Stolen Skies Chapter 2

A Chapter by Nooglepop13

Chapter 2

I wake up alone, in a pale room that dances with silvered autumnal sunlight. Jess is sat at the foot of the bed, and the cotton bedlinen feels heavy on my feet, hot and intrusive. I squirm and wriggle to shove the covers off me, but she places a hand on the thick duvet, holds it firm. Sadistic b***h.

She passes me a mug of tea.

I look across at it, but don’t take it out of her hands. I’m too hot already �" she must surely know that �" and tea’s the last thing I want. There’s a dead, shallow clonking sound as Jess places the mug on the wooden bedside table. I wait. She waits. I wish I knew what we were waiting for.

She looks down, strokes the edge of my toes with restless fingers.

‘I’m sorry’ she says. She doesn’t look at me �" too afraid I think, or too embarrassed.

‘I shouldn’t have shouted, or said what I said, or anything.’

She looks up at me now, her eyes boggy brown. They seem soft, but I can’t tell anymore. There’s pity in their somewhere, I think, and some sort of mild shame, but anything else �" that’s a mystery. Her fingers pressure my feet, irritating little things that skitter over my skin like ants.

‘You’re not going to lock me in here, are you?’

I talk quietly, pronounce every syllable. She can’t do this to me again. I wait. There’s no clock in the room, but I can feel the draw of time, every second pulsing through my veins. A lock, newly applied, gleams against the pine of the door.

‘It’s for your own good.’

She shifts her weight and gets up. She keeps looking at the floor, but all her body is movement; brisk and business like. I hate her then: hate her goodness and easy adaption to day to day life. I raise my eyes, look up at her, think of a thousand faces to plead; to appeal; to reason.

‘I’m sorry’ I say, and she faces me finally, all watery and washed out. I can’t figure her. It’s like she wants to believe me, but knows she can’t.

‘I’m sorry, I really am, but please, let me go back on the methadone.’

‘Never works’

I look at the room, feel the stolid weight of the duvet pressing against my chest. There’s even a blanket on here. What does she think I am? A child with a sniffle?

‘And this does? You just want to punish me.’

My voice is too loud, splintering my own head. Jess doesn’t flinch. I wish I was that resilient.

‘I don’t want to punish you, I want to make you better’

‘Yeah, but it’s not you going through withdrawal, is it?’

The set of her mouth is grim, determined. I sound sarcastic and bitter, but nothing seems to cut through her. I want her to stop pretending, to quiver on the floor like jelly, like nothing. To shake with emotion and cry for me, for herself. She doesn’t falter.

‘You can’t get me better, let me go. Please.’ I implore.

‘Don’t be stupid.’

‘Not this way’

She sighs, and sits back down on the bed.

‘I’m sorry, but I don’t know what else I can do’

I want to scream. I grit my teeth.

‘Rehab?’

‘Can’t afford it.’

She walks away, and I start to cry. Not sweet tears like girls in films, but fat tears, with juddering breaths and desperate

whinnies.

She nears the door, and I rush up, out of the bed, so I’m opposite her. I take in gulps of air, wipe salt water from under my eyes. Hoping for a pity vote. Please, a pity vote.

‘I’ll bring up some food later.’

‘And my Ipod?’

‘No’

‘What?’

I’m not exactly going to break out of here with an Ipod, am I? I start to move away from the door, back towards the bed.

It’s freezing, and I shiver uncontrollably. I need to wrap myself in the covers, curl into a ball for warmth.

‘It’s gone. You must’ve sold it.’

She leaves the room. I’ve no distraction. The thought of life without music, life full of thoughts and memories that I can’t shut off, is overwhelming, and it’s all my own stupid fault. As always. I want to tear myself apart, I want to strip off my skin and rip my flesh to shreds, I want there to be nothing left of me at all. The anger surges out, and I fling the mug against a wall. Polka dot pieces fall on the carpet. There’s blood on my hands, on the floor. Tea too.

I blot my palms against her covers, the wounds aren’t deep.

But the tea is gone, split on the carpet.

I should’ve kept it.

There’s nothing to warm me now.

I want

Please no

Make it stop

Stop now

Sorry

I’m sorry

I know I should but

Stop it, I can’t

I should but

I don’t

I don’t know

Know what?

What?

Water

A glass of water

Please

Sorry but

But but

Please but

Please please please

I don’t know how

Too hot

Always too hot

Far too

Too

Too everything

Now

No tea

No tea too much �" much?

