Girls Astray. [Complete]

Amy: The girl who didn't listen

My whirlwind of a friend, so full of life, so alive- is back. Yet she's not. The girl in front of me is curled into a small ball on the sofa. Her white blonde hair hangs low on her face, but not low enough. Her dark circles are still painstakingly visible. Every blue vein standing out like lights on Christmas tree. But this isn't for decoration. She glances up at me and I drop my gaze immediately.

"I look like shit, I know." She managed to muster.

Clearing my throat I try to think of what to say- good old Amy always knows- I'm her side kick- her cheerleader- I always know what to say-

The black eyes pour into me and then she shuts them tightly, the sadness is engrained on her face. It doesn't look like a few weeks of sadness- it's years- the type of sadness you sometimes see on old, lonely people who have lost everything and just want to stop. How can I even think this? This is Lolita we're talking about. My beautiful fearless Lolita.

"I'll make some tea," I stammer, bumbling out of the living room, desperate to get away from that girl. Tears bubble up in my throat, I can feel them lingering, waiting to come out. I can't let it. Not now; this isn't about me. My hands shake violently as I pour the tea- get it together Amy- get a grip. Forcing a smile onto my face, I march back into the room and hand Lolita her tea, my hands stay still.

"Lo," I say without looking at her, "where have you been?"

We look at each other then and hits me, she's not a lost little girl, she's a broken adult. That's harder to fix.

"Did you call Tom yet?" she asks quietly, not touching her tea.

"No," I glance at her, she looks relieved, why call him if she doesn't want to speak to him?

The silence strode into the room then. It's dark looming presence watches over us, laughing at us as we fumble for words to say. The clock is ticking slowly- all we can hear is the slow and constant tick-tock, tick-tock and the silence. It's palpable.

"I've been staying with him." Lolita suddenly bursts out and her chin jolts up, defiant almost.

"With- Tom?" I ask, my heart racing with every word, "but, why Lo? Why him?"

Why not me? I scream in my head. Why that slimy wet weasel?

"I had no one else."

It's like a slap to the face. My hands ball up into tiny little fists and I press my nails into my palm. I can't take this, I've done everything, everything for her and she says this? This? And all this time she's been with that thing? After what he did?

"You could have told us," my mouth starts moving before my brain engages, "we've been so worried, every day we've been searching, waiting."

That familiar laughter fills the air; the laugh I've been so used to over the years. It's the laugh I heard when we were kids and I'd fall over or fart in front of my crush, it's the laugh that made every guy fall at her feet- every girl for that matter. Usually so full of joy, like a musical note awakening us all to her; putting the colour back into life. But when I look at her there is no happiness here. Her head's rolled back and those empty eyes are back, she's looking but not seeing. The light's switched off.

"We- we- we- who's we? I thought it was always you and me?"

The laughter stops and those black pits bore into me- into my very soul it seems.

"Tell me Amy. Who's we?"

I'm visibly squirming right now and I wring my hands together in hope of a little help.

"I'll tell you who. It's my boyfriend." She spits the words at me like bullets.

"I didn't mean it like that, Lolita- he's worried-"

The mirthless laughter is back again, filling the space in the room and breaking into each awkward crevice between us.

"Look at me." She says quietly.

"Look- at- me!"

She's standing up now and I can't help but gasp at how small she is. She's swamped in a giant boy's hoodie and track suit bottoms. They hang off like a clowns clothes, it would be almost comical if it wasn't so horrific. The sleeves are rolled up so I can see her tiny bony white wrists and her hands are bright red from the cold. I can't look at her face.

"I've been fucking him," she says and then laughs, quietly this time, "that's what I'm good for. And I'm good at it, too."

I meet her gaze then, she's defiant her chin up in the air and I see a spark of something there. There's still some fire in her yet.

"You don't have to do that Lo, I can help you."

"Like you did before?"

I swallow and sit down slowly on the floor in front of her.

"I'm sorry." The weight of those words hit like a tonne of bricks and I look at her then. I look properly and I see, maybe for the first time, that I really am sorry.

She's panting heavily now and I can see her little chest moving under her giant layers, but something glimmers across her eyes- sadness maybe? A window in.

I hold my arms out to her, just like I used to when we were kids, when she'd be crying about her parents and we'd just lay there, me holding her. We haven't done that for a long time. I guess I stopped listening.

And then she's in my arms. Her tiny, frail little body pressing against me.

"It's OK," I whisper to her, "I'm here now."

Her body shudders and I hold her close.

"I'll fix this," I say quietly.