Blood Doll (11)

            As humidity and steam from the shower-made sauna stifles the bathroom, opens my pores, I perch on the edge of the bathtub. This is the fourth time I have had to re-bandage the three scorings on my flesh. They are finally healing nicely; rough brown scabs fill the insides of them. During these past few days, some of the previous scabs have fallen off. Though new scabs always take the vacancy, I worry over them. No matter how short a shower I take, afterwards each scab is flimsy and frail.

            It being Thursday, I hope I soon do not have to care for these abrasions quite so much.

            An hour after procrastinating in my bathroom, I arrive at school. Ang is nowhere to be found inside or outside, something that is not unlike her. Therefore, instead of finding a place alone to read as usual, I seek Peach out.

She is sitting with her back against a row of sunflower-yellow lockers, directly opposite the Art room, whose door is painted a variety of oddly proportioned things. Against her bent legs rests a sketchpad, which is used as a drum by the mechanical pencil in her hand.

“Hey,” I call. I sit beside her and situate my bag against the lockers.

Peach, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear, smiles. “What’s up?”

“Not much. I’ve been ditched for the third day in a row,” I confess, “so I’ve come to seek your cordiality…again.” An apologetic smile creeps into my lips. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Peach says, flipping her identically colored bangs. “You’re stuck with me, the new kid.”

“People are getting on you for that?” I ask. “Why?”

A Hippie-student steps over her feet. “I’m different, is all. If I dressed normally, listened to rap, and didn’t prefer sunscreen over suntan lotion, I’d be instantly cool here because I’m new. But because I dress…”

“Like me?” I supply.

Laughing, Peach agrees. “Yeah. Pretty close. If I wore corsets to school and had many more amazing clothes.”

The bell reverberates through the halls. Peach and I stand as an influx of students begins to swarm around us. We bid each other farewell before parting ways.

Not long after, when Ang is spotted in the midst of a clique of girls as I enter the lunch room, Peach and I magnetize once more. Our conversation, slow at the beginning, warms quickly. Talk of art and music satiates us both until the bell signals for class to resume.

            Although Ang has not made so much as eye contact with me all today, the pleasant mood I have acquired speeds me through the rest of school. Having a person with quite a few of the same interests as myself gives me things to talk about that I have otherwise had to refrain from before.

            Regardless, I miss my best friend. This realization haunts me as I leave school, as I waitress at Wonderland. Sandra, for once, manages to hold her tray steady through our entire shift, but I am too focused on my own orders added to the former to notice much.

            Business is a slug. In the end, the manager closes early, shooing us all out of the restaurant and to the blackened parking lot. Shadows of employees duck into their cars. Red and white lights attached to various vehicles flare to life. I watch from my own car as they back out before checking my phone.

            My screen flashes one missed call. The number is unrecognizable, though, and so I press the resend button.

            It picks up on the fourth ring. “Eve?”

            “Who is…?” His voice is all too familiar.

            I end the call when he begins to speak, pounding beats of my heart wracking my chest. The screen darkens as I stare at it, dumbfounded. Even technology has managed to fool me. As all employees have driven away, including the manager, I am alone to slam my forehead against the steering wheel, let it rest there with my eyes closed.

            Light can be seen behind my eyelids. He is calling again, I notice when curiosity urges me to look. Without sparing a second thought, my thumb presses the ignore button once, then again as his persistence continues.

            One text arrives. Despite that instantly inferable is who it is from, I open it.

            I need to talk to you Eve. Please answer. I wouldnt bother you if it wasnt important.

            The begging his words perform confuses me as well as extracts an abundance of skepticism. Why, along with how, is he contacting me? Does he believe I have gone to the police? He had been told I would not. There is no desire in my mind to report him now, regardless. Even when I had believed he could not find me in any way if I did so, I did no more than mean to forget about the whole ordeal of the weekend before.

            That he has access to my number changes everything. Now, I am uncertain what to do. Answer and be made to recall what has strived to be forgotten, or ignore and proceed with my life?

            A decision is yet to be concluded when he calls once more. Nervousness trembles my limbs minutely. I merely stare dumbly at the screen, watching it flash. My mouth dries.

            Then, summoning courage, I answer, press the phone to my ear, and demand, “What do you want?”

            “I want to explain.” Mason’s voice seems desperate, calculated, as if one word will cause me to break the connection. Perhaps it will. One thing I do not wish is to be hurt again.

            “What is there to explain?” I ask. “It all seems cut-and-dry to me.” Literal evidence of this statement inhabits my flesh.

          “I want to explain what happened at the party and at my apartment, and why. Then apologize for what I did.”

            I am incredulous. “Are you a freaking deranged-cannibal-psycho-killer, or something? Because I’m not quite grasping why you think I’d like to hear your side of the story.”

            “I’m not a psycho-killer-cannibal, or whatever you just called me. I…” Cutting himself off deliberately, he sighs before continuing in a softer tone. “Look, I called because I want to make sure you understand everything that went on last weekend. I feel terrible for not explaining beforehand. And, I’m sorry I hurt you. I’m a stranger; I shouldn’t have done any of what I did.”

            Silence answers him. All I hear is his breathing softly crackling against the microphone as I absorb all of this.

            “Eve?” Mason asks tentatively.

            Sighing, I say, “I’m here. Explain.”

            More silence ensues before he replies. “I have one condition. Then I swear to God I’ll spill everything.”

            “What?”

            “We meet in person for this.”

            The request is not quite so far fetched as I had assumed it would be. It does not incite anger or irritation in me. Though I have no earthly idea why he wants to talk in person, his reasons must be important, to him if no one else. (PP?) Plus, I believe, as I had been stuck with him for many hours, he will not do anything to me, and I can handle myself if my judgment deems untrue.

            “Where?” I ask.

            “Does this mean you’re willing?” Obviously, his confidence in his own argument is hardly lofty. With morbid humor, I smile at his incredulousness.

“On one condition of mine,” I reply. “My choice of the place.”

“Deal. Are you free tomorrow?”

Before I realize he cannot see me, I shake my head. “No. Saturday?”

“What time and where?”

At first not one place comes to mind that serves my purpose; either it is not populated enough, or much too populated for my taste. If I am to meet with him again, I want to ensure that, if he does anything besides give an explanation, there are more than enough witnesses. Finally, I ask, “Mullberton Park at four?” The park rests in the midst of the large city Mason lives in, far enough away so as to guarantee my house’s location remains a mystery.

“The park is huge,” Mason recalls. “Are you okay with meeting at the pond?”

“Yes.” At this point, I falter. “I, uh, guess I’ll see you Saturday.”

“Thank you.” Mason’s words are soft, but sure. They set me off guard. Fortunately, a click announces when he hangs up, as I would be utterly embarrassed at the stutters erupting from my lips.

For many minutes, I merely slouch in my seat. I can hardly comprehend what exactly I have done. The darkness in my car is a dead weight in its new silence. It hardly seems like I have talked to Mason, much less agreed to meet him.

It is not so simple to forget something like that. As I start the car, make my way home, the conversation sticks to my mind.