I’ve forgotten how to breathe. And I can’t look at her. My eyes are pulled down to my feet. Focusing on the hundreds of dark spots of quickly drying blood splashed onto the grey carpet. Gleaming under the bright electric lightbulbs. Lights are popping in my eyes too, dizzying. Black and silver glitter raining down on me, mixing with the shining red lights on her skin. Blood red like a sunset, splashing across her body. Carving deep shadows in the brightly lit room. I feel sick. I feel faint. I can feel the blood rushing to my head. Her blood rushing from her body. I force air into my lungs. Making my ribs raise and fall. Meaningless. What does it matter now? Because the carpet looks like a scene from a film, but the livid stench of blood tells me this is real. Too real. Much too real. And now I somehow can’t help myself. My eyes are drawn towards her. Magnetic. Her body on the floor. Broken. Once, when I was very small, I held a baby robin in my cupped hands. A baby robin with snapped wings and twitching feathers. And I held it as it desperately clung onto every breath. And I watched, helpless. Impossibly tiny, curled into a ball. And bruises are flowering onto Cheryl’s skin. Her face. Her neck. Her chest. The bloody handprints on the soft grey fabric of her tiny vest. Fabric that once smelt like fire and danger and-
I drop to my knees, right beside her. She’s so close I can smell the fear on her skin, filling her pores with freezing sweat. Congealing and filling her pores, just like the clotting blood. And her blood still glistening red, soaking into the grainy carpet. Slicked over her skin. Her skin ghostly pale, her eyes closed as though she’s sleeping. She would look peaceful, if her face wasn’t so bruised. Black and blue. Her body curled into a ball, the vertebra of her spine jutting through her flesh. Blood drips slowly from her slightly open lips. Dark blood. Like jet beads and drops of oil. I want to reach out and touch her, but I’m too afraid that her skin will be as cold as icy porcelain. She looks too pale. Like a sleeping marble angel or a tiny doll. But stone can’t bleed.
“Cheryl, can you hear me?” I breathe. So quietly I can barely hear my own words. The words shake so much I can’t recognise my own voice. I imagine I can hear her whimper. I’m not sure though because I my heart is pounding sickeningly fast. I raise my hands, but I don’t dare touch her. My hands hover, trembling, for a long moment. And then I bend low over her, my hair brushing gently over her skin. I hold my breath. And listen for her breathing. I close my eyes. Somewhere far below me, I can hear a baby crying. And I realise I can feel her light breath on my face, sharp with the tang of blood. I can taste it coating the back of my tongue. Clogging up my throat.
“Cheryl?” I repeat her name. Again and again. Until it loses all meaning. Again and again. Just a jumble of sounds. Until I realise that tears are pouring down my cheeks, burning my throat and blurring my vision. And I sit by her side, tears streaming. And I don’t want to touch her, but I do. My hands barely even shake as I brush her hair away from her face, skim over her sides. Through tear-filled eyes I see the long, curving cut across her back that’s haemorrhaging blood. Not the kind of cut you can carve with fists and kicks. The kind of cut you make with a knife. Pressed into her skin. I feel physically sick. Sick with fear. Sick with hatred. Her crushed ribs, the dark gash on her head. Shockingly dark, plastered with drying blood-
“Kimberley?” Her voice is barely a whisper. Her eyes flicker open. And close again. And open. I know she’s fighting to stay conscious, and from her jumble of bruised limbs I hold her hand tightly. She wriggles a fraction. And winces in pain. Her gasp hurts. I fiercely fight back my tears, running the back of my hand across my cheeks. I gulp. My nails in her skin. As though gripping onto her might keep her with me.
“Shh, Cheryl you’re okay, I’m here” I breathe. I want her to believe me. I want to believe myself. Leaning down to her, pressing a kiss onto her forehead.
“It hurts-” she whispers, no, she whimpers. And I know it hurts, because I can hear the pain. Rippling tides, breaking in her throat. Her chest rising and falling slowly.
