Cover Your Tracks [HS][2014 VERSION]

60. Toxic

"Baby, can't you see I'm calling? A guy like you should wear a warning. It's dangerous, I'm falling . . ."

The next morning, I blindly reach out in search of something that isn't there. The other half of the bed is cold, nothing but a piece of paper left in the fading imprint of a body much larger than my own. The note is nearly crushed as I grasp it with stiff fingers, folding it over in my disappointed palm.

The motel room is dark and silent, nothing but the rampant city life seeping in through the walls to keep my mind busy. The comforter falls from my body as I rise, arms stretched towards the ceiling, eyes closed. It settles down in a bundle atop the mattress, right over the spot where he should have been.

The throbbing in my ankle is the least of my worries as I stumble out of bed and collide both of my feet with the plush carpet below. A sharp, agonizing pain shoots up the length of my leg and I cry out, moving blindly around in search of a light source. I feel childish hopping around on one leg, hands frantically waving around in the dark air until they grasp one of the curtains hanging adjacent to the bed.

The material is tugged harshly until a stream of light fills the room. Placing one hand on a wall for support, I unfold the note. The situation is all too familiar, writing scribbled quickly and left as reassurance and instruction for my safety. My eyes frantically scan the paper.

Gone out. Stay inside. Don't answer the door. - H

I read over the words as if they were some sort of message that could be decoded, but that was simply not the case. Harry had gone out and would be back later. He had not told me beforehand, nor bid me a parting goodbye in the morning. He had only left a note.

Suddenly, the stinging sensation in my leg seems to be of more importance. Wobbling over to the kitchen area, I grasp the bottle of pills near the sink and pop open the cap. The seal on the bottle had already been broken, it seems. Not thinking much of it, I turn the faucet on and toss a pill into my mouth before gathering water into my hands and downing it.

With hope that the pain will soon fade, I return to the bed and retrieve the TV remote from the nightstand. The flat screen sits straight across from the bed. I see myself reflected in it; a girl swallowed up by black. Sat in the middle of an empty bed, in the middle of an empty room, in the center of an empty, tired town much like the one I came from only days ago.

My time spent alone is time spent reflecting on past events. Everything that had occurred between meeting Harry and waking this morning, alone, flashes through my mind in vivid color. Fearful, timid nights; adrenaline and shaky hands and downpour; the ground catching me before he could; foolish talk of running away; blood, gore, and death.

Now, it seems as though I never really had a choice. Not in Harry spending his probation at my house, nor in the sale of my home and the murder of my father. My world of black and white had clashed with his color and everything after happened outside of the lines that I had created for myself. Looking back, I always had a plan.

Now, I have nothing.

Everyone has thought about running away, whether it be from something physical or mental. For me, it was a bit of both, perhaps. But nonetheless, I had not run away because deep down, I knew that one cannot escape their problems by turning their back on them. That only makes you blind to what goes on around you—only makes it easier for that problem to sneak up on you and stab you in the back.

The TV comes alive, bright with vivid color. The channels are limited, only a select few available from the cheap cable wire plugged into the back of the small television. I flip through the pixelated images before my attention is caught by big, bold words flashing across the screen.