grapeinacape-blog - Tumblr blog

grapeinacape-blog · 5 years

Text

Right Person, Wrong Place

I was finding it difficult to wait so long to meet him. I stare across the green, the dark sky looming overhead. The breeze is cool, but the air is warm. We’d met when I was 23. He was the epitome of tall, dark and handsome, the opposite of everything I’d expected beforehand. He was 2 years older than me and very sweet. He always seemed to go for younger women, so I know if things had been different, I’m sure I would have gotten into his car the first day I met him, and the rest would be history.

But, for now, I did everything I could to lay low. I don’t know whether I expected him to notice me, or whether I thought he’d wait until I was ready to make a move. But, he didn’t do either. It didn’t take long for Mary to snatch him up. I always thought it was a case of right person, wrong place. And that’s what it is now. Waiting for him is like waiting for a bus at the station. He’s either just gone or will arrive fashionably late. The former was the case the first time and I’m sure the latter is what’s happening now. I wonder if my whole life will be a case of right person, wrong place with him. It wasn’t just the first time I saw him, it was the second, the third and every time after that.

Robbie and Mary dated for one year and three months. I’d had a year and three months to plan how I’d talk to him this time. It’s not difficult to guess how that one went. Again, I didn’t know enough to talk to him properly. Following my failure yet again, he met Valerie. That one stung.

In the time he was with Valerie, my hair had grown longer, and other men had stolen my attention. He’d seen plenty of girls since I’d been gone, I was sure. It wasn’t long after I’d been back that he drove past the park, getting out and walking over to a group of me and my colleagues. I’d all but completely forgotten about Robbie. The way his eyes crinkled and shone when he grinned, how contagious his laugh was, the way one side of his smile rose higher than the other. I didn’t look up and I’m certain my assumption was that he’d come to talk to one of my friends.

“Evelyn?” Looking up, I’d flashed him a smile, managing to hide my surprise that he even knew my name at all.

“Hi. Robbie, is it?”

“Yeah… So, I was just… Sorry, do you mind? A word in private?”

I nodded, standing up and walking a little way with him, hopefully out of earshot of my friends.

“Everything okay?” I had asked, watching him.

Just like the times before, being around him made my heart heavy. It felt like a rock in my chest that was expanding with every moment, cutting off my airway, piercing my lungs and stretching every part of me.

“Of course. I was just wondering if you wanted to catch a film or grab a bite to eat.” He offered.

I notice he’s scuffing his shoe on the ground. I wonder if he’s nervous, or if he knows what I’ve been thinking all these years. I always imagined this, and now that it’s actually happening I’m thrown off. Is it right person, right place this time? I can’t hide my surprise. I can barely form a reply. Looking at him, I really try and see him this time. Look beyond the kindness he puts out and understand why he suddenly wants to take me out. After what is probably an uncomfortable pause, I manage a reply.

“That’d be lovely, Robbie. I’d like that a lot.”

At my response, he smiles that smile again. He’s charismatic, really. I see exactly how he’s one of those men that everybody likes, you’d be silly not to. I couldn’t help but stare at his smile.

“Great, that’s great! Friday? I can pick you up about 7, Evelyn.”

We’d left it there. And that’s where I’m waiting now. Outside my house, I’m staring at the road and I’m wondering how I got here. Lipstick on, and a dress, waiting for Robbie Walsh. I can’t help but wonder if he’ll turn up, or where we’d go. More than this, I was filled with doubt. What was I doing here? Was he everything I thought he would be? Or was he more? I needed to know, I’d waited so long and now I just felt sick. I’d never done this before. As I panicked, his car rolled up outside of my house and he got out, walking over to me.

“You look lovely, Evelyn.” He complimented, putting a hand on my waist and kissing my cheek.

“Thank you, you’ve brushed up well.” I return, stepping out of his touch slightly.

It’s true. Robbie is dressed simply, but it doesn’t mean he doesn’t like nice, anyway. Black trousers that had been recently pressed, with a button up light blue shirt and blazer. Casual, but still well dressed. I wonder how many times he’s worn this outfit, how many times he’s done this night, over and over again.

“Where are we going tonight?” I ask, as we walk to his car.

I look at him again, because I just can’t help it. He’s so different to other men.

“I thought we could go for dinner. There’s a cute restaurant that’s just opened down on Retzler Street. Sushi.”

I don’t say anything back. He opens the car door for me and I get into the car. Everything he does surprises me. It doesn’t take long until we’re driving. I check my bag to make sure I’ve got everything, glancing at my phone.

‘How’s it going? Is he the one?’

I don’t reply to the text and put my phone away. I’ve thought he was for a while, but sat here now, I’m not sure. Though there’s an air of something to him. When I watch him it’s almost as though a cover melts away. He could be the one. He switches the radio on, tapping the steering wheel as he drives, and I really am drawn to him.

“So, what made you ask me? And why now?”

Robbie seemed to think for a moment, keeping his eyes on the road.

“I don’t know. You just… You’re a constant. And I was interested by that.” He responded, making me frown.

It made sense really, I had been around for a while. Never having any meaningful interaction with him, but just being there. I suppose it was the same with him. The more you’re around someone, the more interesting they become, whether you interact with them or not. I didn’t push it any further, lapsing back into a silence that lasted until our arrival. The restaurant was new, that was obvious, though the ‘Under New Management’ sign made me slightly dubious. I look to Robbie, but he hasn’t noticed. The road is well lit, and I feel slightly safer.

