TOXIC ~ STEVE ROGERS [1]

Chapter One

There are times, thinking back, when I wonder if the nightmares were somewhat of a foreshadowing to what was to come. Now I'm not religious, not really, but if God was going to warn me about the future that was a hell of a way to do it.

New York was always busy, and always full, but I loved every second of it. There was a feeling of belonging in New York, a kind of acceptance I had never felt before. Walking the avenues, camera in hand, listening to the rush of traffic and watching the lights dim as night came along. Every night was magical, and every night was my favourite.

My best friend Bri and I strolled through the night streets one evening after a night out at a bar. My hand was wrapped around her waist, and her footsteps were erratic and out of rhythm. I could handle my alcohol, but she, unfortunately, couldnt.

She slumped, and my spine stiffened as I grappled to hold onto her.

"Taxi!" I called, waving down a yellow cab. It slowed to a stop beside the pavement, and with a heave I shoved her sorry ass into the cab.

"Reade St, please," I said to the driver. He turned around at glance first at Bri, than at me.

"Rough night," he said, turning back and pulling to traffic.

"Yeah, well, I always end up being the sober friend," I complained, looking out the window.

"That's not such a bad thing," the driver replied, with a look at me through the rear-view mirror. He was a nice looking man, maybe in his late thirties or early forties, with kind eyes and a receding hairline.

"I guess. But she is always getting wasted," I brushed my waist length white-blonde hair out of my face, but as always my fringe fell back across my eyes.

"Your accent, it sounds...where you from?" The driver swerved, rather dangerously. I thumped into the side of the car.

"I'm from Zambia. Moved here three years ago to study," I explained, folding my arms and checking on Bri, who held her face in her hands and groaned.

"Ah, I thought I recognised it," he said. My stomach clenched.

"Do you know someone from Zambia?" I said cautiously. Most people wouldnt be able to recognise the fact my accent was more Nigerian than Zambian, but every once in a while, someone connected the dots.

"Yeah, a friend of mine," his eyes flickered to the rear-view mirror, and they glinted in the street light. Something about them made me feel uncomfortable, like he knew something and wasnt sharing. I looked away, staring out the window. Bri leaned up against me, and every now and then I glanced up to the rear-view mirror, and each time, his dark eyes stared back at me.

"What's your name kid?" he asked as he dropped me and Bri off. I paused, wondering if it was safe to give a stranger my name. But, after all, he was just a cab driver.

"Keight. My name is Keight."

***

Bri and I shared an apartment on Reade St. It was small, two bedrooms and a bathroom, with a large open kitchen and lounge area. A boxing box hung dangerously in the middle of the lounge, but as the only guest we ever had was Max, Bri's boyfriend, it didn't really matter. I paid the rent, which was enormously over-priced, but my Swiss bank account made sure it always got paid on time. Bri was a painter, studying Fine Arts at the New York Academy of Art, where I studied Photography, and her artworks adorned the walls of our apartment, in all colours and styles. It was a good place to call home, a safe place.

Bri was asleep in minutes after we arrived home that night, and after closing the door on her gentle snores, I crept into my room and opened up my laptop. A message, encrypted of course and opened yesterday, came up in my inbox. I hadnt replied to it yet. The clock on the wall read 12:57am, and I could hear music raging in the apartment above. I laced my fingers together, mulling over the words again in my head.

Dearest Khethiwe,

How are you? I hope you are well, and your studies at school are satisfactory.

Things are well here. Father misses you. You know he does.

Even Mother and your sister miss you.

I miss you too.

As I say every time, please come home. At least for a short while. Everyone here misses you. You don't have to stay long. A week. A few days. I would love to see you again. I know your answer, but I will always ask to see my sister.

Yours, always,

Ubhuti

How to answer such a message? Every week, without fail, an encrypted message would arrive, and every week I would wait a day before replying, never quite knowing what to say. I could be mean. I could say what was on my mind and be sarcastic and snarky and horrible like I was to everyone else. But with him, I couldn't. It just wasn't in my blood to speak that way to him. Most of my replies looked the same, and if he noticed, he didn't say.

Dear Ubhuti,

I am well. I hope you are too. School is good, I am doing great.

As always, my answer is the same. I will not come back. Not yet. Father has enough to worry about without my presence. I miss you all, but my place is here, at least until I finish studying. I hope you understand.

Love,

Khethiwe

I shut my laptop and sat in the semi darkness, the only source of light the moon as it poked its way through the pollution and into my room. Bri stirred next door, and my eyes began to droop. Lately it had been harder and harder to stay awake, and sometimes it bordered on fatigue. I felt a headache coming on, a resolute pounding in my temples. Maybe I should take a trip to the doctor, if it persisted. I rarely got sick, and doctors made me anxious, for a multitude of reasons.

Swallowing some aspirin dry and slipping out of my tight jeans and t-shirt, I splayed out underneath the covers, one leg hanging off the side and arms outstretched. Moonlight tickled my face, and when I glanced out the window I could have sworn I saw a shadow, a figure, with a blazing blue chest and bright eyes.

But I had already fallen asleep before I realized what I'd seen, and if I had, I would have rolled my eyes and gone to sleep anyway.