We Who Are Jaded

Chapter Twenty One

I didn't tell Kieran about Anya's threats, seeing the moment I stepped into car that she had already won the round. It was hard enough to get passed the dopey look on Kieran's face without attempting to coax words out of him too.

I doubt he would believe me even with the proof of her malice is engraved on my arm.

The journey back to my house wasn't very conversational for that reason. I wallowed as I attempted to compose a strategy whilst Indigo Boy just stared ahead, no words or change in expression to offer an out. From the moment I slipped into the car to the moment I stumbled out there was not a single word exchanged, no apologetic glance. The feeling of being forgotten stung but I had almost grown immune to it, the result of seventeen years living with my mother.

But Kieran is supposed to be everything she isn't.

Everything was still in the flat. The morning rituals awaiting a dawn that was only just breaking. I placed my keys onto the table in the hall, casting a glance over the pile of forgotten letters. As I gathered them into my hand to dispose on a table where they might be seen, I noted that blood still stained my hand.

My blood, not hers.

He hadn't even noticed.

Flicking through the disorderly stack I congratulated myself on my abilities to predict the contents of the envelopes; bill, bill, bill, catalogue, bill.

I was about to give up when something peculiar caught my eye. There was a letter addressed to me. I didn't recognise the hand writing at first. I never received letters unless from the library requesting, in the politest way possible, that I returned a book. With a shrug I folded the letter and stuffed it into my back pocket; I would read it when I remembered how to keep my eyes open and didn't have hands marked with my own blood.

I shuffled passed the kitchen hoping to get to my bed before an interrogation with my mother ruined a day barely begun. Unfortunately I'd forgotten my mother did not need sleep to function; the woman could barely be considered human.

"Chris is that you?" Mum called. I groaned, turned on my heel and stumbled in the general direction of the kitchen. What was she doing up so early anyway? Was it too much to ask for a couple hours of rest?

Duh.

"What are you doing up so early?" I replied rather charitably for my current mood. I was conscious of the gashes on my upper arm and the blood still stained on my hands and tried to come up with a way for them to go unnoticed.

Mum doesn't need to have an opinion on the matter.

The woman in question was sat at the kitchen table, lazing in her dressing gown and slippers. My mouth watered at the sight of freshly buttered toast and sweet, hot, tea and I tried to recall the last time I'd eaten.

"Couldn't sleep, would you like me to get you something?" Mum offered, taking her nose out of the book she'd stolen from my nightstand. It was no secret that Mum was the villian charged with all the books in the house with broken spines.

I hated that.

I went to sit at the opposite end of the table. It felt so good just to be able to just sit down. Mum fussed herself with making me something, not so unobservant as to have missed the grumbling of my stomach or the drool glazing my lip.

Still very aware of my arms I reached behind me and snagged my black cardigan from the washing prop. Mum didn't see me as she continued her domestic godlessness and I was glad she appeared to be selectively observant.

"Think fast," Mum said suddenly, tossing me over my medication. A moment later Mum brought me over a glass of water as I unscrewed the tub lid. I could see the curiosity in her face about my whereabouts after I'd left in the early hours of the morning. It was only a matter of time before she would ask.