I hold my bag close as I see Robbie edge nearer to me from the corner of my eye, but then we’re stood outside and he’s holding the door open for me. There is a moment before I walk through the door, where I look at him and see something. I don’t know what it is, but it looks like the man I’ve been looking for all this time. But then he’s there again, charming smile as he waits for me to walk through. It was only a couple of seconds, but awkward enough for me to hurry through the door.

“A table for two, please, mate.”

We’re led to sit by the window. A jug of water sat lonely in the centre of the table. The tablecloth felt like thin paper, possibly single-ply toilet paper, it looked like it too. The cutlery was silver, but only just, rusting around the edges and stained with something yellow. For somewhere that had only recently opened, it was disappointing.

“It’s rustic.” Robbie teased.

I never thought I’d end up here, in a right person, wrong place sort of situation with Robbie, not this many times. I wonder then if this is the game he’s playing, trying to keep me in the wrong place.

“Have you been here before?” I ask, placing my bag on my lap, and pouring myself a glass of water.

“I haven’t, I expected… Well, I don’t know what I expected, but this certainly wasn’t it.”

He chuckles, and I look at him. He really does confuse me. I expected a certain kind of air to him. I’d waited so long, and I expected to feel as though he was mysterious, secretive. But I don’t feel any of that. He’s sat there, as though an open book, and I don’t know about anything anymore.

“It’s not awful!” I respond with a laugh, opening the menu.

He grins and searches through his own menu, staying silent for a moment, as though thinking what to say. It’s as though I can hear the cogs whirring in his head.

“Why’d you say yes?” He asks after a couple of moments, closing the menu and leaning forwards to look at me properly.

“Because you asked, and I had no reason to say no.”

He looks away at that, tongue in cheek as he stares at the waitress, grabbing a pen and paper, painfully slowly. Again, I can see he’s thinking, and my stomach feels tight.

“You’ve been… You know, I said you were constant. You’ve just been around for a while. One of those people I pass so many times and never even think about it. And then I think about it and its… Coincidental, isn’t it?”

I’d been waiting for this question, I tried to dissolve the lump building in my throat by glugging some more water. Puddles of sweat form in the palms of my hands, I wipe them aggressively on my dress, aware I’d still not responded to the question lingering in the silence.

“I guess we just run in the same circles.” I croak.

“See, that’s the thing, I don’t think we do.” He spoke a little firmer this time, leaning forward to look at me.

“I don’t know what you’re trying to say, Robbie. We’ve run into each other a couple of times, could I not say the same thing?”

Robbie laughed, but it wasn’t the same tone as before. It was dry, and barking, as though accusing of something. Though I don’t know what of.

“I’m trying to say that I don’t understand you, Evelyn. And I understand people.”

“Is that why you do it?” The reply comes before I have time to plan it and I bite my tongue to stop myself from saying anything further.

My phone buzzes on my lap and I open my bag to check it.

‘How’s it going? We saw his profile, you were right.’

Suddenly it feels like I can breathe again as I watch him. The softness has gone, and I can see the hard lines in his face, the coldness in his eyes and the set jaw. The Robbie I’d watched for the last few years had gone, and here was the man I’d been waiting for.

“Why are you here?”

“Let’s take it outside.”

“You aren’t going to order?” He asks, his usual voice back.

Teasing and gentle, I’m thrown off. It comes so naturally to him, the lie that covers what he really is. Reaching into my bag, I set out my badge on the table, standing up and brushing down my dress. He stares at my badge and it’s as though the colour drains from his face.

“I think you should take it outside, Robbie.”

“And what is it I’m meant to have done, Evelyn?” It’s as though he’s pushing me, cocky and thinking he’s untouchable.

“Take it outside. It’s not a suggestion anymore.”

“What are you gonna do, then? You can’t touch me in front of all these people, I’ve done nothing wrong.” He pushes my badge back towards me and crosses his arms.

“Robert Walsh, you are under arrest for the creation and distribution of sexually indecent images of minors from the ages of 2 months to 10 years. You do not have to say anything, though it may harm your defence if you do not mention, when questioned, something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.” Grabbing him, he’s pulled from his seat.

I’m sure to speak loudly in the silent restaurant, and he doesn’t fight back as I cuff him. After years, of waiting, knowing he’d accessed it, I’d finally gotten my answer. He hadn’t just accessed it, he made it. And now I had the satisfaction of taking him out.

1 note · View note

grapeinacape-blog · 5 years

Text

The Cold Hand, by Alex Goodwin

This story is entirely based on true events of the occurrences in Longstanton, from the dates of the 10th of April 2017, to the 24th of November 2017. The case can be followed through newspapers and is often referred to as the ‘High Street Dismemberment’.

As a quiet village, the happenings were kept to a minimum. Most people knew each other well and I was one of such villagers. The crime rates were low, maybe because it was such a small place, or maybe because it was such a slow town. There were dog walkers and day drinkers, as all places offer.

But when the murder happened, it’s like they went into limbo. It was on the news first thing Tuesday morning. A murder so horrible, it shocked everyone as to the lengths some people will go to. It was dramatically horrific, a dismembered body, all bloody as it lay for the world to see in the middle of High Street. Her head lay, like a ragdoll, mucky blonde hair covered her slim face, whilst her torso lay in the middle, on her back, chest torn out as if ravaged by a wild animal. But no animal, the report said, could have removed her legs so expertly, crossed them beneath her as though creating a symbol which beckoned a silent prayer, to a God that did not exist. For if He existed, He would not have let this happen.

