"You're going to make me do bad things to you, sweetheart." | Frank Rider is the new teacher. His favourite word is 'detention'. He's iniquitous, rude and vicious. To get on his bad side would be suicide. Unfortunately for Cleo, she's already dived...
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CHAPTER LXXIX
There was a heavy smell of citrus in the air like a spray can had been emptied out. My nails dug into the thick skin of a tangerine, and tore away the skin in strips that gathered in a small pile at the table where I was sat. My eyebrows dipped in concentration, lines appearing on my forehead, mouth falling to my chin.
After peeling the skin, I tore a fat chunk away, hand moving to my mouth, saliva gathering. My teeth sunk into the tips of my fingers and pain skittered down the length of my thumb and forefinger. Perplexed, I stared at my empty hand. My gaze dragged. The tangerine was sat on the table in a thick layer of skin, untouched. The pile of peels was nowhere to be found.
I shook my head slightly. I must've been tired. It was the only explanation. I dug my forefinger and middle finger into the thick skin, tearing a strip away. A squirt of orange hit my face, my eyes became inflamed and I squeezed them shut, gasping. It was like being hit with a spray of tart vinegar. I slammed the pads of my hands into my eyes and I staggered back, the chair falling on its side. Half-sightless, I stumbled towards the kitchen sink, hurrying to open the cold tap. I gathered water in my open palms and splashed my face repeatedly. It was an almost-instant relief.
My eyes felt considerably cooler after and I blinked a few times, rubbing my face down with a rough hand. Something flashed across my vision, a sudden blur of black. I stared out of the open window overlooking the back garden. There was a couple of new additions to the garden: imposing trees that bore fruit, glints of oranges that reflected the sun's glare. I looked down and my feet were buried in wet grass.
Head straight, I called out uncertainly. "Eton?"
There was an expanse of overgrown weeds and dandelions. At the far end of the garden was a small shed made from oak. It was painted brown. It was a small room with no windows and a single latch on the door. Sort of like a prison-cell. I knew what was inside: garden tools, dead flowers in pots that had been forgotten about and decomposing bodies under the floorboard.
Sweat rolled down my back and the slope of my forehead. I felt sluggish, my feet dragged through wades of grass that was waist-high. It was like moving through wet sand. I raised a hand to my forehead to ward off the sun's evil gaze, squinting, trying to find the gleeful laughter of my brother. He sounded happy.
A bird squawked seemingly close by. I caught a glimpse of it: grey-bodied, beady-black eyes that locked onto mine. I saw through its' eyes: My chin was heavy, my hair was greasy, glinting in the sun. My face had ballooned out. My eyes were sunken in, brown circles prominent. My jaw had disappeared in fat. My heavy belly hung over my belt.
I despaired. Tears sprung to my eyes. I felt grimy. I was fat. My features had disappeared in flesh that weighed heavy. My armpits stunk. I was disfigured in rolls of fat. My feet plunged into depression, it was like a sinkhole.
My hands went to my stomach. It was the pregnancy. It had to be. Hope dared to be birthed: It was only temporary, I would lose the weight. I was fine. I didn't need to worry.
