Under Rose-Tainted Skies(66)

The pain doesn’t stop, but the popping sound does. Somehow, I’ve made it.

My hands are soaked ruby red. They shake like the tail of a rattlesnake as I reach for the latch. It clicks, and I pull back the bolt. The door is unbroken; he must have found another way in. I pull it open a fraction, let the moonlight pour in. A rush of fresh air engulfs me, and it never felt so good.

But now I have to make it across the driveway. It might as well be an army assault course. I pause, squeeze my teeth together so tight my jaw feels like it’s going to snap. The sweat surfacing on my palms exacerbates the sting and sets my cuts on fire.

I can’t do it. Fuck. I can’t do it.

This is my new hell. This is definitely what being damned feels like. I think Fuck a thousand more times. It’s a mistake to run a hand through my hair, but I do it anyway, splashing blood into my blonde.

I hear the faint bump of a jackass stumbling into something upstairs. God. I hope he caught his shin on a sharp corner. I hope he smacked it down to the bone on my gothic dressing table and that it hurts so bad his stomach starts turning. But then I guess if he’s hurt himself, he’s probably going to be even more pissed off.

I really gotta go. He could discover me at any second.

I crack the door further so the gap is wide enough for me to fit through.

I don’t have a heading, but I’m looking at Luke’s house. His car is in the driveway. I was hoping there’d be a light on, but the place is bathed in blackness. The Trips’ house is dark too. Triangle Crescent is sound asleep. I wonder if any of our neighbours will wake to discover missing valuables and lakes of shattered glass.

Luke’s house is the closest option. And he brings me ice cream without black bits because he knows I don’t like them. He gets me orange juice when my legs aren’t working. He brings the stars to my bedroom so I can lie beneath them. He talks about my future, even when I’m not sure I have one. He makes me feel safe.

I need to feel safe again.

My legs are still as stable as jelly, so I have no choice but to move forward on my hands. Placing my palms one at a time on the ground, I give a brief thought to all the sneakers, boots, sandals, and shoes that have trodden their crap on this porch over the years. It makes me whimper. All that bacteria I’m dipping my open wounds in.

My shoulders emerge from the door and everything grows to twice its original size.

Come on, Norah. You can’t stay here.

I pant out a breath, scrunch my eyes shut and then open them in the hope it will clear my vision. It doesn’t.

I lift my palm, move it forwards slowly, and do the same again. And again. I tune out the squelching sounds until my sliced-up knees have joined my hands on the infection-imminent porch.

The night is cool. It feels big, infinite, impossible to think the sun can overcome it. Every muscle tightens, as if my insides were being strangled by elastic bands. Snivelling, I make my way down the steps, wishing they’d stop moving and make this easier.

With my dignity still trapped inside the house, I flop off the porch and collapse on the concrete driveway. My left hip smashes against the ground, and I bump my chin so hard my teeth slam shut, almost severing my tongue in two.

I look up, spit blood.

Luke’s front door is still a million miles away. How is it possible I’ve moved so much and it’s not gotten any closer?

There’s a thump-thump-thump from inside my house. I’ve stomped up and down those stairs enough times to recognize the sound. He’s coming.

I push through the pain, get back up on my knees, and crawl towards the boxwood bush as fast as I can. I go deaf, can’t hear anything as I haul my ass over the bush and launch myself at Luke’s front door.

I slam my fists into the glass and hammer hard. My other hand works the doorbell as I look back over my shoulder.

There’s a skeleton standing on my porch.

‘Please, Luke. Open the door.’ I try to scream, but fear is holding my vocal cords hostage and it’s a timid shout at best.

The skeleton turns sharply, then leaps off the porch. I think maybe he’s going to make a run for it, but then he starts marching towards me.

I thud on the door. Thud so hard it’s a wonder my fists don’t go through the wood. ‘Luke!’ This time I do scream. It rips from my throat like a liberated lion, shatters wine glasses, makes the atmosphere shake, leaves dust in its wake.

A warm beam of orange light breaks like sunrise from behind the door. I hear the dangling of a chain and the door flies open.

I don’t take him in, don’t say a word, just throw myself at his chest and press myself airtight against his torso.

‘Norah. What the fuck?’ he says.

‘There’s . . . there’s . . .’ It’s hard to talk through sobs. I’m choking on a river of snot and tears. ‘Someone’s in my house.’

‘Norah, where’s your mom? Is she still in the house?’

I shake my head no. That’s all I manage before the feeling in my lips disappears and my face melts right off. He wraps one arm around my shoulders; the other snakes around the back of my legs.

‘Luke, what’s going on?’ I hear his mom ask as he lifts me up. I sink into his arms, all my muscles sighing simultaneously.

‘Call the cops and an ambulance,’ he says. I press my head against his heart, feel its angry beat beneath my cheek.