Chasing Innocence | ✓

30 | hushed favours

To no surprise, my eyes snap open in the middle of the night. I don't even feel my body react, too dumb to care about the plague of nightmares chasing me until the end of time.

I feel childish sometimes, knowing that I'm afraid to sleep. It's not something you like to admit as you get older. That you still have nightmares, just like the ones where you think someone hides under your bed as a child and you can't move, you can't even blink because it'll creep out...

I tuck my knees to my chest, tucking in my chin as I wrap my arms around my thighs. My dark hair cascades around me and I reassure myself that I'm safe.

Well, as safe as I can be in the house of an accused murderer with dangerous drug dealers roaming the streets. No doubt they've realised their guns are missing by now. Might even be smart enough to get rid of the evidence that they stupidly kept in the first place.

I creep out into the hallway, like I have so many nights before. Only this time I'm met by Marco standing over the kitchen sink.

"Sorry," I blink, scrubbing a hand over my face. "I'm just getting..."

I stop short from the cupboard, my hand hanging midway in the air. Marco glances my way, his eyes faraway despite being right in front of me.

Blood. So much blood. The water turns crimson as it washes away the thick fluid. I stare at him, then at his bloody hands in the sink, the tap gushing over the open wounds.

His lip is busted open, blood dripping down his chin. "You should see the other guy," he says, throwing me a lazy smile. It cures none of my uneasiness.

"Is the other guy even alive to see?" I say, breathlessly.

I feel fear clawing at my throat, trapping me. I hold onto the bench behind me, my knuckles turning white. I wouldn't let myself have a panic attack now.

Rhea! Run!

Run.

I shake away the memory as Marco laughs. He grabs a cloth as he holds it against one of his fists. "Just a bar fight, Rhea," he says, like he's speaking to a child. "Nothing to worry about."

I nod apprehensively, crossing my arms over my chest. "Seems like you guys have a habit of those."

"It's a good way to release tension," he shrugs. "I taught Braxy everything he knows."

"Good for you," I deadpan, rolling my eyes. "Is that you defining moment playing big brother?"

He throws me a glare, before pulling the cloth from his bloodied knuckles. "Need some help?" I offer, grabbing the first aid kit. I've learnt where they keep it now.

When Marco doesn't object, I grab out the alcohol wipes and disinfectant cream. "You didn't break your hands did you?" I frown, staring at the bruising.

"Nah," he flexes his fists like it's nothing, but I grimace for him.

He hops up on the counter beside the sink, running a hand of his buzzed head. I grab an alcohol wipe, cleaning the cuts on his knuckles. He doesn't even wince.

"What does this one mean?" I ask, staring at the tattoos on his hands.

"The snakes? Just a reminder to be careful who you trust," he says, as I grab his other hand.

"You permanently tattooed yourself to remind yourself who to trust? Do you have short term memory loss or something?" I joke, moving my hand towards his lip.

He grabs my wrist, raising an eyebrow. "I've got that. Don't think he'd be happy if I let you touch my lips," he grins, splitting the cut open again.

I scoff, rolling my eyes. "Who? Casey?"

Marco laughs quietly, sighing. "So smart, yet so dumb."

"What kind of compliment is that?" I scowl, as he grabs the alcohol wipe from my hand to clean his lip. I grab the cream, spreading some onto his free hand.

"Why are you awake anyway?" he asks. "Isn't it past your bedtime?"

I ignore his jab, shrugging. "Haven't you heard? I'm a vampire. I work better at night."

He waits for the truth as I spread cream on his other hand. "Nightmares," I mutter. "I've just come to terms with the fact I won't be sleeping ever again."

My blood runs cold. I imagine actually never sleeping again and the panic settles in. I picture how terrible it would be to slowly lose your sanity. To wish you could sleep, just to realise it'll never come. Death will welcome you sooner.

"I tried to get a prescription," I say, coldly. "But apparently I don't know myself well enough. Apparently that actually isn't what I need. No, I just need to start journaling my feelings. Utter bullshit," I grumble.

Marco huffs a laugh as I step back, cleaning up the kit as I put it away. "You know, I could help you with that."

"What do you mean?" I frown, going to grab myself a glass like I'd meant to do in the first place.

"I mean, you were assaulted by my dealer," he grimaces as I frown, "so I'm sure you know what I'm inferring."

"I don't know if I want to give that man any of my money," I say. "He doesn't deserve it."

"You don't have to pay then," he says, hands out to his sides. "Take it as a peace offering for cleaning me up. And for being the getaway driver."

I turn around, suspicious. "Are you trying to be... kind? It's actually pretty unnerving. I don't know if I trust it."

He laughs, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I'm not always an asshole."

"No?" I remark, cocking my head. "So just when you want to beat up fourteen year old boys, then?"

He rolls his eyes. "Are you ever going to let that go?"

"Probably not," I say, filling my glass with water.

He shrugs. "Well, I'm still offering to help. Night."

He begins to walk off, his feet padding back towards the couch. I squeeze my eyes shut, turning off the tap harder than necessary. "What kind of pills are we talking about?" I ask.

Marco turns around, trying to hide his smug smile. "For you? I'd suggest Xanax or roofies."

"Xanax," I nod. "Not roofies. Too strong."

Marco nods, his mouth pulling up at the side. "Good choice."

My stomach coils as I frown at him. He lands softly on the couch, saluting me as he turns on his side, pulling a duvet over his shoulders.

I stare at the windows; the wooden panels that cover the areas that were riddled with bullet holes recently. I wonder how he even has the nerve to sleep there now.

I turn away, taking big gulps of my glass of water before filling it up again. "Marco?" I whisper.

"Yeah?" he calls moments later.

"I'd rather you kept this to yourself, alright?" I say. I don't like having secrets that people can hold over me, but this feels like a last resort.

"Trust me. I wouldn't dream of it," he retorts, rolling over as he, luckily, waits for the peace of sleep to consume him.