The rain starts as the kettle boils, and I pull the sleeves of my cardigan down around the heels of my hands, shivering as I pull the kitchen window shut. On the worktop, there are two mugs, each one housing a teabag, and I fill them with the bubbling water, glasses steaming up.
I should have worn slippers. The kitchen floor tiles are great slabs of slate, freezing in this kind of weather, and my feet are tinged with grey and blue as I look down. My toes are white, and I clench them, wincing. At least I won't have to worry about cold hands, once the tea's ready.
The doorbell rings, and there's such a pounding on the front door that for a moment I wonder if it might be thunder overhead. I pad through to the hallway, and peek through the peephole.
It's way too dark outside for me to see who's out there. I fumble for the lightswitch, and switch the porch-lamp on.
Light floods Sophie's tearstained face, and I yank the door open, dragging her into the house and wrapping her up in my arms, pulling my cardigan around her as she shakes and sobs and sobs and shakes.
Outside, splashes of rain leap up off the cobblestones, and lightning flickers across the sky.
I squeeze Sophie's hands, and pull away gently so that I can shut the door behind her. "We're the only ones in the house," I tell her, "My brother's probably at the Benns' house, with Tetty. My parents are catching a film in Prudhoe. They won't be back for a few hours yet."
"I'm sorry," Sophie whispers, tears streaming down her cheeks, even with her eyes shut. She wraps her arms around herself, fingertips digging into her biceps as she shakes. That's all she says. But she says it over and over again. "I'm sorry... I'm sorry..."
"Hey, darling, hey, don't be sorry. It's OK." I scoop her back into my arms and hold her close. "I promise it's OK."
Sophie shakes her head, face rubbing against my shoulder, tears soaking into my cardigan. "It's not... I'm sorry... I'm so sorry."
She's a good five inches shorter than I am, and small in her build, too. I tighten my arms around her waist and pick her up, so that she doesn't have to walk. She barely weighs a thing, and she clings to me tightly as I carry her through to the kitchen, and help her into a chair at the table.
"Here, sweetie, have some tea." I bring one of the mugs to her.
Loosely, very loosely, she wraps her hands around it, fingers hovering half an inch away from the china. She breathes in the steam without speaking, and her eyes flicker shut behind the foggy lenses of her glasses. They're flecked with dirt, spots of rain, and splash-marks. From the lake? I...?
"I'm sorry," she whispers, squeezing her hands around the cup and then wincing.
I grab her hands and pull them away, cradling them between my own. "Careful, darling. You'll hurt yourself."
Sophie looks up at me, and her usually-hooded eyes are wide and swollen. "Why not?" she mumbles. She casts her eyes back to the surface of the tea, squinting at the scale on the surface. Hard water. "I deserve it."
Dear God. Please, no. I squeeze her hands and kiss the tips of her fingertips. "Please don't say that, Soph. It's not true."
"I'm sorry," Soph says, "I'm so sorry." She chokes on a sob, and doubles forward, resting her forehead against our twined hands. "I screwed up. I screwed up so badly."
"Screwed up?" What does that mean? "Screwed up", how? Is Gordon... Did Chris... I can't bear to finish a single one of my thoughts. "Soph?" My voice is a squeak. My throat is cinching itself closed. "What's happened?"
YOU ARE READING
This Still Happens
Teen FictionWhen Chris, an old friend, assaults him for being gay, Gordon goes against the advice of his remaining companions, and takes violent revenge. Vengeance, though, is never as sweet as expected. Now Chris wants to kill Gordon and his friends, and he wo...
