Forever Changed (Completed first draft for NaNoWriMo 2017)

Days eleven and twelve - chapter seven

It's so cold. It's understandable that they work me into the ground but it won't take long to finish me off in this temperature. I close my eyes and imagine a hot shower. When will they let me have one of those? A bucket wash won't cut it for ever, my hair feels like it wants to walk away and leave this place. Didn't I once leave my hair unwashed for three weeks to test the self-cleaning hair hypothesis? I gave up when the press noticed. I could handle the grunge based abuse, even my agent wasn't too distressed as at least it was getting some national coverage.

I washed it when they included me in an article about mental health and young men. Failure to maintain a clean body was seen as a definite sign of a burgeoning mental health issue. My wrists are itchy again. I rub them on the quilt until they're red.

'Sleep eludes me'; those words are so beautiful. I wonder if it's a quote from a poem. My fingers glide across my imaginary tablet as I key into the search engine. Thousands of names appear, everyone who has ever spent the night staring out into the void of time wanting to be removed from it. What else to do in the night but write poetry?

It's still a beautiful phrase, no matter how many people have used it; if it speaks to you then it's yours. I need something beautiful to keep me sane, if I still am.

I turn from my back to my right side and face the room. It's dark and I'm shivering. It's too cold to sleep but it's not that. My mind is racing. Will she live? If she doesn't what happens to me? I try to remember what the judge says. I think I'm an asset, so I'll probably be included in her estate. At her death I'll be handed over officially to her children.

I turn over and face the wall. They want me dead. They'll send me to the cells. My heart is pounding. My life, my existence is now so bound up with Mrs. McMahon that I feel nauseous. What will she think about me taking her food? What else could I have done? These impossible questions are looping in my head ensuring that I'll never get any sleep.

Jenna used to rub lavender scented oil into my body. She'd try to convince me to drink Camomile tea too. Thinking about that makes me smile, I was never really awake enough to realise the irony of taking an e with a cup of decaffeinated tea. Should I get up to write something? That might help to empty my mind of thoughts. I reach for my notepad and pen and bring it into my bed.

Even through the cold I feel the horror of having hurt her. Maggie doesn't deserve to suffer for what I did. She had her whole life ahead of her and if it hurts her then it hurts me.

My brain aches even more now. I'm not concerned about Mrs. McMahon or her son, just the girl. Why her? I know why, but I'm trying to be kind and it's really hard to admit that I only care for someone for selfish reasons. I want her to see me as human, to like me, to want me like I want her. I can't stop laughing. I have always wanted the impossible. Jenna, the most beautiful woman I have ever seen; my mother, who was so high on drugs she would believe my father loved her and Maggie, the daughter of the person I murdered. "Top of the tree!" I close my eyes and squeeze the tears out.

"Who do you think you are?" Carl's sniggering. "Seriously, you think you can get Miss Blakeney into bed?" I nod between mouthfuls of cheesecake. "You're absolutely crazy. She's young and fit and you're oily and fifteen. You need to look in the mirror man."

I nod again, trying to be enigmatic. "We're top of the tree." I say smiling.

I press my forehead into the wood of my wall and laugh. "Top of the tree, right."

I wake feeling stiff. My head hurts. This feels like a bad hangover without the nausea. Turning my head slowly I try to climb out of bed. I don't think I'll last long in this cold. Maybe when Sandy comes she'll bring a thermometer.