Passers-by stared in horror. People screamed. The cameras could show no footage and the police were baffled. It took 4 days for her to be identified.

“Her name is Lisa Hightower, she’s 26 years old and is from Derby. She was visiting friends in the village. They were concerned when she didn’t return home, though had received a text stating she was staying with a gentleman that night and returning the next day. It is in both her and the public’s, best interest to find this gentleman and understand what he knows. If anyone saw any suspicious behaviour the night of the 9th of April, call us now. If you have seen this woman, let us know.”

After watching the report, viewers stayed to watch the image of a pretty woman on their screen. No longer mucky, her wavy blonde hair fell to her shoulders and her face was no longer obstructed. Slim cheeks, with a round chin and small nose. Tight lips stretched into a smile painted with red. Bright blue eyes that shone as she posed in front of the camera. She never thought it would end up here, not like this. She had dreams, like so many others do. She wished to be on the stage, acting and singing. She’d done a couple of hits in the musicals, back in Derby and had caught a bug for it.

She was a kind woman, she spared a moment for everyone, which is what ended her life in the end. She stopped to chat in the middle of anywhere she went. She was always smiling and just had such a pure heart. That’s why it was such a crime that she’d been taken, because what could the motive be if no one was out to get her? Did it mean that everyone was at risk of being ripped apart in the middle of the street?

The town was abuzz, all wondering who, or what, could have done something as cruel as this to such a bright young woman.

“Must be a sick man, that one. Some sickening fantasy to get into her pants, then rip her apart. Poor girl, she had her whole life ahead of her.”

“I’ll tell you what they should do, they should string him up. Hang him and cut him apart. Death penalty’s too good for him, I say.”

When a man was finally found, they found themselves eating their words. All talk, no play, apparently. This story is a difficult one to tell. It was as though the facts unravelled themselves before your very eyes in slow motion. Watching Detective Hall beg the public for information, to his grave announcement that the man in question had been found. Curled blonde hair was found in Joseph Mackenzie’s bed, clumps of it in his bag, along with a knife. Though apparently the end of the case, it seemed we would have no luck.

“Joseph Mackenzie has been found in his apartment. His time of death approximates to half an hour before that of Lisa Hightower. Though our main suspect, he has now been ruled out. Once again, we ask for any information as to their whereabouts that night. Lisa Hightower must have left the apartment.”

This shook the village even more. Many of them read between the lines. Not only had their main suspect been eliminated, but he was their only suspect. They were back to square one. Now, many of the followers of this investigation knew a few things about crime. They knew, that not only was this a horrible crime, but that no sane man could live with himself having destroyed not only one, but two people in this way. He’d have to come forward at some point or another.

Joseph was not found in the same way as Lisa. He was not bare, for the world to see, every part detached from the other. No, he was a break in the pattern, they said. Though, how a pattern could be established after one killing, is unusual. Joseph lay in his bed, as though sleeping. His ruffled hair in his eyes, his shirt strewn amongst the rest of his possessions on the ground. It was only when the duvet was pushed off him that they noticed the gaping hole where his stomach once lived.

On his bedside table was a picture of his four-year-old son, Samuel. It seemed clear to everyone that the murderer’s only intent was ruining lives and pulling people apart the most gruesome way possible. Again, the quiet village was thrown into limbo. People became scared to leave their houses. They were assured it was a one-time murder. But the locals weren’t convinced.

It took months before there were any developments, leaving months for people to return to their normal lives and all but forget the case that had shook them. There was no news from the police, until we watched as a man was dragged, kicking and screaming from the local pub. Greying hair, thin-framed glasses and the beginnings of a beer belly.

The officers in charge, had managed to trace the text that Lisa had sent, back to her location at the time. After finding this, they then managed to follow that trace. She’d had her location on the whole night. After drinking, she made her way back to Joseph’s apartment. She was there for approximately an hour, before leaving the flat and making her way towards Stevenson’s Road. Walking down it, it seemed Lucas was awake, inviting the girl in. She stood outside for an extended period of time, refusing to go in. With his wife away, maybe that was what encouraged the desperate plea for companionship. The phone followed her into the house eventually. And there it remained, down the back of the sofa. The murderer had then planted evidence both at Mackenzie’s residence and elsewhere to remove himself from the murder completely. But it hadn’t worked as well, as he’d hoped.

“Clever, isn’t it? That phone could’ve saved her life. That phone is bringing the darling the justice she deserves.”

Lucas refused to talk for weeks. He did not deny the charges, he was too scared to. He did not agree to ever meeting, nor tearing the young lady apart. He simply sat, tight lipped, staring at the wall.

“Lucas Bell, you’re being held here for the suspected murder of both Lisa Hightower and Joseph Mackenzie. Remind us of your whereabouts on the 9th of April.”

“I was at home.” The quiet voice replied, to the officer that sat opposite him.

“Anyone able to prove that?”

After a pause, Lucas had replied with a simple shake of his head.

His family had been away for the week and by being away they had permitted the murder of Lisa. Following his few answers, he lapsed back into a silence. There were no ‘no comments’, nor more movements of the head. He simply lost the urge to fight back.

He was charged with two accounts of murder. By the time the court date arrived, Lucas Bell was a sunken shell of a man. The growing beer belly had disappeared, and his clothes hung off him. His hair was all grey now, except for the few streaks of black that still remained. His face was hollow and when the jury met his eyes, there was nothing there. His lawyer tried, but Lucas gave him nothing to work with. He just stood there, staring.

It didn’t take too long for Lucas to be sentenced to life in prison.

