Nyctophilia

Chapter Three

‘”You think you’re the only one with scars?” Connor said. “Everyone has scars. We just don’t all wear them on the outside.”’

Chapter Three:

I didn’t move. I mean, I couldn’t. I was sure if someone looked at me right now, they’d say I was a statue –maybe a mannequin- but I wasn’t; I was here and I was breathing, I was living. But I wish I wasn’t. I wish I were a statue or just, well, dead. Dead would be the easiest.

Only I wasn’t and I couldn’t move, nor could Brett, nor could Weasel. He could though. Not that he would be, he was being wheeled away in an ambulance right now.

I wish he were dead.

Weasel, Brett and I were pinned against the wall, our wrists in cuffs but I couldn’t find it in me to be angry at Weasel for putting us here; someone in the inside bit of Hungry Jacks had seen us and called the police who happened to be behind us, waiting in line for a chocolate milkshake and in seconds, we were out of the car and against the wall while being screamed at.

But I didn’t give a shit.

If I spent the next 10 years in prison, I wouldn’t be upset because I had looked up in time to see his eyes roll back in his skull as Weasel continued to punch him. Right now, I was surprisingly elated.

But also surprisingly tired; memories of another lifetime flooded into me and I felt myself slowly being crushed by the force of them. Normally I’d find a way to be out of these cuffs by now, Brett and Weasel by my side but I couldn’t do it now.

I was dead in the sense of unresponsive and exhausted.

Nothing mattered anymore except for the thought of alcohol being pumped into my veins; I wish it weren’t the only thing pumping in my veins right now. Although the smart side of me new that it was good I wasn’t going to be charged for drink driving (I knew for sure that I definitely wasn’t over the limit) or drugged driving –if that was even a thing. We were in enough trouble as it was without that.

Someone grabbed me, interrupting my thoughts, and I stumbled backwards in surprise as they dragged me towards them and shoved me in the back of the police car, quickly followed by Weasel and then Brett. I burrowed my head into Weasel’s shoulder and let out a whimper as the door shut and the two police officers sitting in front of us, behind a metal grate, started talking.

“What are we charging them for?” The younger of the two asked, sitting in the passenger seat asked. She looked about the same age as us and her hair was tied up in a tight bun at the back of her neck, unsuccessfully trying to add fear to her childlike features.

“I don’t know, assault I guess,” The driver sighed and I grimaced, he was going bald and was around (my guess) early 40s, equipped with a bear gut and a size-to-small uniform he wasn’t the most attractive guy you’d ever seen. “We’re just going to question them and see if that Theo guy wants to press charges.”

“I don’t think he will, Phil, did you see the way he looked at them? Like he wanted to be with them and you can’t get in with people who you dog,” The girl said and I whimpered again, shoving my head further into Weasel’s shoulder who muttered something soothing.

“I don’t know, Melanie, we’ll see. We’ll see.”

“What is going on?” Brett hissed next to us and the cop named Melanie turned around and glared at him; or tried to but once she actually turned to look at him, I saw her eyes widen and travel up and down his body appreciately.

I would have commented but I didn’t have the strength too and instead gave her my best glare, which she noticed and looked away, embarrassed. Damn right, bitch.