Exotic

~ it's not you, it's me ~

What had Alba said to me? Do you feel safe, at the prospect of going home tonight?

A few hours ago, I had. Safe as the Swedes during the Second World War.

The back of my head was throbbing as Aaron pulled up alongside my house and killed the engine. The house looked tranquil, sitting pretty in my quiet suburban street. Reece's truck, the same one I'd almost crashed on the highway that morning, was waiting outside. Caleb's car was nowhere to be seen; whatever he'd come here to do, he'd done it, and god knew where he was headed next.

"I'm going in with you," Aaron said, his tone leaving no room for negotiation.

"No," I replied flatly. I was lucky that my resting state was stubborn. Whatever happened inside, I did not want Aaron there to witness it, even if the thought of backup was comforting. I especially didn't want him putting himself in the line of fire, something Aaron did often and without thinking.

He looked like he was about to protest, but I was already climbing out of the passenger side door, knowing he wouldn't follow if I gave him a direct request. He respected me too much for that.

"Just keep the engine running, will you?" I tried to sound light, but the joke fell flat. I closed the door on Aaron's look of concern, gathered myself, and began the slow walk to my house. I let myself in through the now latched gate, my eyes catching on a black glint lying on top of the mailbox. Caleb's mobile phone, its screen cracked but still working, had a sticky note on it from Mrs. Dodie. It read SCREEN WAS CRACKED PRIOR TO DISCOVERY. And she'd jotted down her number and a smiley face.

Curiosity had me peeling off the note so I could see the screen probably, but before I was tempted to further invade Caleb's privacy, I was interrupted by the clatter of the flyscreen door. I slipped the phone into my pocket before I looked up, finding Reece standing on the porch. He was dressed the same as he had been that morning, though noticeably more dishevelled, juggling a carton of cigarettes in his right hand. His expression was grave like he'd just received life-changing news. The taunt set of his mouth and the deadness of his eyes sent my stomach roiling. My hand found the gate latch behind me, resting there. Just in case. Aaron was right around the corner; if I left now, I would never have to look Reece in the eye again.

Then I noticed he was holding something else in his left hand. I'd been so distracted but the cigarettes that it took me a moment to register, though he was making no effort to hide it. Blonde hair spilling out from his fist, long and familiar, and probably knotted something terrible from the way he was handling it. The air thumped out of my lungs, and my stomach took an instant plunge. All the catastrophising in the world, every worst-case scenario I had gone over in my head hadn't prepared me for the reality of seeing Sephora's hair in Reece's grasp. Every follicle in my scalp tingled just looking at it. As if he was holding a human's scalp.

Before I could stop myself, I was racing up the path, school backpack dropping from my shoulders as I clambered up the porch steps and flew through the front door. Reece didn't try to stop me, didn't even utter a word as I passed him. I bolted straight up the steps inside, taking two at a time, and tripped on the last one, nearly falling on my face at the top. I threw out my hands and felt my palm fill with splinters, my wrist scream in protest. I pushed myself up on my skinned hands, too far gone to feel more than a vague throbbing, and staggered around the corner until I reached my bedroom door. It was hanging open, gaping, and vulnerable.

I told myself not to go in there. That I didn't want to see what was inside, even though part of me knew. That it was bad enough in the abstract, and I didn't need to see what he'd done. Something pushed me forward anyway, sending me lurching into the centre of my room.