“After one of the most horrific cases I have come across in my time here, there is no doubt that Lucas Bell must be found guilty on both accounts.”

Once again, the small village was stunned into silence. I don’t know, to this day, whether it was relief that this man was off the streets and serving time for such a horrid display of human nature. Or whether it was shock, that the man that lived so close to all of us, that drank our beer and bought our food, had been capable of something like that. A normal man, with a lovely wife, 2 children and a grandchild on the way.

In a way, that’s what all this was for, really. Lucas Bell exposed humans for what they are and in turn gave this village an entertainment. Now, even a year later, Lucas still hasn’t said anything. He is no longer a sunken man, but barely a man at all. Empty not only physically, but emotionally.

Blood stains the High Street, even when washed away. And blood stains a man’s hand, even when scrubbed away. Red, raw hands that remind him of the price he had to pay. Was it all worth it?

***

“’Alex Goodwin’s novel has hit the shelves like a tidal wave. It offers inner details of the tragedy that struck Longstanton. Experience dark interviews with the police and descriptions of the images that have been kept from the public eye. Now a bestseller, it’d be an absolute murder not to pick the book up today.’ I bet you were glowing from the response your story received.”

“It’s true, I was shocked by the amount of feedback I received on my work. I’d always written crime novels. My other work features fictional accounts, however. Such as ‘The End.’, ‘No Rest For the Wicked.’ But nothing worked as well as this did. I’d known for a while I should write a real-life account of a crime, but everything had been done. I needed something new, fresh and local.”

The recorders were switched off and I felt myself relax in my chair, as the assistant brought through my coffee.

“Can I get you anything else?”

Smiling up at the woman, I take a moment. That’s what it’s all about, really. Using this newfound hierarchy to see what I could have, if I really wanted it. And I did really want it.

“You know, for my story I used a research method of conflation of information that had been given by the officers, and Lisa’s family and friends.”

I let my hand brush across hers as I reach for the coffee. I’m certain her cheeks go pink, though I don’t need to look to check.

“Very clever, Mr Goodwin. We’ve just got a couple more questions, before we finish up here. Is that alright?”

“Of course, dear. And what are you doing once we’re finished?”

She doesn’t reply to that, leaving the room as I sip at my coffee, staring at the wall as I wait for the others to return with her. I don’t have to wait very long, though I’ve already drunk half my coffee now. The recorders are switched on again.

“How long had you been writing before ‘The Cold Hand’?”

“Oh, years. With no success of course.”

“You’re a young man, Alex. You had lots of your life ahead of you, why were you so desperate to get the fame now?”

“Good looks don’t get you everywhere.” I laugh.

It’s true. I think, truly, if looks got you anywhere at all, this woman would be a lot prettier than she is. And the man beside her wouldn’t be a balding middle-aged one, but a fit, toned young man.

“You like a good-looking person though, don’t you?” It comes off as an accusation, but I shrug it off.

“Who doesn’t?”

“And Lisa Hightower was one such woman.”

“She was very pretty, yes.”

Putting my coffee cup down I lean back in my chair, crossing my arms over my chest.

“Well then, tell us again, if you can, Mr Goodwin, your whereabouts on the night of the 9th of April.”

“No comment.”

“Did you threaten Lucas Bell’s wife and family, so that he would take the fall?”

“No comment.”

“Why kill Lisa Hightower?”

“Why does anyone do anything, Inspector? I deserved my big break. And I got it.”

1 note · View note

grapeinacape-blog · 5 years

Text

The Late Arrival

“You know, I think this has been the worst day of my life.”

I didn’t need to say it, he didn’t need to hear it. But I had to say something, or I’d go crazy. The silence was unnerving in the back of the car and the rushing landscape and the sound of the engine was making me feel slightly nauseous. I search through my handbag for some water, but I seem to have forgotten that, as well as everything else.

“Really?” He doesn’t sound interested and I’m not surprised. I wouldn’t be interested in some whiny passenger either.

But clearly that doesn’t stop me, as I find myself replying; “My alarm went off late, which meant I’d be late. My cat decided she loved me that much, she brought a new pet mouse to my bed, which I proceeded to step on. I was late for the bus, but luckily for me, my bus was late too. My luck is changing, I thought! But no, it drove past me, which meant I got covered in mud.”

Looking down at myself, I fully assess the damage. My blue jeans are covered in dirt, making them a gorgeous new distressed brown. My new white blouse, which I knew was a mistake and cost me £30 from H&M, is covered in a very flattering red, brown substance that looks crusty and slightly like I have spread faeces all over myself. I’m entirely sure that my cheap powder won’t wash it away.

“Oh dear.” The man replies, adjusting his rear-view mirror, probably so he doesn’t have to look at me. I can’t blame him, I wouldn’t want to either.

I lapse back into silence, finding that silence was much better than talking to the driver. I pick at my nails for something to do, as we slow to a halt.

“Traffic?” I ask. I find myself hating myself in this moment, wishing I could just stop talking.

“A little. I reckon there’s been an accident.” He replies, this is the most I’ve got out of him all trip and I feel a sense of achievement.

This sense of achievement goes straight to my head.

“Maybe. What’s the damage?” I ask, moving myself to the middle seat and leaning forward.

To this day, I have never seen someone move as fast as he does, shifting so he’s not sat by my face. I wonder if I smell. Probably, I neglect to remember if I sprayed this morning. I sniff the air, which is nowhere near as subtle as I wanted it to be.