Why is there always so much bloody tea?

Just please I could

Stop me

Help me

Piss off

Don’t

Sorry

Come back

Oh back back, please now

Not alone

Can’t alone

Need

A glass of water

You

Stay

You

Help

I can’t myself

But need

Need

NEED it

Make it stop

Please make it go away

Can’t now

Just a little bit

Always a little bit

Not ohhh

But why

But

A glass of water

Chaos

Moving walls

Smaller smaller smaller

Imploding

Don’t let it

Memories

Stop them

Can’t do �" not this not this

Your fault your fault your fault

But

Always me

Hate me

You hate me

Sorry, sorry

Pathetic

He’s here now

On my arms

My arms they

My arms! Stop him

He’s hurting, hurting too much

Can’t do

Have to

Don’t leave

Need you

A glass of water.

A shrill call breaks through the quiet. I can’t breathe, water and heat envelop me. I take in gulps of air, but I’m still struggling, floundering. Sweat wreathes my skin. I pant, try to fill my lungs with oxygen, throw my blanket off to cool down.

I wonder what the noise is. If I could move, get up, I could find out. Jess must still be out. I open one eye, and see that the room isn’t the same; something has changed somehow. It’s darker, with more stuff in, and there’s a panel of wood across the window. She must have moved me in my sleep. Thinks I’m safe to leave downstairs now, back on the sofa in the living room.

That, or she just wanted her bedroom back.

I can’t get up, so I let the phone ring, let it ring and ring and ring until I think my head’s going to implode. The heat is back, it’s crept up on me and now it’s here, sapping the air out of the room.

I take huge shuddering breaths, but there’s not enough oxygen in the room to stop the pounding of my lungs, the juddering of my heart. Skinny fingers grip my arms, squeeze out the flesh and pummel me like stones. I try to claw them off, but they’re like smoke, invisible but ever present.

I could get out of this room if I tried hard enough.

There’s burning and drilling in my joints. My muscles cramp, locked together. I grit my teeth, but the pain is too much, evoking a small moan.

I need to get out of here.

I roll off the sofa, onto the floor, digging my nails into the carpet to pull me along. The door is too far away. The pile of the carpet is thick like soil, and I stop pulling, letting my head rest on the floor. If I steady myself, I can walk, I’m sure.

There’s a surge of nausea, but I press my palms against the carpet, wipe away the slugs of sweat from my hands. I sit forwards onto my knees, and the world has better shape.

The phone bleeps.

‘This is Miss Deaton, calling from St John’s Primary School. Lily has not been picked up from school today. Please come and collect her as soon as possible. Thank you’

I look up at the clock. Four pm. Jess and Lily should be home by now.

There’s something wrong. Jess is never late for anything. Ever.

It’s probably my imagination. Paranoia.

I balance on my toes. Pull myself up.

I sit back on the arm of the sofa, next to the phone, and pull my blanket over me. Goose pimples pepper my skin, and there’s a deep, raw cold, that goes beneath the flesh, into my bones. The blanket convulses with my shivering. I claw at my arms, itch and itch at the scabs.

There’s a ring, a high cackle, and I pounce on the phone.

‘Hello’ I gasp.

‘Hello, this is Miss Deaton calling, is this Lily’s mother?’

‘No, it’s her Auntie. I live with her mother. What’s wrong?’

‘I’m afraid Lily’s stranded, no one’s come to collect her’

I frown at the woman’s tone, and wonder what would stop Jess picking Lily up. Nothing would.

‘Oh.’

I don’t know what she wants me to say. Sorry my sister’s gone walk about? It’s hardly my fault.

‘Would you be able to come and pick her up?’

Oh right. No, is the answer. Jess would go mad if I left the house, and the thought of the outside world makes me queasy.

But someone’s got to pick Lily up. And Jess isn’t here.

‘Give me fifteen minutes’

The air has a refreshing quality, slightly cold with a gusty wind, but it can’t sluice through the sweat on my skin, the nausea at my throat, the heat in my stomach. I feel the weight of the clouds behind me. I can’t look back, not that way. There are crisp packets crumpled on the ground, and they skitter and dance in the breeze. The sky is grey; bleak and Northern.

I want to look the other way.

I keep walking. One footstep after another, because this is for Lily, not for me. And when Jess gets home, I can prove I’m alright, prove I don’t need it, by telling her about this trip. Yes. Another footstep. Another.

I want to turn on my heal, start walking the other way.

