Honest || h.s.

Interested

Skylar.

How, how, how in the world. Can you expect me. To understand. What is going on in my own head.

I sit against the wall, staring at the other one. My back touches blue paint. The other wall is eggshell white. There's a window, but it's dark. I can't even see the moon or anything. 

Mara tried to kill herself two hours ago, and she went to a different neighborhood to do it. That neighborhood was Jackson's. I only know Jackson because he used to call all the time to help Emmit. I was young when I met him, and I might still be young  when he no longer lives. It's fucked.

I messaged Harry early a few times about the past twenty four hours, but either the messages haven't been delivered, or he's deliberately ignoring me. I don't know. There's so much behind his stutter and his fervent eyes. We almost kissed.

"Shit." I bury my face in my hands.

I don't know what I'm even doing. I should be with Mara. Instead I left her at her house, in her room, quietly so her parents would never know. It's what she wanted. I told her she needed to see the counselor again. She wasn't okay. 

I want to literally drop kick Thomas and Duce. All the way out of England. I hope they know what they've done. I hope they regret it.

My phone buzzes and I scramble onto my stomach, trying to dig the device out of my pocket. It's not Harry, just a notification from Twitter. I groan and rub my eyes, climbing to my feet to place the phone far away, across the room on the night stand. I peel my rumpled blue duvet back from the mattress and crawl back across the room to lean against the wall, this time burrito-ing inside my heavy blanket. I've already chewed my nails down to stubs. The inside of my cheeks throb from chewing those, too. Maybe I should write to ease my nerves, or watch some films, or read some fiction. I would sketch, but my sketchbook is downstairs, and I don't want my mum to know I'm still awake. That could mean disaster.

Instead I stare at the wall, and at the dark window. I'm exhausted enough that shapes dip in and out of view, and I imagine for a moment I see the Cheshire cat, then a humanoid shape that freaks me out a little. I hate having an imagination sometimes. Burying my face into my knees, I curl my fingers around my waist and try to hold my breath for as long as possible, distracting my wandering brain.

Sometimes when I was younger, Dad would take me fishing. He was never very good at it, but I saw a worldly angler in him, always. After Emmit was born I had the opportunity to  see him teach a young boy to tie knots. He always wanted to fly fish. They both did. But worm-and-hook escapades would suffice, because we barely had time for anything beyond that, and Dad didn't believe he had the money to invest in another hobby that Mum wouldn't accompany us in. I mean, she probably would. She sometimes comes fishing with us. I dunno.

A loud vibration makes the bedside table shudder. It repeats.

Upon dragging my whole body to take a look, my eyes widen with the sudden quickness of my pulse. I suck in a breath, fumble the phone, and answer.

"Hello...?"

"Hey," he croaks out, exhausted. "Is...is M-ar--ara okay?"

"I dunno," I curl into the space between pillows on my mattress, pushing the curtain of hair from my neck. "What about... How is..."

I don't finish, but I hear him bite back a sob. He answers, "Not good."

I hum softly, sympathetically. Jackson is a good guy, and it's sad to hear he's not well.

"Li-listen," he sniffs, changing the subject, "I have these. These. Th--eeese cookies that our neighbor made us, and I wan--I want--I want to share them?"