“I can’t see much. Just a fender-bender, probably. I’ll go a different way. You can’t be too late.”

“Oh, it’s really okay. Once you’re late, you’re late. Doesn’t matter whether it’s half an hour or 2 hours.” I laugh it off and he doesn’t laugh back.

I settle back in my seat and stare out my window, as he pulls out of the traffic and takes a side road, through a housing estate.

“Yes, but you can’t be too late. People don’t like to be kept waiting.”

I assume he’s referring to the five minutes I made him wait whilst I recovered from the splash of mud I got in the face. I hadn’t been that long. Although looking at the price so far, you’d think it was. We drive in silence now. Because, thank God, I’ve stopped talking. I look for my phone, to find I’ve forgotten it at home and sigh. People-watching will have to do. A little girl cries on the side of the road, as her knee pours blood. She’s laying on her side on the floor, clutching at her knee as her Mum crouched beside her, stroking at her hair. I read somewhere that everyone has a scar on their knee, it’s something that fake psychics play up on by guessing. I’ve got a scar on my knee, from something similar, so I guess it would work for me too. I remember crying so hard that it made me sick, I was a bit dramatic like that. I bet a psychic couldn’t guess that. I’d been running after a swan and ended up falling head over heels and bursting into tears. Mum told me I was inconsolable for hours.

“So, what do you do?” The voice from the front of the car piped up, interrupting my daydream.

“For fun, or…?”

“For work.”

It takes me a moment.

“I’ve just been fired actually. I was a materials analyst, horrible job.”

“You didn’t enjoy it?”

What I want to say is, No, Mr Taxi Man, I’ve just said it was a horrible job, so clearly, I didn’t enjoy it. But I didn’t particularly want to get out and walk.

“No, not really. It’s not where I want to be.”

“Where did you want to be?”

“In publishing, I think. I’m not quite sure yet.”

He doesn’t have a reply to this.

I purse my lips as I turn to look outside the window. I’m glad of his adjustment of the rear-view mirror, so that I don’t have to face the damage. I run my hand through my knotted hair, tugging at it with a grimace. I can’t imagine what it looks like to the taxi driver who already hates me, nor do I want to. I tug a little harder to get a stubborn knot out, to find its sticky. Pulling my hand out, I look at the mud. Disgusting. I open my mouth, to tell the taxi driver all about it. Luckily, I decide against it.

We’ve taken a few turns now and the area is a lot quieter. There are few people outside, except for a couple, thinking they were hidden behind a bright orange skip. Slowing down for traffic lights ahead gives me longer to watch them. Young teenagers stealing a long drag from a cigarette and a chaste kiss.

“Young love, eh?”

I smile at that. It’s sweet in a way, but it still makes me cringe.

“You forget what it’s like sometimes, don’t you? Being young and secretive. Thinking a kiss was the be all and end all of everything.” I reply.

I can’t help but stare out the window as I speak. Back in motion, the nausea has been swept away.

“Of course. Love is a strange thing, see. Love can be sharing a cigarette in secret, or it can be a hand hold over a candle lit dinner.” He added.

“Very poetic.” I reply, with a smile.

But it’s true. A young love of sneaking around the back alleys, climbing out of windows to meet with a secret boyfriend. Trying my first cigarette with Josh Miller, in an alleyway behind loads of rubbish. A lot of first dates that end with me doing the same thing and climbing out of the bathroom window for a secret cigarette.

“I suppose. Have you had any of that?”

“Any love? I guess so. A couple of boyfriends, here and there. Not much else.”

“Better to have loved and lost, than to have never loved at all.”

I don’t mean to, but I laugh at that. Far too cringey for my liking. Though there’s definitely truth to what he says. Though it’s not the be all and end all. Not in the relationship sense of the word.

We’re in a quieter area now. Glancing around, I cough a little before staring at the one person outside. She’s blurry, since we’re moving so fast. But I can make out the girl reading a book as she walked along, in her own world. I’d done that a couple of times, stuck in the middle of a good book and finding I had to leave the house. I stopped soon after I walked into a lamppost and gave myself a fat lip. She was gone rather quickly, and I was left feeling nauseous again as outside flew by.

“Can you stick the radio on?”

I’ve never liked the quiet. I was one of those children that was always talking. I never stopped moving, nor making some sort of noise. Even asleep, I’d find myself at the other end of the bed, talking to myself. Especially now, with no music and a quiet taxi driver, I just wanted to talk or even hum. I doubt he’d have liked that though.

“Where did you want me to drop you off?”

I stop looking out the window and focus on the driver now. The radio still isn’t on and I’m struggling to think without something else to focus on. I don’t know what to say, I don’t know how to say what I don’t want to say.

“There’s a while left before we’re there anyway. I wouldn’t worry. Just switch the radio on.” I reply.

It’s better than the reply that’s dancing across my tongue. The reply that I’m struggling to stop myself from saying; ‘I don’t know.’. I stop looking at the taxi driver and stare outside. The roads are looking more familiar now. I look at the fare and inwardly wince. I shouldn’t have made him wait whilst I washed my face. I was definitely going to be late now. In the reflection of the window, I catch a hazy glimpse of my reflection. It’s a mess and I’m covered from head to toe in-

“Bloody hell!”

Lurching forward, I look to the driver immediately, my mind racing.

“Sorry. Just a rabbit. So, where did you want to go?”

