Page 31 of Collateral Damage

Shit.

She's home and the sound of her bodged up old truck gurgles from behind the door. I have about two minutes to get myself back in that living room and I choke from lack of oxygen, frantically putting things back in their places, papers nearly flying everywhere.Shit shit shit.My adrenaline is piping through me, sending me marching through the door as I close it quickly behind me, clicking it too, nearly tripping over her bloody bike as I run for the living room. I can hear her keys from behind the front door and my hearts humming in my ears, muffling myhearing as I reach for the TV remote and slam the power button finding the sofa just as the door pushes to, followed by her heavy boots breaking the wood beneath her, she’s holding a brown paper bag, drenched in black. The smell of petrol overwhelms my senses as she traipses in front of the TV to hand me the bag.

Play - ‘EDWARD SCISSOR HANDS – Nessa Barrett’

“Thought you might be hungry.” I stare blankly at the bag hovering in front of my face like a homeless man being given a cheque of a million dollars.Did she actually bring me home food?

“Thanks.” I slowly grip it, taking it out of her hand timidly, opening it up to find a Wendy's inside. I've literally never eaten fast food. Mom always said it was bad for me, but right now I don't really care,I'm starving.

“I see you helped yourself to my coffee.” I pause rummaging through the bag as I look over like a guilty child with my hand in the cookie jar.

“I'm sorry.” That was probably too bold of me, never mess with someone's coffee.

“What did I say,Puppet.” She groans deeply, pausing what she's doing, frozen solid making my hairs stand on end remembering her words yesterday.Say sorry again and I'll wash your mouth out Puppet.I feel a pulse where I really shouldn't and it repulses me, pushing it to the back of my mind as I look at her grubby wear, quickly changing the subject.

“You look like hell.” My hand finds the fries, shoving them in my mouth trying to savour the taste of a proper meal, or as good as I'm gonna get anyway. Shep glares at me from his bed.

“I thought I looked cute?” She questions my statement, and I can feel her grin through the back of her head.Very funny.

“Key word.Looked. I.e. past tense.” My fries find my mouth, unaware that she's turned around to see me stuffing my gob like Oliver Twist.

“And now?” I pause, fries halfway in my mouth glaring at her god awful attire and smeared face paint trying to fight the urge to want to punch her in the face.

“Hideous.”My cheeks puff out as I talk with my mouth rammed, chewing to swallow.

“Much better.” She praises me for an insult. She wants to look intimidating and unapproachable and it works, it also makes me wonder if she went to Wendy's looking like that?They must have had a few questions.

“How waswork?” I break the ugly tension laying thick in the air with another laughable question, playing on our little roleplay.

“Tiresome.And you drank my coffee.” Her tone becomes cold, glaring at me from across the living room through crossed arms and for some reason my mouth speaks without permission.

“I'm-” she breaks me halfway, cutting me off with a jump, nearly choking on my fries as it takes her three strides across the floor before she's hovering over me.

“Say it againInnocence. Say it and so help me God.” My blood runs cold, missing a few beats as I swallow my food hard, peering into the portal of hell as she finds the death sentence in mine.

“You won't hurt me. You said it yourself.” I talk back out of nowhere, shocking myself with this sudden bite I seemed to have acquired.

“I said I wouldn't hurt you. No one said anything about making you question your morals,Princess.” Her hand reaches into my bag, now free from her gloves to take a hand full ofMYfries, eating them like a heathen and for some perverted reasonmy eyes are glued to her inky hands as the stench of paint and gasoline suffocate me.

“I'm going for a shower…” She finishes her mouthful, pushing off the sofa towards the bathroom and I'm left sat in utter confusion.Question my morals? What does that even mean?

My backs leant against the sofa as I finish off myjunkfood, surfing through the channels for something semi-decent to watch but there is absolutely nothing interesting. I should be trying to run out the door right now but I remain glued to the sofa, listening to the water running. She hasn't even bothered to shut the door? What a weirdo. Does she not care about privacy? Apparently neither do I because I find myself turning to catch the mirror in the bathroom, looking for signs of life. I desperately want to see her face and it's driving me insane. I want to see the coward underneath the mask she hides behind. I continue watching the TV until the rush of water stops, turning on instinct to the noise coming from behind me when I catch her back in the reflection of the mirror, or what I can see of it. It's smothered in tattoos I cannot decipher from this distance.Omg Alo, stop looking you perv.

I can't. I'm waiting for her to turn around, resting my head on the top of my pillow like a needy puppy to see her face but instead, she walks out of view leaving the mirror empty and a slight wave of disappointment washes over me.She's a woman. Why am I even looking at her? Isn't this forbidden or something? Wait…oh my god. My morals… Does she mean? No. Surely not…eww, absolutely not. Yet I can't seem to look away, fixated on the hazy mirror embodying her through the steam like my own personal entity, always looming, always watching. In some ways it’s like she’s dead. She’s hollow inside. Sometimes I question if there's a beating heart inside her chest, but then she wraps me up in her duvet and brings me food and somethingtells me I'm wrong, but I don’t want to be wrong. She hurts people, she hurts me, shehurtme.

I recap the office, the mysteries between paper, the answers right in front of me I can’t seem to decipher and I'm furious externally, but internally I'm mourning the simple me, the me that stuck my head in the clouds and tried to drown out the depths of reality in fear they may become mine. The me that only spoke when spoken to, the me that daren't ask questions, the me that would write until the sun came up and head to college on no sleep but it was ok because in my little world, the princess married the prince. The me that saw me getting married one day and slow dancing with my dad. The me that is now just a distant memory and the me that has now become the survivor in my little world, wielding a blade and learning to fight, learning to understand pain and how it affects us. Some wear it, some don’t.

She wears it like a trophy yet the achievement has been etched out,unreadable, and it fascinates me.

“Have you taken your insulin?” She bellows from the mist and I suddenly feel all warm inside. She doesn’t have to care but she does and both are equally as terrifying. She’s going about her daily life as if I was now part of the furniture, no longer a prisoner and I should be grateful, but I can’t shake the stains she’s washing off, the remnants of somebody else beneath her fingernails.

“Dreamer,” what did she just call me? I feel a yank at my heartstrings, flopping back into the sofa fighting with this endless war in my mind. It’s exhausting being able to feel the suffering shared amongst you. My mom used to say it was a gift, but how can it be when I feel empathy for her executioner? Why am I even considering the option? I should despise her.I do despise her.For all the wrong bloody reasons,this is ridiculous.

“Don’t ignore me.” She strolls out the bathroom in a fresh coat of paint and a shoulder cut T-shirt this time, my jaw partsslightly.This is the first time I've seen her arms out.Although she may as well not have them out. Her tattoo’s cover almost every inch of her exposed skin. I knew she had tattoo’s but there’s more ink than flesh on her and they are the size of tree trunks, what the hell does she do between greeting the Devil? Her pockets are hanging out yet again and I stare at them with annoyance.Who wears their pockets out like that ? It's so dumb.

“It’s annoying isn’t it.” I taunt. Now she can know how it feels when she avoids all my important questions, although it doesn’t last long before I tell her yes. She preaches she won’t hurt me and I've pushed a few times, but the reality is she could kill me in one quick headlock and my body shudders at the thought.

“Enjoy the show?” she rubs her towel through her soppy hair as she walks toward the fridge.

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