for almost twelve hours.
She bolted upright and clutched her forehead as a stab of lightning struck her skull behind the eyes. The ache had been there before she’d gone to sleep, but now it was worse. The throbbing had progressed from a woodpecker’s tap to a workman’s drill. Maybe she was dying? Lying in a coma somewhere and just imagining everything she had been told about monsters and mayhem.
She slid out from beneath her covers and stood up. Her mind turned immediately to food, and her belly cried out in hunger. The last time she’d eaten was breakfast—yesterday.
Quietly, not wanting to wake her dad, she crept out of her room and went across the landing to the stairs. The staircase was carpeted, but still creaked with every step she took. Each sound made her wince and pause, listening out for movement from her dad’s room. There was something instinctively naughty about creeping around at night while others slept.
Finally reaching the living room below, she let out a sigh. Her dad hadn’t woken—or at least he’d made no sound to suggest he had. She was still upset with him, although part of her understood why he was upset with her . The problem was that he didn’t understand everything that had happened. He was looking at things as a parent, daddy-blinkers firmly attached to his head.
It felt like something was attached to her head too—something heavy.
She went into the kitchen and opened the fridge, enjoying the cool blanket of air that leapt out at her. The first thing that called out to her was a sealed box of spicy chicken wings— eat hot or cold . She snatched the box and pierced the plastic film with her jagged, half-painted thumbnail. The first bite was Heaven, the second Nirvana. She chewed and swallowed endlessly until all that was left was a box of sticky chicken bones.
Realising that she had hot sauce and bird skin all over her lips and fingers, she threw the box in the bin and hurried over to the sink. She twisted on the cold tap and began swilling her filthy fingertips and face beneath the stream.
What the hell is wrong with me? I’m acting like a pig.
She poured a glass of water and forced herself to sip it slowly, instead of downing it in one chug like she wanted. Her body felt empty, like there was a gaping black hole in her tummy that needed to be filled. Her head began to throb less, but the ache remained with her.
She felt hot, her skin clammy.
Fresh air. She needed fresh air, so she hurried over to the back door and turned the latch. To her dismay, she discovered that the night outside was just as stifling as it was indoors. She growled, surprising herself by how feral she sounded. Something was wrong, like her mind had drifted a few inches outside of her head and was now misaligned with her body. Her thoughts were muddled and unfocused. And she was hot.
So hot.
She stepped out onto the lawn in her bare feet, enjoying the soft yield of the cool grass, and then sat down on the swinging bench that her dad had bought last May but still had not used to this hot, August night. It was a cheap, self-assembly item from the supermarket, but it was surprisingly comfortable now that she eased back into it. Sailing back and forth caused a light breeze on her hot cheeks that felt sublime. Slowly, her mind shifted back into its correct position.
“Scarlet?”
Scarlet flinched, which sent the bench swinging backwards faster. Once she swung forwards again, she saw the shadow of a man in the garden with her.
“Sorrow? What the hell are you doing out here?”
“I am guarding you.”
“You’re stalking me,” she managed to snap, while keeping her voice to a whisper. “I should call the police. Did you take my mother’s necklace?”
“I took no necklace.”
She dug her heels into the mud to stop the bench from swinging, and then sat upright. “Then it was your pal, The Saint. He broke into our house and partied like a freakin’ rockstar.”
Sorrow came over to her, so that
She bolted upright and clutched her forehead as a stab of lightning struck her skull behind the eyes. The ache had been there before she’d gone to sleep, but now it was worse. The throbbing had progressed from a woodpecker’s tap to a workman’s drill. Maybe she was dying? Lying in a coma somewhere and just imagining everything she had been told about monsters and mayhem.
She slid out from beneath her covers and stood up. Her mind turned immediately to food, and her belly cried out in hunger. The last time she’d eaten was breakfast—yesterday.
Quietly, not wanting to wake her dad, she crept out of her room and went across the landing to the stairs. The staircase was carpeted, but still creaked with every step she took. Each sound made her wince and pause, listening out for movement from her dad’s room. There was something instinctively naughty about creeping around at night while others slept.
Finally reaching the living room below, she let out a sigh. Her dad hadn’t woken—or at least he’d made no sound to suggest he had. She was still upset with him, although part of her understood why he was upset with her . The problem was that he didn’t understand everything that had happened. He was looking at things as a parent, daddy-blinkers firmly attached to his head.
It felt like something was attached to her head too—something heavy.
She went into the kitchen and opened the fridge, enjoying the cool blanket of air that leapt out at her. The first thing that called out to her was a sealed box of spicy chicken wings— eat hot or cold . She snatched the box and pierced the plastic film with her jagged, half-painted thumbnail. The first bite was Heaven, the second Nirvana. She chewed and swallowed endlessly until all that was left was a box of sticky chicken bones.
Realising that she had hot sauce and bird skin all over her lips and fingers, she threw the box in the bin and hurried over to the sink. She twisted on the cold tap and began swilling her filthy fingertips and face beneath the stream.
What the hell is wrong with me? I’m acting like a pig.
She poured a glass of water and forced herself to sip it slowly, instead of downing it in one chug like she wanted. Her body felt empty, like there was a gaping black hole in her tummy that needed to be filled. Her head began to throb less, but the ache remained with her.
She felt hot, her skin clammy.
Fresh air. She needed fresh air, so she hurried over to the back door and turned the latch. To her dismay, she discovered that the night outside was just as stifling as it was indoors. She growled, surprising herself by how feral she sounded. Something was wrong, like her mind had drifted a few inches outside of her head and was now misaligned with her body. Her thoughts were muddled and unfocused. And she was hot.
So hot.
She stepped out onto the lawn in her bare feet, enjoying the soft yield of the cool grass, and then sat down on the swinging bench that her dad had bought last May but still had not used to this hot, August night. It was a cheap, self-assembly item from the supermarket, but it was surprisingly comfortable now that she eased back into it. Sailing back and forth caused a light breeze on her hot cheeks that felt sublime. Slowly, her mind shifted back into its correct position.
“Scarlet?”
Scarlet flinched, which sent the bench swinging backwards faster. Once she swung forwards again, she saw the shadow of a man in the garden with her.
“Sorrow? What the hell are you doing out here?”
“I am guarding you.”
“You’re stalking me,” she managed to snap, while keeping her voice to a whisper. “I should call the police. Did you take my mother’s necklace?”
“I took no necklace.”
She dug her heels into the mud to stop the bench from swinging, and then sat upright. “Then it was your pal, The Saint. He broke into our house and partied like a freakin’ rockstar.”
Sorrow came over to her, so that
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