I don’t answer again. I busy myself with tapping my feet on the floor, trying to distract myself from the dread filling me. I am feeling sick now, my throat is constricted, and I think I’ve forgotten how to breathe. I look down at my feet and the slight breath that I’m managing gets caught in my throat. One foot is in my black trainer, the other… isn’t. Unpainted toenails and covered in dirt.

“Where’s my shoe?”

“Where did you want to go?”

“I want to go home.”

There’s a prick at my eyes and I wipe at them with the back of my hand, feeling the wetness wipe across my face. I stare outside the window, biting the inside of my cheek. I don’t know why I’m being stupid and crying. Something just doesn’t feel right.

Staring furtively outside, there’s an old lady searching through her bag at a dirty bus stop with a shattered window. I recognise her. No, I remember her. It was just a glance in her direction, but she’s stuck in my head on repeat.

Then there’s the girl. She’s young, with brushed, clean brown hair, blue jeans, a pristine white top and two black trainers. She’s running for the bus. She’s going to be late. I want to tell her to run faster, or not run at all.

“I don’t want to see this. I don’t want to remember. I just want to go home. Please.”

My heart is beating quicker than ever as she races across the road, though not quickly enough. One second, she’s there, gripping onto the bag that’s no longer beside me. The next there’s a bus where she once stood, now broken on the ground. A scream fills the taxi and I wish it would stop, before feeling the hoarseness in my chest and realising that it was coming from me. Clasping my hands over my mouth, I try and remember how to breathe again.

“What’s going on?”

I glance to the front of the taxi. The rear-view mirror has been adjusted so that I can see myself now. A gravel imprinted cheek decorated with mud. Or blood, I can’t tell which. As if nothing has happened, I hear his voice over my sobbing.

“Where are we going?”

“I want to go home.”

“I’m taking you home.”

“This isn’t the way home.”

“You’ve got nothing to worry about, you were a good person, Sophie.”

1 note · View note

grapeinacape-blog · 5 years

Text

The Fuzz

“You are a selfish, awful person! I hate you. And so does everyone else.” He paused then, a malicious sneer spreading across his face as he stepped closer to her. She could smell the pungent breath before she heard his final words. “You disgust me.” He had walked out after that and she had been abandoned with a sense of seething rage, confused at his words.

All she wanted was revenge. Delicious, burning revenge. Secreted behind a plethora of pill boxes were a pair of scissors, which she took. As the hours passed, she waited. Stomach tight, teeth clenched, the anger did not fade.

When the moment came, it was glorious. Screams filling her ears, as she stabbed and tore and ripped and sliced, until the room was deafened with silence.

Hands stained red she could barely look at the mess she had made. Insides decorated a once pristine room. Tears rolled across her cheeks, hands trembling.

Running. Painfully aware of the way her legs ache and whine as she pushes further on. A gap in the wall catches her eye. Able to worm her way through it, she is now secluded in a small alleyway between two buildings, littered with cigarette butts, stained newspapers and faeces. The smell invaded her nostrils; a mixture of sweat, eggs and rotten potatoes. With every breath it attacked the back of her throat, tearing at the flesh and churning her stomach. With the few trembling breaths she takes, she is thankful to finally have gotten away. For now. She’s not sure how she’ll do it; spending the rest of her life running. For the time being she is winning, unable to see the other competitors. But they could catch up with her at any moment- fear keeps her from looking back. The dread fills her as she gasps for breath, resting her forehead on her knees. They won’t find me here. They can’t. I just need a moment to think. The sounds of horns fills her ears, blaring their way down the strip. Over confident youths revving engines, drunken singing and the hubbub of gossip. She was able to make out a word or two, but they were gone quicker than they’d arrived.

Closing her eyes, she is hit with the realisation that this is just a moment of respite. A fleeting stop before she’s on her way again. But she needs a plan. Rummaging in her bag frantically, she watches the buses- flashes of blue and white. She counts the money slowly and the thought of being able to rest gives her legs a second wind, so that she can stand. Stretching them in front of her, she takes the opportunity to survey her surroundings. Pulling her coat tighter around her, she is hit with the stinging bitterness of the weather. There’s a light at the end of a tunnel now. Looking out from the gap she has hidden herself in, all to see are miles and miles of giant, stone monsters towering above her. Accompanying them are cameras, sitting on the shoulder of a giant, keeping its eye on everyone as they walk past. Scrutinising as it moves from left to right and from right to left. She pulls her hood up. In such a busy area, bustling with people and revving engines, she’ll fit right in, and there is bound to be a hotel along the street.

Taking a deep breath, she throws herself back into the street. Unfamiliar faces, unkind words, being so scared she couldn’t feel her legs, her heart in her throat. Thoughts spun around her mind, clouding her view as she stumbled along the pathway.

She is snapped from her reverie by shouts behind her. They were getting louder; they were getting closer.

“Hey! You! Hey!”

Fear struck. Heart in her stomach, she ran. Hands trembling, throat tight. Running, eyes glancing inside windows as she passed, hunting for somewhere to rest. Somewhere safe.

“Where have you been? Oh my god, it’s been so long!” The same voice screamed and she slowed to a walk, relief flooding over her in vicious, rough waves.

She didn’t know when or where she’d be caught. There was no way to prevent the inevitable. Stomach turning, she stared at the ground, willing her lunch to stay down. Then it hit her. The billowing chest of a man at least a foot or two taller than her. She froze. It seemed to take an age for her eyes to finally make it to his face.

Ketchup stained the creases of his mouth, dribbled remains of coffee lingered in his unkempt beard and when he smiled, she wasn’t sure whether he’d just eaten a large amount of dark chocolate or whether his teeth really were just black. Those that were left, that is.

