blood. Gordon.

Gordon is... Gordon is...

I cover my face with my hands, slipping my fingers up inside the lenses of my glasses, and wail. It's my fault. It's all my fault. I could have stopped Chris, could have given up on getting him to apologise... If I hadn't forced things... Gordon would be... Gordon would...

The scene replays in my head, nausea rising as I watch, helpless, Etta dragging his body out of the lake, hauling him up the sound like a wrecked boat. His limbs are loose and weak. Eyes closed. Jaw slack, face bloody as she rolls him over.

And then I run. Why do I run? Why did I run?

I'm running now, skin howling against the sand, against the path up to the bridge, against the wide tarmac of the High Street. I run and run and run, sobs bursting from my throat, echoing around me, thin wails like far-off sirens.

Sirens. Now I remember. I wanted to call the police. Of course I wanted to tell the police. How could I not tell the police? How can I not tell the police?

I reach into my pocket for my phone... and remember, too stupidly late, that it's not there. Fingers scramble for my crucifix instead, a comforting pendant of cold gold I can press against my lips as I pray for Gordon's soul. It's all I can do for him at the moment. All I can do for him anymore.

I've failed him. My poor, dear friend, who was so patient and so gentle and so understanding. "It's your relationship. I'm not going to tell you how it should be." And his first question was, "Are you still together?" That sweetness... That care... And how did I repay him?

There's only one person who might possibly consider still speaking to me now, I'm sure. One person, aside from Chris. And I won't speak to him. What would that make me?

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I must look like a deranged string-puppet, limbs flailing like the sails of a windmill as I run into Wimbledon Crescent. My street. My home.