Short Cuts

The chick In the Hunger Games could be related to me in another life.

Chloe after what seemed like forever pulled away from my motionless lips. I didn’t know what to do with myself, so the only thing that my body could think to do was to freeze at a halt and not attempt to move until the danger was gone.

Chloe sank down into an insecure jerk; her deep blue eyes skimmed to the floor then to the side, and then finally back to me. The whole time I was fixated to the same floor space as my feet were planted to, there was no way I was able to move.

“Did I do something wrong?” Chloe questioned, insecurity painted all over her face.

I honestly didn’t know how to react. A fooled of resentment washed over my alarmed body.

“Don’t touch me.” I tossed her arms down from my neck and escaped from not only the once fixated spot but also the emotion that I felt, only one of those things I left behind.

“Ed …”I cut her off.

“No! This is not how this works!” My mind was racing a thousand miles per hour; I-I didn’t know what I was saying anymore. I just didn’t remember how much this fist sized pit in my heart hurt. It hadn’t hurt like this in years and all at once it all came roaring back.

“Why did you touch me?! We’re you born wrong in the head or you just suidical?! D-d-don’t answer that.”

She began to tear up. I could hear it, I could see it right in front of me, but it just wasn’t coming together. I felt nauseous, I was shaking at the same time, and my breathing was stuttering and panicked due to the sickening fact that my eyes were no longer working because of the mistiness but I just kept on pacing my steps back and fourth with my shaking hands pined to my aching head. Couldn’t she see? I was breaking right in front of her.

“Ed, please… I’m so sorry.” Her perfect blue eyes began to flood in a flawless shaped stream down her shattered face. I came to a screaming halt. I positioned my shaking hands to my sides, and my misty eyes met her leaking ones. I had to leave, right now.

I half jogged half hurdled to my bedroom, which felt like half a mile away and slammed the door shut, I would have locked it but give that it was an old abandoned farm house the smashed locks were kind of a given.

I could only imagine Chloe was still standing in the middle of the dinning room/ kitchen. I spun around to the damaged dress mirror; I rested my still shaking hands on my chair facing in front of it. I gave an undesirable glimpse to my intolerant reflection. My green eyes were blood shot and misty, my rusted blond hair untamed and wild; I was the exact appearance of insanity.

 Why? Why did such a young hopeful girl as Chloe choose to socialize with such an undeniable mess? Maybe she thought a way out of here was through … No. No, that wasn’t it, it couldn’t be. Chloe had such strong moles, most likely through her up bringing, her family must of be very well respected and represented people in their community. Then it struck me, why haven’t I received a Ransome?

I had sat in this exact grating wooden chair and had typed up the note with help from an old library laptop [that I had happened to come across when had be immersed with reading Sir Arthur Colon Doyle books last year] and to make it believable added Chloe’s personal mobile phone to the message, didn’t want people thinking it was all a sick joke, not to say that it isn’t a sick thing that I’m doing, but unfortunately it’s needed, the money I mean. Still, not a single word from anyone, not any papers, not even on the news. Nothing.

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After my dishonourable funeral break down, life had been quite straightforward to be frank. I woke up in the morning went out to the local coffee shop for a long black and a quick skim of the daily paper, then off to where ever the help wanted signs were embedded around town. It turned out that dropping out at the age of 15 wasn’t very alluring to employers around the place, no matter what story I came up with it never seemed to matter. I had not a cent to my name, but that was okay because no one needed to know it anyway, so I supported myself the only way I knew how, pickpocketing. I wasn’t reckless I knew my place, my timing and most importantly, my victims. They were normally so ignorant they never would even observe me not to mention suspect that I was behind them or generally nearby since I normally specialized in the coffee shop I knew they were way too self-absorbed for that. All it took was a quick trick of the eye; a dropped coin or a bump of an absorbed stranger and bam, there was my pay for the rest of the week. This was easy, well until I was finally caught.

A steady hand clung onto my worn coat sleeve.

“Where are you going with my watch son?” His voice was old and shaky, the only thing that I could think of at the time was, damn.

I spun around watch in hand, to face my apprehender. He was my height so reasonably tall, thinned slivered hair that reached his first worries line, and he was old and I mean why-aren’t-you-retired-yet? Old, and dressed so smart causal it almost looked like he had somewhere to be.

Pokerfaced I answered “Back to you. I saw a guy try and swipe it from you and…”

“Bull.”

I was in shock. I didn’t know old people talk like that.

“Oh, don’t look so shocked.” He sat down in the little coffee booth couch with a clever grin painted on his face. “Come sit with me son. Lets talk about how you feel about working in my new bookstore instead of a young offenders jail. Oh, and I’ll be having my watch back now.” He held out his hand as he said this. I complied and sat down without any thought.

“What’s your name son?”

I’d never had anyone ask about my name before in my entire life.

“Umm, Ed.”

“No, no. You’re real name son. You’re full name.” His eyes sparked a little when he leaned forward to what-I-could-guess is to get a better look at me.

“Ethan Karton, sir.”

“Well Ethan, I’m Roger Smith. You’re new boss.”

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