“Sorry. I wasn’t-” She began quickly, before he cut her off and placed a greasy, fat hand on her shoulder, practically pressing her down with the weight. She was frozen to the spot.

“Can I help ya, sweetheart?” He asked, leaning closer to her face.

The rancid stench resembling expired milk dripped from every pore, leaving her speechless. She wasn’t sure her food would stay down if she opened her mouth. Shaking her head quickly, she managed to free herself from his grasp. She didn’t run, he looked the type to follow.

“’Ere! Come back! Can’t be lettin’ a girl like you go alone.” He shouted after her, but the words fell upon deaf ears.

Soon enough, he was just a speck in the distance; another competitor had bitten the dust. She stopped where she could, leaning along the flat, grimy stone, stained with moss. Running a hand through her hair, she shook her head.

I should just go back. I can’t do this. I shouldn’t have… Is it too late? She stared at the contents of her bag, chewing on her bottom lip.

She stayed there for a couple of minutes. Unmoving, uncertain and scared. This wasn’t the type of life for her. She’d never done anything like this before, now was certainly not the best time to start.

Eventually, she was able to move again. Slow, baby steps, as though scared of what the next hurdle may be. She had lost all thoughts of a plan and found herself struggling to string together a coherent thought. For now, she is just putting distance between herself and the others.

Oranges and yellows saturated the sky. Puddles sparkled in what was left of the sunlight and the wind whistled a low and melodious tune. Breathtakingly beautiful as the clouds danced across the sky, waltzing with the birds.

She entered the next building she came to; a hotel. Cream coloured and pristine, she felt like an ant. Making her way to the front desk was no different. The woman looked to be mid-thirties. A wide, unwavering smile plastered itself across her face.

“Oh darling, do you have a room here already?” She peered over the desk, glasses resting on the end of her nose as she looked down at the other.

“No. I would like a room for the night, please.” Remembering her manners, she put the bag on the desk, flipping it and spilling the contents before the woman, whose face flashed with… something. Confusion maybe? The smile returned to her lips as quickly as it had left.

A couple of coins fell to the ground, rolling under the desk. Falling to her knees she managed to rescue them, placing them upon the desk in the crumpled heap.

“A room. Just for tonight.” She reiterated. “Please,” was added as an afterthought.

The receptionist opened her mouth, as though wanting to protest the booking arrangement.

“Of course, darling. I’ll just have to sort that out. I might need some details, hun. Is that okay?” She seemed to make quite a few clicks on the mouse, as though sporadically clicking a black screen.

There was no answer. Staring at the receptionist, she waited. Something was coming. She felt it, from the core of her stomach, scratching at her throat, warning her. She didn’t listen.

“What’s your name, sweetie?”

“Lizzie Masterson.” The thought of lying didn’t cross her mind, though she knew now she probably should have.

“When’s your birthday?”

“17th of June.”

“And what year were you born, darling?”

She didn’t answer.

“Where are your parents, honey?”

“I’m in trouble. I just need a room.”

“Come, sit down back here with me. We’ll fix it together, won’t we?”

“No. I have enough money- I counted. A room. Please.” Desperation drenched her voice.

“They’ll be here soon, babe. How about I get you a drink?”

“No!” Taking slow steps back, she abandoned the heap of money and the small bag, hands shaking. “I didn’t mean to- it was an accident. I was angry and… I’m in trouble. They’ll be so angry.” Wringing her hands, she continued to shuffle backwards, knees weak.

Run. Run. Run. She couldn’t move.

“Hey now, don’t panic. It’s okay. They’re on their way and they’ll be so happy to see you.”

“Don’t come near me.” She warned, holding her hands up.

“Come on, we’ll get you nice and calm for when they get here.” Arms outstretched, the receptionist took steps twice the size of the other girl.

“I said, don’t touch me!”

The sharp ringing of a phone shook her out of her staring and the girl turned her gaze to the phone on the counter, holding her breath.

The receptionist stood completely still for a couple of moments before snatching the phone from the desk and bringing it to her ear. She did not take her eyes off Lizzie, afraid the girl would take her chance and run.

“Hello?” She took a pregnant pause and Lizzie was frozen, a deer in headlights. A shiver ran down her spine, her skin crawling as the cold held her in its icy grasp. “Her name is Lizzie. Brown hair in pigtails. Blue eyes.” Another pause.

“What are you doing?” At this, the girl took a step forwards; a bold but silly move.

The receptionist grabbed Lizzie’s wrist. Like a vulture, she held her prey, just waiting for the last fight to fizzle from its eyes. There was no risk of escape.

“She’ll be here. See you soon, Detective.”

“Stop it! Let go of me. I can’t be here when they come. Stop it.” Lizzie wasn’t thinking anymore, words spilling from her mouth as thoughts bounded around her mind, stabbing and pricking and hurting.

“Elizabeth!” The thunderous boom came from behind and Lizzie’s blood ran cold, throat tightening as she gasped for breath. He towered above her, turning his cold eyes to the back of her head. She felt it burning into her, tearing her heart into pieces.

“Daddy, I didn’t-” She was interrupted before she could stammer out an excuse.

“Where did you go? Come here. You scared us. Why would you do that, darling?” He took the child from the receptionist’s arms, cradling her as though she was a porcelain doll.

