Page 20 of His Pretty Little Duet

One grey eye.

One green.

I'll kill her if I must.

Fawn

"It’s okay, Fawn. Just breathe."

Like a splash of icy cold water, I'm dragged from my slumber by those words spoken in Benji's voice. I jerk upright, the gruff tone a distant reverie or conjured up in my own desperate brain—I can't tell which, but they strangle me to the point I can't breathe.

Panicked, I concentrate on my surroundings for several long seconds, willing my mind to return to the present, the external information to settle back into order.

"It’s okay, Fawn. Just breathe."

Okay, Benji.

I inhale through my nose, steadying my exhale, controlled and unhurried. To my left, I recognise the curtains that blackout the clusters of stars and the bright white moon.

Twisting to gaze at the hemp dreamcatcher hanging on the left post of this bed—my temporary bed—I once again wish my mother had instilled more scientific remedies for my afflictions. Nightmares: dreamcatcher. Not therapy or sleeping pills... No, a fucking dreamcatcher.

"Baby, the Native Americans used dreamcatchers well before we started using drugs for every problem."

Thanks, Mum.

I always wanted to point out that many drugs were widely accepted for medicinal and spiritual use by the natives in countries across the world, but never did. There was no point.

Either way, I like the dreamcatcher there, simply because that's where it has always been. So I'm thankful Henchman Jeeves retrieved my backpack from the motel yesterday. I have all my belongings however sad the compilation may be.

They are mine.

Twisting onto my knees, I shuffle up the mattress to touch the little notepad under my pillow. Pages of nonsensical lines. Unrelated words. That maybe, I hope, combined will create a picture one day.

I grab it and flick it open before sliding the miniature black pen from the plastic ring binding. It is the smallest pen in the world, barely fitting in my palm as I set to write my newest edition to this senseless tale.

I write,

"It’s okay, Fawn. Just breathe."

Those words further convince me that we had made love that night. I imagine him saying them right before he took my virginity. It was a sweet moment. And slow. I'm sure of it. I would have enjoyed it... my heart double taps.

I just wish I remembered...

Then I close the notebook, stuffing it under the cushion once more.

Finding Jasmine asleep on the mattress, a little niggling feeling knots in my stomach. Is she really here to help me settle in or to monitor me? I'd monitor me, too.

Sliding from the mattress, I decide to look at the moon and get some fresh air. Another ridiculous remedy my mother instilled in me from a young age. The moon and the stars can cure anything, even insomnia.Fucksake, Mum.

Still, ten years' worth of bohemian ideologies don't simply dissolve, and if the alternative is my foster mother's bitter words and obtuse insights, I'd rather embrace the former.

After wrapping myself in a small robe, I open my bedroom door to find Henchman Jeeves outside on a stool. This is his job. To watch over me. But then, what is Jasmine ultimately here to do?

"You are very good at your job," I say, startling him slightly. I tie my robe in a neat bow at my navel as I step from the bedroom and close the door.

He raises an eyebrow. "Watching over teenage girls doesn't challenge me like it did when I was a teenage boy."

"And why are you watching over me?" I cross my arms over my chest. "I'm not going to steal anything."

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