CECE, DISRESPECTFULLY | rewriting

22: UNDER THE SKIN

            My fingers are paralysed. The knuckles have calcified and I can only move each finger from the root. Which makes manoeuvring the key enough to unlock the door notably difficult. It's like I've got Lego hands.

The rain only stopped after my phone had died which was around eight. It must be well past midnight by now and my clothes have frozen to my skin, my curls crusted to my temples and neck.

Sneaking in is nowhere near doable with the clumsiness of what I couldn't rule out as hypothermia. Turns out, any effort would be futile. Nicolás is sitting at the base of the stairs.

He snaps his head out of his hands as I open the door. I know it cricks his neck. Streaks of tears snag on the glow of the streetlights until I pull the door shut.

'Yell at me tomorrow.'

My voice turns to fog, the air in my lungs too cold. I doubt he can decipher a word from the chattering of my teeth.

I nudge off my trainers. I have no chance of bending over and picking them up to place them on the shoe rack. Even with Nicolás looking and undoubtedly already fuming at me, I leave them where they land. It's too dark for him to see that my clothes are soaked through but he must hear the slop as I move.

If I could, I would run. But that's not an option either. I wobble toward the stairs and him, repeating myself when I'm right beside him. 'Please just yell at me tomorrow.'

'Cece–'

'Please.'

I climb the stairs at the speed of a slug but Nicolás don't stop me. He doesn't need to stop me. He can just as well kick me out in the morning. He's going to. He thinks I started a fire at school—Cobham's mercy were a miracle; I can't expect two in a row.

He's going to kick me out. He's going to send me to Somerset. It won't take them long to figure out I'm insane-possessed-insane-possessed-born evil.

We would like to keep him under surveillance.

It won't them long to lock me in. Forever. It'll be dark. And the wasps will be everywhere, sting everywhere. Holes. Holes for trillions of germs to crawl into.

I still lock my bedroom door. Nicolás can just as well yell at me tomorrow.

I know I should but now that my bed is in sight, I don't have the energy to break the clothes off my skin. I sink into the cradle and cocoon in the duvet as if it has any hope of warming me up. Only thing that'll happen is the ice will melt and soak my mattress through. Dying could be better.

Dying could be better than ending up in the dark with holes in my skin and holes in the holes, invitations for infection. I'll get sepsis. I'll get Necrotising fasciitis. Maybe I already have both. I've been outside all day with the cuts on my palms untreated.

My chest hurts. Maybe I have bronchitis. Maybe I have pneumonia. Shortness of breath is a symptom of both. I could die within the next few hours. I could die. I could have hypothermia. I could–

Knock. My heart jolts.

'¿Cecilio? Cece. Perdón. I warmed you soup and a hot water bottle. Could you unlock the door? I won't yell, lo prometo.'

It's a ploy. He hates me. Everything bad in his life is my fault and I keep making it worse. I've made him worry again. I've spoiled his night again.

Because you're selfish. And evil.

He waits. I don't move.

Beewolf's tarsal claws aren't sharp enough to cut through the duvet but the weight of its steps press into my shoulder as it rounds my body. He was happy before. He'll be happy again when I'm gone.