I’ve hovered over the button so many times today, thumb lingering because I want so badly for her to notice me. But there is no me to notice in this digital place. I’m as invisible there as in the real world.
She nearly caught me staring at her earlier, and the adrenaline spike had me near gagging. Burning to knock on the coffee shop door and scream that I’m here.
In the end, I’d locked up, pressing back against the wall like a coward.
Daytime’s a bad idea. There are too many people and too much risk. Ellie could spot me. Kat might recognise me.
Night’s better. People get careless when they think no one’s looking because they expect the world to be in bed like they are.
The balaclava’s empty eye holes stare at me from the table, so bleak and impersonal. I hate it. But when I go back tonight, I’ll need something to give me a bit of disguise. A safety barrier, even if it stays in my pocket.
My phone buzzes in my hand as I switch over to the Find My app. I’d resisted using it for years despite my adopted family being all about it. Having anyone track my whereabouts was a no for me; it’s bad enough that surprise casseroles arrive, far less the family asking why I was where I was. I suppose it might be handy for them when I eventually lose my final fight, it’s a matter of time, really, and might give them a clue as to whereI go.
Where do the bodies from the fights go?
I still haven’t switched mine on, but Ellie’s is. Which means I can see where she is. When she’s out. When she’s heading back. Useful when I’m trying to stalk her best friend.
Well, not stalk.
I groan and run my hand over my face. There’s no real denying that I’m stalking Kat. And that I can’t bring myself to stop.
I tap the screen, watching the little dot move across the map.
Not at the flat.
Good.
I set the phone back down and lean back in the creaky chair as I imagine what Kat might think if she were here. Of the peeling paint and damp spreading into the corners. Bare wooden floors with dubious stains from residents past. Threadbare furnishings. It’s not somewhere you bring people.
And Kat? She comes from the lap of luxury. A family who bought her everything she dreamt of. I still don’t know why she’s living in a shitty flat, to be honest. Had her parents cut her off?
She’s due to graduate this year. I can tell from the posts and the comments. Scheduled for a good life. A job and a future.
And what do I have?
I glance down at my hands. Scarred knuckles, stillnot quite healed from the last fight. Skin that is both marked from years of taking hits and years of hitting. Even the winding ivy I’ve had etched over it can’t hide the story of who I am. Nor who I’ve already been.
A bitter laugh slips out.
What am I supposed to offer her? Even as a friend, there’s nothing I can give that’s better than what she has. All of this is a fool’s errand, and I’m going to end up with my heart broken again.
My eyes drift back to the table, and the mask, then to the phone with her face still lit up on the screen.
That little heart eyes emoji beneath.
Before I can think too much about it, I cross to the corner where a bin bag sits half-full of items I never sorted through when I left my last home. Old school books and papers, clothes that I’ve grown out of, wank mags and other stupid teenage shit. A sad sack of belongings if ever there was one.
I crouch and dig through it, shifting crumpled worksheets and exercise books until I find a small plastic case at the bottom.
Acrylic paints. Mostly used up.
My art teacher had given them to me once in an attempt to find something I was good at. It sure as hell wasn’t art. The only medium I can paint with to any degree of artistry is blood. And knuckles are hardly a paintbrush.
I take them back to the table, rummaging until I find the brightest tube in there.
Pink.
For her. Albeit a far more garish colour than I see her surrounded in.
