Page 57 of Collateral Damage

“He's only the most iconic rapper in music history!?” She puckers her lips, shrugging her shoulders as she giggles like a ghost in the walls.

“Never heard of him. He can't be that good.” Oh, she's playing with fire right now.

“You wanna bet? I'll play a CD right now and you tell me you don't love it.” I place my empty bottle down on the table, right about ready to fly out my seat.

“You know what? Music sounds like a great idea actually.” She slouches over the table, carelessly drinking from her bottle,nearly spilling it down her chin.Maybe we lay her off the beer for a bit.

I make my way over to the TV where a little stereo sits, shuffling through my collection of CD’s, VHS tapes and a small collection of DVDs to find my Eminem discs. I plug the stereo in to make sure the tattered thing still works before sliding the CD in and pressing play, completely forgetting that,

‘The Real Slim Shady’is the first song to start playing out the speakers.

The stereo is crackly and worn but the music is still decent. Her face is a picture, and I can't help but belly laugh at the horrified expression on those rosy little cheeks, clearly sucking in the urge to burst out with laughter but she finally lets it go and my stomach flickers.

“You really are full of surprises-” I'm glad she’s finding this amusing as the CD betrays me, trying to suck in air between her hysterical howling that I could listen to for hours.My own broken little record.

I assume she’s had enough of him as she leaps up off the chair towards me, tipping on her tiny toes playfully, bending down beneath me to have a nosey at my collection of ancient melodies and I never get tired of this view. Her fingers trace the stack of plastic, reading the spines like she’s searching for something, pulling a bunch out and shuffling through them.Shania Twain, Celine Dion, Bon Jovi, Aerosmith, Black Eye Peas, P!nk. Coldplay. Linkin Park-

“Oh my god! ILOVE Florence & The Machine!” My heart buckles. A chilling cold smothers my body with distant memories dancing in the void that is this living room as she takes the CD out, replacing them and I know exactly what song will play. It’s the same song she nearly burnt out the CD with. The song she would spend endless hours blasting as she prancedaround the room. When life was simpler. When she was happy. Only for a short moment, but that moment holds my humanity and my dormant heart by strings. She slides the CD in and I swallow those memories, now in this one withher.

Play - ‘Florence & The Machine - You’ve Got The Love’

She’s like an excited little kitten, leaping up off the floor towards the table where she grabs my beer, pulling away from me like she knows I'm going to try and take it away from her and parallels flash before my eyes. Happiness never looked so beautiful on her and I'm frozen, only able to watch as she prances aroundmyliving room, her messy hair dancing in her chaos amongst the silence. Her dress wraps around her waist like a tight hug as she spins like a music box, angelic but eerie. Paying no mind to my furniture as she uses my sofa as a climbing frame, a beacon of much needed light between these gloomy walls. My beacon of light. Memories serve a purpose. To help you to hold on to happiness and pain, to hold on to the ways they make you feel, both good and bad but happy memories have a way of re-playing in different ways.

“Come on! Dance with me!”Do I look like a dancer?I do not dance. But she doesn’t seem to care as she leaps off the sofa towards me, grabbing my wrist with little strength, realising I won’t budge. “Fine. I’ll dance on my own.”Freedom. She’s feeling it. And I suddenly hate that I can’t give her more than this. She deserves to see the world. See what life has in store for her, but I’mselfish. Possiblyenvious. Maybe something else.

She chugs the bottle, her arms intertwining with the rhythm filling the room and I think I finally understand whatBeautyis.

It’s her.

She’s beautiful.

She is that flower in a storm that survived its wrath and kept growing. Blooming. Strong enough to withstand mother natureand all its pain. Standing out against the rest. Standing out to me. That tiny sliver of hope that keeps your heart beating. Some people see beauty in possessions, poetry, art, like it’s physical. But it’s not.It’s a feeling.She calms the demons inside of me and makes me view the world differently when I'm around her. Colours look brighter. Time starts moving. Messy is where she should be. This free-spirited girl in front of me, thriving on the smallest thing fuels my guilt. I’m holding up a mirror with no centre piece. She’s always been a prisoner.

