𝙲 𝙷 𝙴 𝚁 𝚁 𝚈

07

23:57

WEDNESDAY

SANTA CARLA

MURDER CAPITAL OF THE WORLD

My hand grips harder over the strap of my bag; I barely remember the walk back, though I had followed the route that we had taken on wheels and hoped that it would get me to civilisation. The pounding of music is growing nearer and louder. My legs take me further through the trees until the long horizon of the beach reveals itself to me, a yawn escapes my lips, and I continue onwards. The lights on the boardwalk are shining up into the sky as if they belong to the beam of light from a spacecraft further above us. I grow agitated as I walk faster along the never-ending garden of sand to find the nearest slip route in, the familiar aching at the back of my throat is getting more difficult to handle, though the dryness of my tongue I'm able to dismiss a little better. I begin to pray that a shop is open and available, my Marlborough reds are calling my name and I need a moment to revaluate the situation.

I turn right into the closest opening onto the boardwalk and set my eyes through the swelling of people; I narrow them down to the first stall light I see and head in its direction. There is a group of juveniles hitting each other out front but I ignore them when they bump into me by accident and I stalk into the open door. My tired eyes flick over the rows of snacks but they don't interest me. I swerve left into the isle of fridges and walk over to the last one; as I slip open the overly large, clear door, the group outside begins to get louder, but along with the shopkeeper, I dismiss them. I study all of the cold soda's in a row before I decide on one that I want. My fingers slip over the chilled surface and I make my way toward the man behind the counter. He is an Asian man with acne scars over his cheeks, though his appearance tells me that he's anything but young. His hair is receding and his under eyes are wrinkled; I watch as he presses his short, thick fingers into the buttons of the cash machine and before he can finish, I speak up.

"Got any Malborough reds?" I question him as I slip the soda into the countertop; it's a granite material, though filthied with age.

He turns silently towards the back and opens up one of the cabinets before turning back around, placing the fresh box next to my Lemonade, "Four fifty."

I decide to dismiss the fact that he doesn't ask for my ID, though I'm grateful that I don't have to fish it out of my bag. I slip him over the money before saying thank you and I take my leave; as I'm turning, I hear a pop-like noise, and the cashier comes sprinting from behind me. The group of teenagers outside headed in the opposite direction and although I hadn't been a witness to what they had done, I just assume that the store owner has every right to be vexed.

"You rotten kids!" He yells before stopping outside, I walk past him as he retrieves the sign that calls his store Wilf's quick stop.

I swerve right and flip open my can of lemonade. The fizz burns my tongue and bubbles in my mouth; my nails dig at the plastic that's wrapped around the fresh box of cigarettes and tear it open. I'm quick to slip one between my lips and light it. I inhale the toxins that religiously soothe me daily, and let them sit on the muscle in my mouth; I close my eyes as the familiar feeling of my body unwinding puts me at peace.

The sound of gravel scraping beneath shoes makes me open my eyes from my momentary meditation and I turn to my left were a boy that I recognize is standing, eying my curiously.

"I saw you with my brother earlier. Michael." He states and leans his shoulder against the brick wall that I'm leaning on, "Where'd he go, huh?"

I look at him over the smoke drifting from my mouth, "How should I know, kid?"

"I'm fourteen." He seems defensive and I fight off a chuckle, "And besides, you must know where he is. You left with him."

"Just tryna enjoy my smoke, here." I look out and over the crowd, "He's probably got his tongue down some girl's throat."

I'm unsure of what edged me to not bring up his brother's whereabouts, though right now it simply just feels right. A rather drastic flash of Michael's face courses through my brain; the euphoria settled on his features gave me nothing but chills, though I'm not about to reveal my concern to his overly worried little brother.

There is a brief silence that I'm grateful for before he responds, "Sounds about right, I'll take your word for it."

When he doesn't leave, I turn to him, "Anything else?"

"You new here?" He questions and I take note of how he his mouth remains open, his tongue resting above the bottom row of his teeth, perhaps something he had picked up from childhood.

I turn my head back over to the dazzling lights on the boardwalk, "Yup."

"So what brings you to the murder capital of the world?"

"A continuum of terrible choices," I state, sucking on the stick between my fingers a little longer in hopes that he leaves before I lose my temper.

"You'd be surprised how often people say that around here." H speaks a little quieter, looking out into the fairground before pushing himself off of the wall, "just don't get noticed, it'll get you killed."

"Wasn't planning on it," I grumble into the passing wind as I watch him waltz off into the crowd.

I find myself glad that he's left; I pick up my soda, throw the finished nub to the ground, and stomp on it before heading in the direction of the motel I stayed at last night. The walk there is brief. The doors are open and I'm grateful to find that someone else is behind the counter, rather than the burly, talkative woman from before. He is young with a head full of floppy brown hair and golden skin. Attractive, if you must.

"Hey, just a room for one?" I question, although it comes across more as a statement, and slip over the money.

He looks down at it before looking up at me from beneath raised brows, "Been here before?"

He takes the money and slips it into the register, "Last night."

"Ah, you're not from around here."

"That obvious?" I question with my hands in my jean pockets, "I can't seem to get away from that statement."

"A newbie sticks out like a sore thumb in this place." He says, turning to the row of keys behind him and handing me one, "If you ever need help, company, a shoulder to cry on, just hook me up."

For what seems like the first time in forever, I let a smile slip over my teeth, "I might take that shoulder."

I begin walking towards the stairs before thanking him; like last night, the halls are silent besides the vocal sounds of the TVs swimming through the walls of the guests rooms. Eventually, I find my own room behind a chipped, mint coloured door and lock myself inside. My body immediately crashed down onto the mattress that squeaks with my weight and although the springs dug into my ribs, I find my eyes shutting heavy. I'm drifting into a sleep, though the words are heavily engraved into my mind.

Murder capital of the world?