Journey || Erik Durm

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CHARLOTTE:

                 I was unarguably mortified when Manila messaged me later that day, questioning my whereabouts as well as my recent activity. Marco—who obliviously sat beside me—grinned, telling me to tell her about our midnight stunt of the day before, and my face immediately evolved through stages of bashful hues, eventually settling at a deep scarlet.

"Oh, hush, she doesn't know about you," I said; it was not necessarily a lie, but that was not why I was intent on avoiding the subject. 

For the remainder of the day, it was far too difficult to indulge in Marco without incredible guilt, so I told him that I needed some time alone. As soon as he left, Manila walked in through the diner's glass door, and I could've sworn that her eyes flashed with familiarity as they crossed paths.

Nevertheless, she sashayed over toward the counter, a grin plastered on her face.

"You okay?" I asked, staring at her in uncertainty.

"So many good newses," she gushed.

"Should we sit?" I began to say, but before I could, Erik barged in through the door, a frenzied expression overtaking his face.

"Mama is not feeling well," he declared, and I wondered if he was talking to me—and if he was, why he was. "I need you to run me a favor, Charlotte."

I gasped, failing to remain intact. "What's wrong with her, Erik?"

Ignoring me, he said, "Can you run over to the pharmacy and get some laxatives? Somebody needs to stay with her."

"Who's with her now?"

"My dad."

"Won't he stay?"

"Are you going to go to the goddamn pharmacy or not, Charlotte?" he demanded, dropping his eyebrows to shade his increasingly prominent glare.

I grunted, mimicking his tone. "You're not a goddamn doctor, Erik. Take me to her and dial the number for the fucking ambulance." I marched over to where Erik was, and shoving him roughly by the chest, urged, "Go."

"But the diner," he began, his eyes scanning the crowded atmosphere; everywhere, people jostled for space, engaged in a myriad of unique conversations.

Everything that had mattered minutes before no longer seemed as important, and all that I had ever strayed from seemed to slither into my interests. So, I turned around, glancing at Manila imploring lyrics.

"I got it. Lotte's already formed a solid team here, so I'm sure we'll be just fine," Manila chimed in, and then and there, I became convinced that she was God-sent.

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              Erik lived in a quaint house on the outskirts of South Berlin, and I wondered what had catalyzed his decision to drive so far to the diner merely to call me. Not to digress, it was a two-story house resembling a cottage, and to my surprise, it was coated delectably in light variants of maroon, beige, and tan: all peaceful colors, unlike I had imagined. I had always anticipated Erik's enigmatic abode to appear anarchic; on the contrary, it was beautiful, making me wistful of faraway dreams of functioning homes.

But I was worried senseless, because inside that peaceful home, havoc was being wrought, or perhaps about to be so.

The ambulance had not yet arrived as Erik pulled over in the driveway, and upon realizing this, I bolted out of the car and rushed in through the open front door in search of Marija. I found her in the living room couch with sweat trickling down her forehead, her head resting on the backrest. An unfamiliar man sat next to her; assuming he was Erik's dad, I carefully stumbled over, asking, "How is she, sir?"