Page 8 of Scars of Silk

He slides his hand around my waist and tucks me into his side, his breath falling into a deep pattern. I breathe out a shuddering breath. It would be so easy to stay here wrapped up tight and pretend until dawn that this was something real. But what would be the point? Nothing is real. Nothing.

With my heart thudding, I slide out from under his arm. As swift as I can, I pick up my clothes. I tiptoe out of the room, pulling the door closed behind me. He looks like he could do with some sleep. Damaged and angry; bitter and harsh; beautiful but scarred. I shake my head at my random thoughts. Time to go.

I slip into my clothes as I stand on the upstairs landing, then brush my hair out over my shoulders trying to untangle the knots.

I walk through the house like a ghost; someone who should never have been there. As I walk for the door, I notice a pad and pen on a small table by the side of the sofa. There are dates scrawled over it. I scan it quickly, used to absorbing details with little notice. The next date is this Friday. Oh well, it’s none of my business. I flip to a clean page and scrawl a quick note.

I leave the note in the kitchen next to the kettle. With a small smile, I double check my keys and step out into the depths of the night.

That was different.

Hot, definitely.

Now it’s time to get back to reality.

Three

Dan

She’s gone. I blink my eyelids, focusing on the space next to me in the bed. That’s a relief. I stretch, my morning glory standing to attention even though I unloaded the old storage tanks twice last night.

The light is too bright, and I lift an arm to shield my eyes. I haven’t felt right since I woke from the coma to find Faith and Abi sobbing like a couple of old washer women.

Faith.

It’s impossible not to groan when I think of yesterday and what I said in the heat of the moment. I never meant for it to come out the way it did. No one can blame me for being shocked. I mean, hello… one minute she’s sobbing into a vodka because the guy’s broken her heart and the next she’s sporting diamonds and telling me she’s having a baby.

My memory steals to that night long ago when I found her bleeding in a bath, her head lolling over the side of the tub as she sat in water of the brightest pink, while her skin faded to a grey of an unwashed dish cloth.

I thought I’d lost her. That was the night she’d told me about her not quite step-brother and the disgusting things he’d done to her since she was fourteen. That was the night I’d have happily had blood on my hands and taken any punishment for it.

My dreams last night were too real; my argument with Faith bringing them back to the present. All I can hope is that my little friend with the dark fringe and the tightly wound sexual tension had left before they started. With a deep groan, I roll from the bed and wander my way to my dad’s en suite. My eyes graze the pictures in frames that I haven‘t yet moved. Faith, Abi, and I grinning at a camera. By his bed is a silver frame with Faith and I at Prom. I can still hear his stupid words ringing in my head as clear as they sounded that night. You’d do right to marry her one day, Danny boy.

Yeah. Well, Dad, she’s marrying someone else.

And I’m alone.

The echo of the still house almost teases me as I crack open the cabinet in Dad’s now vacant bathroom. The packets of pills are where I left them. That’s good. It means Abi didn’t clean that far. I almost breathe a sigh of relief as I pop three tablets out of the packet and knock 'em back with a handful of water from the tap. On second thoughts, I add a fourth and wash that back too.

I think I’ve seen enough of today.

With my feet scuffing the carpet I walk back to the bedroom and fall face first onto the bed, pulling the duvet back up over my head.

This is good. I can just be here. Not like at Faith's, where I had to pretend I wanted to heal. That housekeeper didn’t leave me alone for a minute, as though she was worried she would come to the kitchen and find me impaled on one of her kitchen knives.

Far too messy, love.

Forgetting about Faith, and arguments and bruises and babies, I let the painkillers do their thing and knock me the fuck out.

* * *

I wake thrashing the duvet, sweat dripping off my skin. Jesus. It takes a moment of me blinking at the ceiling to place myself back in my old childhood home.

Groaning I roll over to check the time on my phone. If I’m expecting a message from Faith, it’s not there. That’s a good thing though, right?

Yesterday, blissfully, didn’t exist.

But now I’ve woken early. What day is it anyway?