Tarnished

Chapter 2

But they don't listen and a tall form appears in the doorway, streaming in the little light from the hallway. But their face is shadowed by darkness.

"Are you deaf or something, get the fuck out!"

They hold up their hands in defence. "I come in peace."

I suppress a groan. It's the guy who bumped into me.

I dramatically twirl my finger. "Okay so now leave in peace too."

Despite my tough uncaring exterior, I clutch my phone tightly in my palm, ready to press the home button five times to call the police. And at the same time, I prepare my throat for a scream.

He doesn't listen and steps into the room. Is this guy serious?!

My eyes divert off his form from the sound of the door beginning to close. His body was keeping it open and now that he's moved away it's got nothing to block its decline.

With my heart beating in my throat I watch it stop halfway and not move further.

I let out a relieved breath and look away, only to find the guy sitting on the bed opposite the window.

Before I can chastise him, he turns on the bedside lamp, illuminating his familiar face.

Where have I seen him?

Surely the reason I don't remember is because I'm high. I only smoked half a bud in the bathroom. Not to mention, my tolerance has grown over the month.

"You okay?" He repeats.

I snap out of my head and then snap at him. "I was before you came in here."

I casually turn my head back to the window so I can wipe my wet cheeks. His lone presence in the room has halted my tears.

I can't believe I'm saying this but I would rather have the tears than be alone in here with him. It's very unsettling.

"Do you want some chocolate?" He asks almost nervously.

Caught off guard, I whip my head back to face him. "What?"

Am I also familiar to him as he is to me? I mean I have to be. Otherwise what reason could there be for his persistence? If it's to fuck me he's stubborn as hell. But I'm more stubborn.

He stands up and I tense inwardly as he slowly, cautiously makes his way toward me, pulling something out of his pocket. He holds out a Cadbury dairy milk wholenut chocolate bar.

Weirded out, I squint up at him.

"It's brand new, unopened." He turns the packet over to prove his point.

"No thanks." I can't trust that. Him. He's a stranger and a weird one at that. Randomly offering me chocolate. Who does that?

He places it in front of me. "If you change your mind."

I grab it and push it toward him, accidentally pressing it against his chest. My fingertips press against the hard ridge of his abs but I don't let myself waver. "I said no thanks. You eat it."

"I cant. I'm allergic to nuts."

I raise my brows, disbelieving. Does he expect me to believe he has casually been carrying around something that could kill him?

Or am I just being paranoid?

No. No. I'm not going to undermine my suspicions. Again.

Seeing the mistrust on my face; he pulls out a long syringe from his pocket. An epi-pen. "See."

"K." I drop the chocolate into my lap with no plans to eat it. But I also don't want him to have it.

I turn back to the window. If my best friend Hannah has taught me anything, it's that being a bitch helps keep people away from you. In this case, I'm hoping it will make him leave.

Although my bitchiness isn't entirely on purpose — he's annoying.

Suddenly he leans over me. I'm about to scream but he quickly grabs the window and slams it shut and steps away.

"I'm cold," he says nonchalantly, like he didn't just scare the absolute shit out of me and violate my personal space.

Heart hammering in my chest, I push him even further away and open the window again. "Then leave. No one's begging you to stay. You invited your-fucking-self."

He sighs and takes another step back. Hope flares in my chest until he sits back on the bed.

I groan out loud.

"Whoever's controlling the music has shit fucking taste."

I don't recognise the song but I agree. I don't let on though. I stay quiet.

"Do you know the person this house belongs to?"

Go away! I scream inside my head.

"This party is kind of shit."

My composure short circuits. "What do you want?!" I bark out annoyed and frustrated.

For a while he doesn't say anything, just watches me as if he's mulling something over in his head. He sighs like he just lost a battle. "For you to get away from the window."

I'm confused for a split second and then I capture his train of thought. "You think I'm going to jump?" I throw a glance at the open window.

He nods grudgingly. He's gripping the edge of the bed like he's ready to bolt off it to grab me.

I can't help it, I burst into a fit of laughter.

"Glad this humours you," he grumbles.

"No," I shake my head still laughing. Never. Not normally. Not ever. And especially not
when one of my best friends has had numerous suicide attempts.

So why am I laughing? Why can't I stop laughing?

"Can you please get away from the window? Or fucking close it."

My laughter dims from the strain in his voice. "Jeez, okay." I close the window. "Happy?"

If he's relieved he doesn't show it, instead, he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a bud, presses it between his lips and lights it, his hand cupped around the flame.

My own urge for one surfaces and I reach into the pocket of my t-shirt dress. My new and favourite change of mine is that all my outfits have pockets. Never again will I settle for anything less.

I come up empty. I rummage harder. And then in my other pocket but only come up with my lighter.

I pull out the tin I store my weed in even though I know it's not in there. I vividly remember smoking a little in the bathroom and then getting disrupted by my crying so I put it out and into my pocket to get back to as soon as I controlled myself.

Like I suspected, the tin is empty.

I stand up and search the cushioned seat, throw the arranged pillows onto the ground in my panic. "Where the fuck is it," I whisper shout.

I turn the flashlight on my phone and double search. This time I don't leave a single thing on the window seat.

That was my last one. I've got no money for another one.

Where is—

I fucking fell!

I whirl around, ready to go and search outside but freeze at the sight and sound of the guy chuckling around the bud.

He holds up the roll after taking a long drag. The ray of light streaming through the door and hitting it is the most accurate, if not identical, representation of how I see weed in my trauma-induced mind.

"You're pretty shit at rolling these."