Behind The Glasses

Chapter 16:

The bus rolled in to the station about three am. It was just coming light, there was the smell of fresh rain in the air. Adam had shaken Owen awake, who had immediately gone back to sleep, to be abruptly woken again and escorrted off of the bus. 

Adam's mum had picked them up; he had waved once at me, before swinging into the car. I huffed and stamped my feet waiting for the phones to become free. Honestly, the people using them had been on there for what seemed like hours - why didn't they have their own phones? 

Finally one became free, I ran forward, almost knocking one man over so that I could get on the line. As I expected no one picked up, because honestly, who pickes up the house phone at three am? I sigh with relief as the voicemail recording starts: I won't have to talk to Hunter directly. 

"Hi Hunter, It's Harper. I just thought I should let you know that I am ok, that I am safe; just incase you were worried about me". I pause for a minute, tongue running nervously along the ridge of my lips. "I'm going to be staying with Chris. Okay, bye."

A woman gives me a stern talking too about manners as I hung up the line, but I wasn't listening her, I wasn't listening to anyone; I was just so done with everyone and everything. 

I had to wait outside the bus station for another half an hour before Chris could pick me up. He was half asleep as he rolled up beside the bench where I was perched. He rolled down the window, hair longer than I expected it to be, facial hair covering his face, yet in all the time I had known him he had always been clean shaven. He looked tired and old; he was going to be twenty in November. 

"It's been a long time Harp" he states. I nodd solemnly and climb in. 

It was a twenty minute drive back to Chris' appartment, twenty minutes of painfull silence; he cut the engine right outside the house; turning to face me for the first time in years. "I'm sorry" I whisper, he nodds to himself, before getting out of the car.

 It must have been gone twelve when I woke. I could hear the blender going in the small kitchenette - Chris loved to cook. I sliently pad to the bathroom and get ready - I hadn't cleaned myself up at all last night; what a state I must have been in to pick up!

My hair was rubbed in all dirrection from sleeping funny on the coach, my eyes were puffy and swollen from crying and exhausted sleep. My skin was dry, cracking on my lips; sleep and gunk crusted around my eyes, only one of which was a little bruised now. I opened my mouht, then immediately shut it - disgusting. 

It took me a long time to clean up. 

"Does he know your here?" Chris asks as I slip into the kitchen. 

"He should do" I reply, "I called him last night from the station". I am passed a cup of tea; I smile. Although Chris seems to have changed a lot, some things never do. "I'm sorry" I tell him again, as he continues to work in the kitchen. "For everything."

"You don't have to be sorry for him Harp" Chris says softly, "I don't want you to be sorry for him". 

"I could have called." I argue, "I could have done something, anything! I could have helped you find a job, work, a house; anything... but I didn't". Chris nodds; he doesn't deny himself that. I want to cry - I'm not sure if it's the addrenalin wearing off, pain or sadness; but I deffinately want to cry. 

It shouldn't be me sat here in Chris' appartment, it should be Michael. It should be him here, cracking open a beer with his friend, ready to watch the sports that are on on a Saturday afternoon; or coming around later, to get ready to go out. He should be here, not me. 

Chris and Michael were like brothers, closer than brothers; they were practically the same person. After his accident, Chris came every day to the hospital to see him. It was Chris that waited for hours in the waiting room, or by his bedside, not me; waiting for him to wake up. 

It was Chris that prayed alloud for Michael to wake up, he was the one who brought things to the ward - things he thought Michael would love, just incase he woke up when he wasn't here. 

Yet here I was, sitting with Chris in his kitchen. 

When Michael did wake up, Chris had screamed, run over, and thrown his arms around his neck. For a moment Michael had lay motionless, but then he sprung into life: punching and clawing; hating and angry. 

Hunter had been born. 

Chris stayed, no matter how much Hunter or Chase drove him away; he would always find a way to pop in, to try and talk to him; to get Michael to resurface. That first year after his accident, Chris was the backbone of the family, our family: Michael, Chris and I's.

My "parent's" weren't there most of the time, so there was no one to look after him but me. Chris had become my brother, scooping me up and carrying me to bed when I had fallen asleep on the sofa, making me meals and bringing fresh food into the house.  

But then one day Hunter got angry, really angry. He was paraniod that Chris was taking me away from him. Until then Chris had taken every hit on the chin, but not this time - he refused to give in anymore. The two fought hard, and Hunter ended up with huge bruises on his chest and back; but I think his ego was hurt the most. 

As for Chris, he seemed completely deflated. He had been the only one to never give up hope. He had been the one adamant that Michael was going to come back. But now reality, Hunter, had hit him in the face. 

In silence he had assended the stairs to the spare room, slowly starting to pack him things. I had cried my eyes out, begging him to stay, screaming; but nothing could shift him. I doubt he even heard me. It was as though Chris had completely dissapeared, gone; burried somewhere deep inside himself, and there was just a shell left; slowly and methodically packing everything into his bag. 

I had flung myself around his neck, sobbing into his shoulder, begging him to stay - I couldn't do it without him, I really couldn'tl; but he just shrugged me off and stomped down the stairs, slamming the door behind him. 

We hadn't spoken since; until now.

"This place is nice" I smile, taking in the apartment around me: natural wood floors, whitewashed walls, a few potted plants in every corner; it wasn't really the bachalor pad I was expecting - which was nice.  There was a white sofa in the centre of the lounge area, the TV hung up on the wall, underneath a low cut coffee table made of wood, adorned with books, mugs and another plant. 

"Well, it's not really mine" Chris admitted sheepishly, "This is my girlfriends flat."

Oh.