Page 76 of Creep
At least it kept me busy. Throughout the day, I texted Angel when I was off the bike, but he’s at work, so I didn’t push when he stopped answering late in the afternoon. I did end up picking up some wax for his candle-making efforts from the store belonging to the addressee of the magic mushroom package. The woman told me she’s starting an artisanal psychedelics business—whatever that might mean—but all I care about is making my Angel smile when he unwraps my gift. He was very excited after helping Brigid produce a batch of candles and claims he wants to experiment on his own too.
I love to see him happy.
Which is why I’m a little annoyed that I don’t get to see his smiling face upon my return to Vulture Hollow. Not with him really, just with life getting in the way of me being inside him 24/7. But I understand he has a job, and that job means his hands are often busy in people’s hair, so he can’t answer texts whenever he feels like it. Still, I walk around our cabin, unsettled that it’s taking so long. When I can’t take it anymore, I head over to the cabin he’s claimed as his salon. I peek in through the windows and make a mental note of needing to renovate it for him, but something isn’t quite right. The lights are off, and the door is locked.
Strange.
He could have gone to the canteen. He could also be chatting to new people, since he’s social like that, but then… he would have answered me already. He’s made a point of telling me that it’s important, so I can’t imagine him ignoring me on purpose for so long.
I hope I’m not being too needy when I call him, but he doesn’t answer.
Even when I call again.
And again.
A cold, uncomfortable feeling settles in my stomach.
I rush over to the small parking lot where everyone leaves their cars. His is gone.
He might have wanted to go into town for some reason, but wouldn’t he have told me? There are a million explanations for his absence, so why do none of them feel right?
I know others would write off my worries as paranoia, or mock that I’m like a barnacle that can’t exist without the rock it’s settled on, but I don’t care. My feet move of their own accord as I march toward Prophet’s house while checking my phone. Evening is already approaching, and we talked about seeing eachother in the afternoon. Angel’s no flake. I’m suresomethinghas happened but also dread the possibility that it might be more serious than a broken phone. I want to rip my claws into the invisible threat to my precious lover. Any hurt done to him might as well be a stab at my heart.
I climb the wooden stairs leading up to Prophet’s two-storey house built around an old tree. He calls it a tree house, but it’s more of an observation tower-slash-stylish bachelor pad. I’ve not been inside since that painful day when I brought Angel over, because the memory of it makes my stomach clench with shame, but I’m not about to feel sorry for myself when Angel might be in danger.
I knock on the door with my fist, hoping the force behind it communicates my urgency. I’m ready to just barge in, but I want to give Prophet the chance to open.
“Fuck off!” Is sadly all I hear from the first floor window, where his bedroom is.
Sadlyfor him, because I’m most definitely not giving up. Prophet gave me the key himself, so he can now suffer the consequences. I walk in and pay no attention to his mess before climbing the winding stairs. At the landing, I’m spat out straight into his sprawling bedroom.
I’m about to speak when I spot two women in his massive bed, both covering themselves up and scowling at me. One has tattoos all the way up her arms, and the other, blood red hair.
Prophet’s in the middle and sits up, staring at me like he’s considering which ancient torture technique to utilize on me.
“What?” he snarls. “If you’re here to stare, should have climbed a branch, because I’m not giving anyone a show!”
“I… No. It’s Angel. I need totalk to you.” I hope it’s clear that I meanalone.
Prophet rubs his face, messing up his beard, but then climbs out from under the covers, naked as the day he was born. Heturns to the women with a smirk, walking backward toward the balcony doors. “Iwillbe back.”
They end up laughing and shaking their heads, then whisper something to each other, but I couldn’t give less of a damn about Prophet’s love life. I open the balcony door so we’re out faster. If he wants to risk flashing all of Vulture Hollow, that’s not a problem for me.
He grabs a pack of cigarettes off a hand-carved chair and closes the door behind us. There’s a chill in the air, but Prophet doesn’t seem to mind as he lights his cig.
“Nasty black eye there, Creep.” Prophet cocks his head at me, arms crossed over his chest. The occult tattoos are on display like a protective sigil. “It’s nothiswork, is it?”
“No. Of course not. Angel wouldn’t hurt a fly.”
I stand closer, so we’re not overheard, even though it does make me uncomfortable that he’s dressed in only body hair. At least this means he really doesn’t give a shit whether I’m gay or not.
“What is it then? And it better be good,” he mumbles, pointing at the door to his bedroom.
“Angel’s gone. His car is gone. He’s not answering his phone. It’s not like him. I’ve got a bad feeling about this. I wouldn’t come to you if I didn’t think it was serious.” I tap the banister, unable to contain the anxiety swallowing my chest. It’s like a black hole I’m falling into, a new crevice opening in the caves, and I’m tumbling ever deeper, scraping my nails on the wall in helpless terror.
Prophet narrows his eyes. “You think he ghosted you?”
“No,” I say instantly. The very idea is absurd. “Hewouldn’t. We said—” My throat tightens around the words. “He’s not that kind of person. He accepted my patches.”