There’s no wind the other way, just calm and warmth and a brighter sky. The other way, the goblets of gum on the pavement are gemstones, and aluminium drink cans glitter like gold.

But that is the other way. I fight through the wind, struggle for air as it takes by breath away, whipping my hair out of my hoodie and over my face. My eyes are covered with it, barely visible through the brown gauze.

The rusty green gate becomes visible, and I can just see Lily stood next to a member of staff, Miss ‘know it all’ Deaton presumably.

I place my hand on the gate. The paint feels sticky, and it covers my fingers in bottle green acrylic. I’m here. No detour. There’d be a moment of pleasure in that, I suppose, but I can’t rub Jess’ face in it till she gets home.

Where is she? It’s ridiculous, this, me being out and about; Jess’d have a fit if she found out. But I suppose she can’t really complain; it’s her fault. She wouldn’t see it like that though. No. Whatever happens, it’s always my fault. Always has been. Even when we were little kids.

I remember me and Jess making breakfast when mum first came out of hospital, cereal and milk, and a mug of hot chocolate. I was only four, and my hands trembled slightly as I carried the bowl up the stairs. Fat droplets of milk splattered over the sides onto the cream carpet, leaving a trail leading back to the kitchen.

The carpet smelt sour for years after that.

Jess, of course, Little Miss Perfect, got a dishcloth, cleaned it up.

I could take a detour, on the way home. It’s her fault, after all, and what more would she expect from her ‘Junkie sister’?

Last week, when I arrived home, of course, she was full of apologies; old ones, slightly battered and bruised, like mine.

She made a bed up for me in her room, locked the door. Acted as if she was doing me a favour. By torturing me. Again.

Yeah, I could �" I should, take the detour. But I for all her pity and her squirming and her stupid catchphrases, she looked tired. Properly tired, with shadows under her eyes, and a smile that was in danger of cracking. And I don’t want to push it too far; pity is a frail sort of love, the sort that can be easily dented, broken.

Her fault/ mine? Doesn’t matter.

I walk across the courtyard towards Lily, towards the Deaton creature with the narrowed eyes and the creaky voice.

Forwards.

An unease sits in my gut, and I’ll take whatever crap they throw at me to quash it.

‘Hi’

I approach the beast, and Lily runs up and hugs me. She looks nervous, and I think she can tell that something isn’t right.

‘Hi.’ The woman says. Her eyes are grey, iron hard and broody. Everything about her is sharp, from the paper fine creases

around her eyes and mouth, to her thin, bird like frame and mauve lipstick.

I go to bite my nail, but I don’t like the way her gaze sticks on me. It’s as if she sees everything.

I push my hair back off my face.

‘I’m Hannah, Jess’ sister’

Her eyebrows quiver a little, and I wonder what she thinks of me. I haven’t been self-conscious for years, but under her radioactive eyes, I start to feel uncomfortable.

‘Miss Aintree’

Not the Deaton creature then.

She puts her hand out for me to shake, and I notice that mine shudders and waves, marking me out for what I am. I shake her hand anyway, because she’s already seen through me, I can tell. Her pose is judgemental, and I’m aware of the greasiness of my hair, the film of sweat across my forehead, the gaunt, skeletal nature of my face. Above, the sky looms thick and dark, overbearing. I think it’ll rain soon.

I draw myself up, trying to make myself look taller, more substantial.

‘I’m not sure why Jess hasn’t turned up.’

I put on my best apologetic face, and take Lily’s hand.

‘We should probably get back now, Jess might be at home. Thanks for looking after Lily. See you’

She smiles, a snotty, dubious smile, which is streaked with disbelief and disdain. I suppose I’m different to Lily’s normal carer: brisk and efficient and still in her uniform. It doesn’t matter. Let her stare.

I start walking, and Lily keeps my hand, guiding me home.

Her mindless chatter is cute: funny anecdotes about lessons and pupils and things she doesn’t understand. All last

week’s worry has gone, and I start to relax. It was ridiculous to panic. Jess’ life is easy; normal. Maybe I’m just bored, addled, trying to find tragedy in the mundane.

‘And then Miss Aintree told us to draw trees, and Harry called Miss a tree and then Briony and Chantelle and everyone joined in, and they were all shouting Miss is a tree, Miss is a tree!’

‘Right.’

‘Cos her name’s Aintree! Do you get it?’

We near the doorstep, and I pull her back, stand in front of her.

‘What is it?’ she asks.

I feel the scraping of my heartbeat.

The door is wide open.

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