Mom… Help… What even is this?! Mom would’ve known. But she’s not here. Lena, a prey animal running through Velmora streets - her heart untethered. Rocking in her chest. A bomb. Self-detonating. Blood-soaked t-shirt and jeans. Hands red. Coward. Left for dead. What else could she do?
Die too?
Main Street was a fucking blur of people.
“Ah!” She was pushed over onto the floor, “Ow!” Her hands, elbows, knees hit cement hard. Grazed. Tears welling. Tinnitus. Vomit. The world was rushing around her like a tumultuous river, and she was being drowned. Mom could come as an angel, scoop her pathetic self up, fly her to safety. But angels didn’t exist. And Mom wouldn’t come.
She gritted her teeth and stood up.
FLASH! A photo was taken. A man laughed, “Horror show in town!”
“Buzz off!” Lena burst out, tears caught on the lens, before running down the street. He continued to click, click, click.
She took a Taxi to Harrow Square. The driver didn’t judge. It was another night in Velmora.
Creak. Slam. Warm and dark. The bookstore kept the world out. Pipes gurgling. She slumped and leant against the stained glass door. Hands on her face, tears leaking. Fast breath. Bounding pulse. Boiling pipes. For a moment she looked up over her shoulder. Someone was there. Behind the glass. Watching.
“Mom?”
The lights turned on. Squinting. Mr Rickson, the elderly bookstore owner, entered the main shop. Striped blue pajamas. Fluffy coat. Fat but skinny. Santa Claus.
“Lena? What are you doing so late — blood?” He rushed over.
Had she been stabbed? “Lena, what happened?”
“I-I just left him there… He was dying and I just left him there…”
“Who?”
“I-I don’t know… A man… He was attacked… I saw it…:”
Her words and tears were tangled as she explained everything. Mr Rickson was glad she hadn’t been stabbed. It wasn’t her blood.
“You go and shower Lena… I will handle the rest…” he said, helping her up.
Man. Bleeding. On the ground. Alone. He thought about his daughter and son. They were the most beautiful creatures in existence. Why hadn’t he spent more time with them? There was that one game. That one recital. One or two birthday parties. They loved him, but he was running away from them. Man. Bleeding.
Lena removed her white shirt, blue jeans, socks, her golden chain on the bathroom sink. All stained red. She turned the tap. Shower stiil cold. Shivering. She tested the water. Too hot. Adjusting. She stepped into the warm chamber and the blood washed away. Lena had to protect herself. Mom woulda thought she was smart. Who knows, that crazed boy may have come back for her? She needed Mom’s hug.
“You are okay my baby girl…” she woulda said. Hugging her tight. It wasn’t her fault.
Man. Bleeding. In the tunnel. He reached out. The orange flickering light. Catching it like the sun. Black shadows. Ties. Silver watches. Laced loafers. They picked up the man, bleeding, and took him away.
Lena sat on the shower floor. Blood. Tears. Body tensed. He would die. And it was all her fault. She left him.
“Mom! I’m sorry! Please, I'm sorry Mom!” She yelled and reached out.
Heart. There was a heart fingered into the steamy glass door. Her eyes widened.
Mr Rickson called the emergency line. Police. Ambulance. Sent them the location. It was just like last time. Jeremy stumbling into the bookstore. One night. Ten years ago. Dying in his arms, becoming cold, grey, rubbery in minutes. His only son.
Mr Rickson had played that situation over and over in his mind. He had let Jeremy go down that dark and twisted road. Drugs, sex, violence. Gang thuggery. He refused to believe that Jeremy had any will of his own. It was the old man’s fault for not saving him.
Parallel. Lena. She wasn’t hurt. She was okay, but what was she getting into? Walking around the city at night. She knew better. She promised to take a taxi. But Lena liked the night. He knew that.
They were having a fighting match in the kitchen. Arthur tickled her belly - hugging her. Apples. Soap. Her laugh was so sweet.
RING! RING! RING!
Arthur jolted awake as his study telephone rang. Picked it up. The curly cord stretching.
“Yes… Arthur Banks speaking…” he strained.
“Lena was in trouble tonight. She witnessed a man being assaulted on her way back.”
“What?! I-I’m coming over straight away,” he said tripping over his slippers, “Is she okay?”
“A bit shaken up… but now she is drinking tea and biscuits in the kitchen… Poor girl…”
“Okay… I’ll be twenty minutes…” he pulled on some pants and a coat. Call cut.
Arthur was on his way out. Popped his head into Carey’s room. Asleep. Unicorn night light glowing pink. She was eighteen.
“Dad…”
“Honey… I need to go to the bookstore… Lena had some trouble…”
“I’ll come…”
“No… no… don’t worry… sleep… I’m bringing Lena home.”
“Okay…”
Carey liked having Lena home sometimes. But sometimes her brain would be too freaking big. Carey had applications for university to plan for. But that was for tomorrow.
Arthur flagged down a taxi. Red on the seats. The ride was fast, felt slow. Lena. Streets lined with folks. Living and dying in Velmora.
Mark. Seventeen. Now shirted. Green towel around his neck. Lena had made him lose the game. Not in the zone, Mark! They said. He was in the Lena zone. She was so beautiful - a goddess smarty pants that he would gladly dedicate his life to. Lena had a way of turning him inside out.
He imagined her sitting at her desk or on her bed reading books. Something with equations or something. She was so cool. Her butt was nice too.
Johnny. Twenty two. Thin eyes. Bushy beard. Bro. Handshake. Back from boxing.
“How are you Marky?” He said cooking up some eggs. Messy. Gritty. Black.
“How do you get a girl to like you?” Mark asked.
“Oh? You met Lena again?” Johnny laughed.
Raymond. Twenty. He was eating bread from the bag - ketchup in hand. Squirt. Munch.
“Here’s how you get Lena…” Raymond leaned in, “Ya need a brain transplant…”
“Really… Where can I get me one of those?”
The two men burst out laughing. Back slapping. Eggs burning. Flies buzzing over trash.
Lena stood up and hugged Dad. She was all out of tears. Fell asleep in his arms.
“I’ll take her home for the night…” Arthur said.
Mr Rickson waved goodbye.
Cold apartment. Squatted out. Boy. Fourteen. Stood in the living room. Empty, except for a ratty couch, toilet, sink, plugs. Somehow power was running. He plugged in the box TV.
BUZZ… CRACKLE… WHINE…. BUZZ…
He covered his ears. It was like a girly ghoul scream. He didn’t like the lights on. People may see that he was about. A red code appeared on the TV. Numbers. Wide. Scattered. Condensing. Point.
Blast! The room flooded with a red light. He jumped back.
“Who are you?” A voice came from the screen.
ns52.14.21.101da2
