Page 52 of Antihero
I step up to her door. After that encounter, I’m ever more determined to set eyes on Paige and get some answers. Or at least some reassurance.
So, when the call that comes through her closed front door is a muffled order to go away, I look at the dimming sky, and then back at the door.
And I kick it open.
The first thing I notice is that the place is an utter mess.
The second thing is Paige, buried somewhere among it. I latch the door behind me, though it hangs loosely enough that I drop my bag in front of it to hold it properly closed. Paige hasn’t gotten up. She’s beside the bed, wrapped in a heavy duvet against a cold nearly as intense inside as it is outside. The fireplace is empty and dead. Loose, yellowed papers are strewn around the room, over furniture, under it, covering the floor. The greatest accumulation is in a loose circle around her.
“I said go away,” Paige snipes, struggling to stand, tripping over her blanket as she does. “Not break down my door.”
I ignore her, crossing the room. “What the hell happened here? Where’ve you been?” I pick up one of the papers. At first, it makes no sense in the dim light, just columns of names, dates, some kind of serial number. Then I squint at it, the old, yellowed colour, and the others, similarly strewn about. “These are records from the asylum. Pastryachi’s.” I turn, taking in the sheer amount, and frown. “Allof them.”
“So? He wasn’t using them,” Paige mutters, falling onto the couch, crumpling a folio underneath her.
I stand in front of her, staring her down until she finally lifts her chin. Her eyes are red, bloodshot, and her eyelids puffy. But… “You’re not drunk,” I conclude. Paige turns away, scoffing. I catch her chin, leaning down, making her look at me. “When was the last time you slept?” Then I look where my fingers touch her chin. “You’re freezing.”
I straighten, shed my heavy coat and lay it over her. Then turn to the fireplace, and the wood dumped beside it. Heat first, I decide. Then deal with the rest.
“Tristan, just go,” Paige groans, shaking her head, making a half-hearted effort at dislodging my coat from her pile. Her voice breaks a little as she adds, “I don’t need you. I don’t want you.”
I ignore her. Her words would hurt if I believed them, if I didn’t know what it was like to want to hurt instead of being hurt. She says nothing else as I put my back to her, stacking some pine sticks over the crumpled newspaper on the fire grate, getting a flame going before adding more, larger pieces. The flame is going strong when I stand, going to close the bathroom door, sealing the kitchen window to keep the fast-building heat from seeping out.
“I take it you’ve eaten even less recently than you’ve slept,” I say.
“I’m not hungry,” is the answer I get back, and dutifully ignore.
I quickly tidy her kitchenette up enough to find a pot and some canned soup. I get it warming, stirring as I half-turn back towards Paige.
She looks so… diminished, sitting there tucked into the corner of the couch. There’s some colour coming back to her cheeks with the roaring fire, but her eyes are blank, lost, the bags under them heavy. “Are you going to tell me what’s got you starving yourself and freezing half to death surrounded by…” I gesture at the room, “this?”
“It’s nothing,” she murmurs, sinking lower into her duvet.
“Oh, sure, I can see that.”
She glares at me. “Nothing you would understand,” she bites out.
“Try me.”
Paige turns her face away, pushes the duvet and my coat away, and emerges in an old, loose shirt and thin pyjama pants as she stands up. Her hair is in a tangled, floppy ponytail; her steps are momentarily unsteady as she walks to the middle of the room,turning for the front door. “Fine! If you won’t leave me the fuck alone, I’m going…”
“You take one step out of that door, Paige, and I’ll throw you over my shoulder to drag you back in here to force-feed you this soup.”
That stops her, but it doesn’t make her any happier. She sits back down. I turn the stovetop off, pour the soup into a bowl and sit across from her on the ottoman. I hold the bowl and say, “Eat this. Then tell me why I wouldn’t understand.”
Paige glares at me like she wants to throw it in my face, but perhaps seeing how that will end, she takes it and starts to eat. I stand and busy myself with gathering the paper into a pile, then cleaning what’s underneath. I’ve nearly got it to a manageable level when she puts the bowl down. She didn’t finish it, but it’ll have to do. “So?” I demand. “What is it? I can assume you’re not feeling guilty about Mr Filan. So what? Is it something from the doctor? Your sister? Work?”
“What would you know about any of that?”
I’m standing between her and the fire, and say softly, “I had a sister. Just like you.”
“But not just like me.” Paige stands, staring me down. I know what she’s going to say before the words leave her mouth. “Youkilledyours.”
Her lips close, and I almost see her regret it, but she doesn’t take it back.
“I did,” I say, two flat and emotionless words into the all-encompassing silence that follows her accusation. “You would have too.”
The fire returns to her eyes, colour blooming in her cheeks. “I’dneverhave done what you did!”