She tries again, ushering me to join her and I tilt my head back in annoyance but my feet walk with her, drinking in that euphoria, bumping into me as she sways her body and I take her hand and hold it high above her head. She turns on instinct, floppy and lightweight, giggling to herself on cloud nine nearly stepping on my feet. I’m more worried about hers in my steel toe caps, swigging the remnants ofmybeer, she loses her balance as she tilts her head back into me, crashing into my stomach, sniggering at her clumsiness as she nearly drops the bottle before I catch it.

“EasyyyyyLove. I got you.” She uses my body as a foundation, trying to correct her balance. I grip her by the waist as her palms find mine with the empty bottle in the other and she’s looking up at me like a lovesick puppy, inches from my mouth. My jaw clenches until it hurts, fighting all the reasons I shouldn’t crash my lips against hers right now.She’s intoxicated.This desperation to devour every part of her and strip her of her pure and happy little heart that is beating in sync with mine. This cracked dolly just waiting to be dropped. She is searching forLovein the wrong place as she drowns in my eyes, hypnotised by her balls of fire, burning to feel something. I will break her. Burn her. Tear her apart. It will be the death of her and I don't think I’d want to breathe the same air as her if I ruin her life again.

“Hayden…” My name in her mouth is like ecstasy. Pulling me closer without consent, placing my finger against her lips and I don't know who that was for.

“Tell me tomorrow…” I'm terrified to know what she wants to say to me, and I'm sure she would regret saying something silly under the influence. Three beers in and she’s ready to pass out, clinging to my shirt to keep her up. She flutters her lashes as she fights to keep her sleepy eyes open that are tugging at my heartstrings. “Let's get you to bed aye?” She protests, moaning and groaning, mumbling under her breath as I pull her tiny body up and slide my forearm underneath the back of her knees. This seems to be a running theme and I hate playing the hero. It doesn't bode well with my image, but I’ve been doing a lot of it lately.

I carry her to bed, placing her down onto the mattress like she could shatter. And she will.But just not tonight.

I wrap her up, tending to her like a wounded doe, brushing her knotty locks out of her face, pushing them behind her ear and my fingers find her soft, warm cheek. She subconsciously nudges into my touch, chasing it with her eyes glued shut, getting cosy underneath the blanket with her arm hanging out to regulate her body temperature but my attempt to escape is cut off as she reaches for my hand and I hold a breath, exhaling slowly.

“You’re not aMonster…” She mumbles against the pillow. Lightly clutching to my fingers. And I wish she was right. But she’s not, and this is the alcohol talking. Tomorrow, she will see me like she’s meant to, but for right now I sit back down next to her, inhaling my anticipated regret before sliding in beside her, holding her deadweight as my chest becomes her pillow, completely unphased by the idea as she delicately plays with the fabric of my shirt.

“Do you want to know why you’re wrongLittle Dreamer?” Her distorted gaze meets mine for a short moment before closing them again, squeezing my fingers gently in response. “Because I’m the daughter of a Devil.Innocence. A bad man. A man that would take pleasure in harming you. A man that would stop at nothing to see me unhappy. Pain no child should ever have to endure at such a young age. A man who would beat me for polishing his shoes wrong. Burn my skin until I begged for mercy. Cut all my hair off as punishment for liking the wrong gender.” A digit rolls down my cheek, my eyes burning from fixating into space for so long that I forgot to blink.

“I’m aMonster, because if I'm not. I have nothing left.”

I peer down at her peaceful state, now fallen into a heavy sleep, her breathing soft but deep with exhaustion, knowing that she most likely heard none of that. But maybe that was the point. And these tears can fuck off. She makes me feel so many unwanted and unwelcome emotions but a weight is slightly lifted, concentrating on her fragile fingers through mine, running my tips against her scalp consuming her heat. Her life is laying in my hands and this has never felt so right.

C H A P T E R 34

WONDERWALL

Puppet

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