The Cure for Sleeping

Chapter Eleven

"Behold my wardrobe."

Clothes are everywhere. Dresses swing from hangers, some elegant falls of silk and others sultry sheaths of black. Shirts form mountains as high as my hip on the floor as if she unfolded every single item of clothing she possesses and left them on the floor to die. Shoes are scattered throughout the room, their pairs lost somewhere in the looming chaos. A blue bra dangles from a draw knob like an afterthought.

"Oh," I push a lonely sock away with my toe. It will never be reunited with its family.

"Oh? I'm sorry, what were you expecting?" Thea huffs at me, hands on hips as she regards her kingdom. She knocks over a pile of orphan shoes, rifling through the jungle of fabric. They're instantly swallowed by the anarchy, lost without so much as a last word.

"Narnia."

Thea snorts, one red glove in her hand. "If only. I'd take a wicked witch over Insomniacs any day."

"You would look great with hooves." I say. Thea looks at me as if she's questioning my sanity.

"You know, Mr Tumnus? The faun? He meets Lucy when she..." Thea's eyes are glazing over. "Never mind." I nudge a rouge stiletto out of the way, trying to find a place to stand, "This isn't what I had in mind when you said 'stocking up'. I was hoping for food. Or weapons."

She grabs the shoe and holds it up to my face. "I promise you, these make very good weapons when the need arises."

I stare at her.

She throws a purple ski hat at me and it flops against my cheek like a dead thing. "Smile, Avery! I'm giving you the world, here. Clean clothes during the apocalypse. I'm practically a miracle worker."

"We could have always just found a Target. And I don't think you'll have anything in my size." Along with the sharp features, Thea also has a waistline befitting a pixie. I, on the other hand, am a regular human being.

Thea waves away my words with a flutter of her hand, "Target lacks the style I have going on here. And you'd be surprised about the sizes. There is a lot of stuff in here."

"I noticed."

"Oh, come on. We can grab things for the others, too. We'll be Santa."

"Only one of us can be Santa."

"Fine then. You'll be Santa, and I'll be Santa's sexy assistant." She holds up a lacy black crop top and spins for me, lips pursed like a model. Despite myself, I laugh.

At midday, we leave Thea's mansion with our loot. Two backpacks stuffed full of clothes, our pockets overflowing with lighters, pocket torches and jewellery, and a lonely briefcase packed with two-minute noodles. We couldn't find any other bags.

We wander around the city, looking for Elijah. Thea refuses to give up her breakneck pace, even with three bags between us, so I make her carry the noodles. As far as I'm concerned, it's only fair. We search comic book stores he liked to frequent, papers scattered about like dry leaves. We tiptoe through piles of discarded, rusted tools at the mechanic's shop where he worked on weekends. We even visit the dilapidated 80s-themed diner where his mum waitressed, dirty coffee mugs still sitting in the sink.

By early evening, the only people we've seen are Insomniacs, and we certainly didn't let them see us.

Thea and I are sitting on a window ledge of a high-rise apartment, legs swinging out into open air. It's not the safest spot in the world, but it offers a great view whilst we eat out noodles.

I'm halfway through a speech about why uncooked noodles are better than cooked –they have a delightful crunch and don't dissolve into a soggy mess resembling dog hair– when something makes me stop. Thea takes this as an opportunity to argue on the behalf of the cooked variety, but I hold up a hand. She huffs at me, but falls silent. I sniff at the air, squinting against the slowly setting sun. My eyesight is horrible.