“Peter was horrible. I was so angry. And his teddy bear…”

She remembered when the moment had come. Screams from her brother filled her ears, as she stabbed and tore and ripped and sliced into the stuffed bear until the room was deafened with silence as Peter’s tears rolled down his face relentlessly. Catching her thumb and staining her hands red, she focussed on her brother’s grief stricken face. White stuffing strewn across the room as she began to bawl.

“Lizzie. We were so worried. You are in so much trouble, but for now… You need to apologise to your brother, don’t you?” Wrapping his arms around his youngest, he held her close, pressing his face into her hair. She smelt of Parma Violets.

Lizzie glanced to her brother, who clutched a headless bear to his chest, bottom lip stuck out as he eyed his sister.

“I’m sorry Peter. I shouldn’t have hurt him.”

Peter joined them with no hesitation, clasping his baby sister close; He’d never let her go again.

0 notes

grapeinacape-blog · 5 years

Text

He rips you apart so he can be the one to build you back up again and tell the world that he saved you. He pushes you in front of the danger so that he can pull you away at the last minute and tell you it won’t happen again. He pushes you to rock bottom, so that when you rise up he can be the one to meet you. He tells you that he’ll love you when you hate yourself, but who’s going to love you when you love yourself?

3 notes · View notes

grapeinacape-blog · 7 years

Text

The Skeleton in the Room

There’s a skeleton in the room. It isn’t noticeable at first glance, but if I look, out the side of my eye; it is there, lurking.

Everyone’s got one.

***

We grew up together. Sitting in the corner of the room, he wasn’t threatening. He watched as I played in the garden, on the playground or during lessons. I was 11 years old the first time I saw him leave the corner. Hunched over, he moved to stand beside me, holding my hand in his. I didn’t say anything.

Today, it sits in the corner, staring - lifeless. But it is still there and with every breath, every thought, I know it’s just biding time. The realisation weighs heavy in my chest. No one else sees him, for he isn’t truly there; they just see their own form of the skeleton in the corner. I’ve tried to cover him up, with blankets drenched in childhood memories. An attempt has even been made to hang baubles from it, creating the Christmas tree that once stood proud in my living room. But the skeleton is still lurking.

My skeleton stands tall, spindly and prickly. It stands at twice the height of me, yet half the width. The body is disproportioned, making the arms dangle to the knees. In addition a head too heavy to be fully supported by its stick like neck, a thin ribcage and lack of flesh make up its torso. Yet a black mist obscures most of the demon from direct view. Only by staring at each part of this menacing form can I make out the full creature, complete with snake-like fingers, ensnaring me in its venomous grasp.

Some days he does not sit in the corner, instead standing behind me; raspy breath burning my neck, whispering words that can’t be made out. Holding me tight so that no breath can escape, the darkness emanating from him takes over. My surroundings are enveloped in shadows with no way out. But when the moment is over, he retreats back to the corner.

But it is still lurking.

When he holds me, I try to pry his fingers from my body. Pulling the dead weight is pointless and pushing it even more so. His grasp just tightens. He is still there, holding me closer than ever. When he finally lets go, I assess the damage and my body appears as a shell of what was, littered in bruises, scars and fresh wounds. Aching, my gaze is directed to the skeleton in the corner and I can’t help the lump in my throat as I’m overcome with dismay to find that the skeleton is still lurking, despite trying to free myself.

A relapse. I must now continue living with my new roommate. He holds me in my sleep every night.

I can never guess when the skeleton is going to move, it is sudden and surprising. There is never enough time to run, or fight off his advances. Occasionally, he moves at the simplest things; a bad grade, an icy glare, a glance in the mirror. Other times, it’s the shouting roars that echo from downstairs or a comment that makes the light at the end of the tunnel turn into a foreboding emptiness.

On a day where he stands by my side, I decide to say something aloud;

“There’s a skeleton in the room. Today he is stood beside me. I’m scared.”

For the first time it has been said out loud. Some of the listeners turn away, not willing to see, nor hear the skeleton, or even face their own. The skeleton moves closer and the cold breath sends shivers down my spine.

But others take my hands. The warmth from them radiates through me, coursing through every vein and I can finally look another person in the eyes.

“We understand. You do not have to be scared of it anymore.”

I was fearful at first, of the skeleton’s deadpan face and hollow being, the way his eyes stared through my very soul, scratching to get to the root. But now, now that everyone has started to see him, he doesn’t come as close as often.

He mostly stays in the corner, lurking. Sometimes I catch him approaching from the corner of my eye, arms reaching, grasping for me desperately, as though he yearns for me. But the people around me direct their gaze at him. Combined hues of greens, blues, browns and greys make him retreat back to the corner in which he resides. Though the skeleton is still lurking. He is not going to go anywhere.

Eventually I learn to raise my voice when the skeleton wraps his arms around me. Even after he’s dropped me from his grip, I recall the sensation vividly, talking for minutes, hours, and days about the way that his actions leave me breathless. I am taught ways to deal with the skeleton in the corner. I say good morning to him, I say goodnight. Every once in a while I let him stand by my side, but the pain of the encounter has almost disappeared. I must live and understand that he is a necessary part of my life now. Everyone has one, it will never go away. But I have learnt how to live with the skeleton.

***

Behind a desk in a lime green classroom, he sits beside the teacher. Within the white room adorned with posters and leaflets, he sits beside my Doctor. At the end of the aisle decorated in purples, standing before the gazes of others, he sits beside my Mother. Lights flaring on screens as the shouting of children fills my ears, he sits beside me. But as he appears; every week, every month, every year, I smile. For my skeleton is still lurking.

“It’s called depression, and I promise you that things will be okay.”

4 notes · View notes