[ON HOLD] Chim - *unnamed* sequel to 'Sleeping With A Broken Heart'

CHAPTER 1

Chapter One

Darkness. I lie flat on my back. Breathing silently. And for a moment, I’m aware of nothing but that my heart is beating, and my ribs are rising and falling. I blink up at the ceiling, cloaked by shadows. I close my eyes, and roll onto my side.

“Cheryl?” I murmur sleepily. My eyes still closed. Reaching out blindly to touch her. But my hand collides with nothing but cool sheets. Too cool. I blink again. Still reaching out, hoping my hand will meet her skin. Milky smooth, burning gold. And slowly, I begin to realise that she’s not here. The cold realisation seeps over my body, slowly. Suffocating, blinding. Like icy cold treacle. I can’t hear her breathing. I can’t feel her body heat colliding with my skin under the hot sheets. . I blink, tearing my eyes open. Nothing but empty, endless sheets. I roll over and look at the empty space in the bed beside me. The sheets are almost perfectly straight, with tiny rumples running up and down like ripples in a moonlit sea. I reach out a hand and touch the cold fabric. And the room seems empty and freezing without her. The bed is huge and I feel as though I could easily shrink away and get lost in its endless expanse of rumpled silk sheets. Drowning on my own. I stretch out my body and try to feel the icy iron of the bedstead with my toes, but I’m too small. My feet just meet new, colder and softer silk. I shiver.

“Cheryl?” I say again. “Cheryl?” repeating her name softly. I prop myself up on one arm, blinking towards the door of the en suite bathroom. It’s slightly ajar, and no cool light seeps from around the edges of the door. Instead, deeper, inky shadows creep towards the bed. I shiver, and I roll away, getting out of bed. Floorboards and my bare feet. Three steps. And in the cot at the end of our bed, my baby daughter still sleeps. Curling dark hair and long eyelashes, chubby little fists clutching a tiny pink toy pig as she sleeps. So Cheryl’s not feeding her, or murmuring half-forgotten songs to her, lulling her back to sleep. From the hook behind the door, my hand collides with the endlessly soft silk of Cheryl’s dressing gown, and I pull it on, holding it loosely around my body. Navy black silk, pale pink flowers, barely brushing my thigh. It smells of her, her perfume and her hair and her soap and her expensive cigarettes. The scent woven deep into the fabric. Sending a hundred thousand memories buzzing around my head. Until I feel like crying. And leave the room, carefully propping the door slightly ajar. So that if my daughter were to cry, I would hear her. The cold marble staircase seems to glow through the darkness of the hallway. Carved, twisting banisters. Intricate designs, glistening as though they were made from dripping ice. I pause, listening. Nothing. Just me and the freezing cold silence. I pull Cheryl’s silk dressing gown a little tighter around my body, until I can feel the silk fizzing against my skin. I take a step forwards. The marble floor seems to burn into the soles my feet. I slowly begin to walk down the stairs, silently fleeting down the wide marble staircase. Making no sound. And I can hear nothing from downstairs. Just more silky black silence, pressing into my head. And I sigh, ready to turn around back into our bedroom.

And there’s a crash. I spin around, too quickly. My bare feet skidding a little. And I can hear the sound of breaking glass, shattering all over the tiles. I hear a gasp, breath rushing through teeth, tearing into lungs. I freeze halfway down the glistening marble staircase, fine hairs running down my back standing on end suddenly. There’s a quick moment of silence. 

“Cheryl? Is that you? Are you okay?” I say, my voice soft. I don’t want to wake my sister, or my baby daughter. I can just hear her gasping, blurred swear words dripping from her tongue. I hurry down the rest of the stairs, quickly crossing to the slightly ajar kitchen door, electric light spilling from around the edges and pouring out onto the hallway floor. Marble and splashes of gold. I push the door open. And I can see her. Standing on her tiptoes. Her head down, her hair curling, cascading all over her face so I can’t see her expression. She’s wearing nothing but one of my old t-shirts. Indecently short, tattoos scrawling all over her thighs and her skin wriggling into goosebumps. And there’s sickening, glistening red liquid all over her, slicking over her pale skin. Glittering under the hot lights. Ruby red. Dripping from her fingertips. One drop, two, more. So many I can’t count them. Stealing my breath from my lungs as I gasp. And I feel my heart flutter. Squeezing my blood too quickly around my body as my pulse beings to race, panicking.