Behind The Glasses

Chapter 18:

Hunter:

Where are my keys? I pick myself up off of the floor. How long have I been lying there? I can't remember. Damn. I go through to the kitchen, only to catch sight of myself in a the kitchen counter: my lip is bleeding; I wipe the cut.

I find the keys: on the little hook beside the phone as always. The phone, there is one voicemail, a voicemail that has already been listened too. Damn Harper, listening to my calls. "Harper!" I scream, "Have you been listening to my calls?" - I get no reply. I call again, still I have no answer.

Stroppy little brat, thinks she can treat me like this. No respect. Who does she think she is? I stomp up to her room: the door is open, clothes and shoes are strewn everywhere; there is an imprint on her bed. She has been here, but where is she now?

The headaches are getting worse, I'm forgetting more and more: who I am, what I'm doing, where I am. I should probably take some painkilllers.

Harper's little ensuite is speckled with blood. The blood in my veigns boils with anger, but my throat closes in fear. What has happened? Where is she? Who did this to her?

I swear to god, when I find whoever did this, whoever did this to my Harp, I will kill them.

I stomp back down the stairs. Where could she be? And the stupid voicemail machine just keeps flashing at me: you have a message, you have a message, you have a message.  You think I don't know?

God, I hate this place. This little house, full of Harper and responsibilities. Parent's that don't care, leaving me to inherrit a failing business; with staff that hate my guts. Got, I hate it all. What if I just packed up and left? I could go anywhere I wanted, be anyone I wanted, do whatever I wanted.

But then who would look after Harp?

Harper, Harper, Harper; where are you? This isn't funny now, please don't play mind games with me.

Not in the kitchen, not in the lounge, nor the garden. I call the track but she isn't there either. Flash, flash, flash goes the voicemail machine. I hate that too. I call her friends - the housephones programmed in from years ago. No answer, no reply, I thought she was with you because she wasn't in school.

I slam down the phone again, beginging to pace, my frustration reaching boiling point. WHERE IS SHE?! Flash, flash, flash goes the answer machine; I swear I will smash it in a minute.

I get a drink, downing it in three large gulps; I try to calm my breathing. She is a teenager, there is a perfectly rationnal explanation for this. She probably cut her legs shaving, shaving because she is going out to meet some boy, the boy who came here- the rude boss' son. The boss who gives everyone a hard time, I hate his guts, and he hates mine; I get the same feeling with the son.

How dare she? How dare she go out with this boy? Did she ask my permission? No. Do I like this guy? No. Did she tell me she was going out? No.

No. No. No.

The glass in my hand is smashed. My hand doesn't hurt, but it is blleding hard and fast. I sigh, washing my hand underneath the tap; the crystal clear water turning a murky red in the sink. There is an emergancy first aid kit underneath the sink. I quickly dress and wrap my hands quickly.

I sit back down at the table with another glass of water. I try to calm my breathing, I try to calm my thoughts.

What was I looking for again?