The Dark Side of the Moon

Chapter 28: Kyle

-Kyle’s P.O.V-

The dim light of the moon cast a hazy spotlight down on the lonely street. Living room lights flickered as their occupants gathered around to watch television, eat dinner or other mundane activities, but the house that I stood before was eerily quiet. Compared to the others, it wasn’t lit up inside at all, a ghostly husk of what usually was. No cars were parked outside by the curb, even the porch light was switched off.

It was evident that no one was inside, perfect for what I was planning. I jogged up the front steps and slipped the house key out of the shoe – I’d learned its whereabouts late one night after I had given the owner a lift – and quietly unlocked the old door. It swung open to reveal a deserted hallway, and I clicked the door shut behind me, throwing the key carelessly onto the carpet. Strolling into the kitchen, I made myself at home on one of the bar stools and inspected the mess that was their front counter.

A scrawled note lay atop most of the untidiness, smudged pen indicating that it had been scrawled in a rush. I picked it up; reading through it and placing it delicately back in place.

Jackson and I have gone for a night at the club, be home late. Dinner’s in the fridge, we have our phones on us.

Matt

So Florence’s protective brothers were out of the way, another bonus for me. It would create less of a mess to clean up later if they were witnesses. I watched the clock’s hands slowly tick by and an idle thought of where Florence could be at this time of night clouded over my mind, but I threw it away.

The counter’s mess held pens and paper galore, so I took one of each and began to draw absentmindedly. She had to be home soon, and then it would all be over. Midway through my blue inky spiral, the pen ran out and I tossed it aside. I spotted the same colour pen out to my right, and I made a grab at it, also grabbing a few other items in the process. The crinkly sound of paper rung out as accidentally scrunched it up a little, and I brought it closer, curious.

It was a doctor’s script, proscribing a certain type of medicine. Florence Gray’s name was printed neatly at the top in black pen, and the same handwriting signed at the bottom as Dr. Blaker. The drug proscribed was called Buscopan, and I frowned at the name.

Not a foot away from the box of kitchen herbs lay a bottle on its side, and I hopped off the bar stool to inspect it. It was small and held little oval shaped tablets, with the same name Buscopan printed on the front clearly. So this was the drug that was proscribed to her, but why on earth would Florence need medication? It didn’t look like a simple tablet bottle that you could purchase at the chemist’s, this seemed a little more serious.

As I read through the back of the bottle’s tiny script, I came across something alarming. There was a gut feeling inside me that had me thinking that I was missing out on something, something important to my situation. Apart from the normal cautions of danger and instructions on how to take the tablet, there was the explanation of what Buscopan actually was.

I read through it twice before it hit me. ‘Proscribed for problems such as deep gut pain and cramps, to relieve the subject of their symptoms and lessen the pain.’ Florence had deep gut pain. Was this a coincidence? It had to be, she was probably taking it for lady cramps or whatever you call it, the thing that comes once a month. Surely that was the case? 

Behind me, in the hallway the door creaked open once more and light footsteps carried to my ears. She was home. I dropped the bottle lightly onto the marble counter and faced the music, watching as she stumbled around without light to guide her. She had multiple bags slung on her forearms – the aftermath of a shopping trip most likely – and she loudly clomped down the carpeted hall and groped for the lights. Once they flicked on, it took longer for her eyes to adjust to the light than mine did, and once she saw me her face drained of the previous giddy smile that was planted there.