Water In My Lungs

Shades

Estelle's stomach dropped, furiously typing in Connor's number to call her. Water pooled on top of the phone and on her head and shoulders. This rain. Something in her felt sick and protective, Connor had never left a multitude of messages like that. Something was wrong. The cell-phone continued to ring as she yanked open the handle of her car, fingers slipping and stubbing against the metal. She threw herself into her seat with one arm out, depositing all the ziplocs into her floorboard without care. She hung up, starting the car and trying to dial her number again.

She barely missed a sports car and it's passenger as she reeled out of the sidewalk parking, shifting into drive and hauling through the market place. Her call went straight to voicemail this time, alerting her that her friend had not yet set up a voice messaging system. She read through the texts, swerving off of the road and taking up some of the grass on the field next to her home.

He drowned, Estelle.

I found his body.

The cops are here and my arms are on fire.

Please come home.

Estelle's speedometer skyrocketed, taking the corner to her house andnearly whipping her head against the window with the force. Connor was all she'd ever had, the one friendship that had outlasted all the rest. Someone who was sensitive but strong, blunt, and optimistic.

Her driveway was littered with vehicles that were not her own, of ambulances and law enforcement, neon caution tape and a lifting body bag. Estelle's naseousness mixed with her adrenaline and she nearly tripped out of her car, searching for her blonde friend. She stood, arms crossed over eachother in front of the balcony, her eyes were red and swollen, fearful. She had long strips of scabs running from her forearm to her wrists and the tops of her hands.

"Oh my goodness, Connor, what happened? Are you okay?" Estelle grabbed her arms, inspecting them before she threw her own around her in an embrace. Connor shook against her, tears mixing with the water that already soaked Estelle's skin.

"He's dead, Gallagher. He was in the lake. He's been in that lake for days."

"What happened to your arms?" Estelle was still panicked, more worried about her friend.

"They just fucking appeared. I swear to God." Connor looked disgusted, eying the scabs that had formed down her limbs. "I was in the water and then they were there."

"They look old, Connor. They weren't there yesterday."

"I know that. But the cops don't. They think they're defensive marks."

"Defensive? Against who?"

"No, they think they're Gallagher's. Defending himself against me," Connor was on the verge of a new batch of tears, shaking her head and looking away from her forearms and towards the group of men in white full body suits and two sharper dressed men supervising. There were camera flashes from all over the yard and in an attempt to protect her unfocused vision, she caught sight of the policeman, thin faced and narrow eyed.

She looked away quickly, having been pushing the dread to the bottom of her stomach since they arrived at the thought of having to speak with them. He walked over, glancing over his shoulder at the older, slightly pudgier policeman. He reached the girls and pulled a soggy tooth pick out from between his teeth.

"Are you Estelle?" he began, looking from Connor to Estelle who was still holding her friend's wrists.

"Yes," she answered politely. He tapped her arm with his free little finger, the toothpick coming dangerously close to coming in contact with her skin. She almost grimaced.