Chapter 5
FIVE
LIAM
A smash from the flat next door follows the occupants’ screams, with colourful language in voices that remind me far too much of my father.
I’d tried to intervene once. The couple ganged up on me, acting like I was in the wrong for sticking my oar in. Clearly, not everyone longed for a saviour in the way I had.
Not long after the smash comes the making up, their headboard crashing against my wall hard enough to lengthen the crack in the plaster on my side.
The screams give way to moans, and I grind my teeth while unloading my items onto the chipped old dining table.
As much as I don’t envy the tumultuous relationship next door, jealousy makes me ache.
What could be so powerful to keep two people who hate each other so loudly coming back to one another in intimacy?
The things they choose to do have only been used against me in pain and force.
There was no pleasure. Only guilt and self-loathing.
I sit at the table with everything spread out in front of me after my shopping trip earlier.
A pair of black gloves. A balaclava that will show nothing but my eyes.
Dark clothes that I can bin if need be. All cheap and forgettable.
Things that no one would think anything about seeing, apart from the balaclava, I guess.
Less hard to rock about in that. But that will be saved for the times that I’m most at risk. When I’m close to Kat.
The very thought of being near her has my stomach in knots. I know I’m being insane, but I need more of her before I’m ready to talk to her like a normal human being.
My phone sits in the middle of it all, screen lit up, her face staring back at me.
Beautiful. Ethereal even. My forest sprite in pixels.
It took me longer than I’d like to admit to find her.
Ellie’s account was the key, seeing as Kat goes by a series of numbers and letters rather than her name.
Sensible, I guess, as it made her difficult to find until I had a side way in.
I’d never bothered with social media for myself; it’s not like my life is interesting to anyone else.
What would I do, post a selfie of me with a dude’s caved-in face and a wad of cash, hashtagging it #payday?
No. It meant downloading Instagram and working out how the hell it functions.
It had taken me most of the day after I’d watched Kat in the coffee shop and followed her home.
Ellie’s whole life is on there. Photos, tags, nights out, coffees, every little thing in a digital treasure trail.
Breadcrumbs.
Ellie’s profile unlocks Kat’s in minutes.
A flash of blonde hair, pale enough to be closer to white than gold. Still catching the light as it did in the forest, as though drawing from the sun itself.
Leaning forward, I scroll again, memorising each of the images to the most minute detail.
The way she scrunches her nose when she laughs.
The Earl Grey tea brand she favours. The guy who appears more than once behind her and Ellie when they pose in a club.
Many coffees, dinners, and softer moments.
Her clear love of being cosy, comfy, and cuddled into soft clothing and furnishings.
Glancing around my sparse flat, with its stark, chipped furniture, stings.
She wouldn’t fit here. There’s no comfort at all.
Barring the one luxury I’ve purchased for myself.
A sleek coffee machine that sticks out like a sore thumb amongst the tired decor.
A slice of chrome that brings me some small joy every morning.
God damn, I’m going to have to buy cushions or something.
Not that she’d want to come here.
Another picture. And another. Kat, with her chin propped in her hand, smiling at someone behind the camera. Kat on a night out with Ellie, pink drink in hand.
Then there’s one of her in pyjamas of the softest pink, her hair loose and messy, like she’s just rolled out of bed.
My chest tightens.
She looks so settled.
Happy.
That’s the word that keeps circling back. Happy. Like that last day didn’t affect her at all. Like she’s managed to forget all about the whole ugly hiccup that I was.
A normal person would be pleased for her. And I am, deep down. She was kind, and she deserves to be content, but it just exaggerates the gulf between us.
My finger drags the screen up, slower this time to wallow in the details.
There’s a little emoji under one of the photos.
A yellow face with hearts for eyes. Heart eyes. Exactly how I feel when I am near her. As though my eyes pop right out of my head like a fucking cartoon character.
My gaze flicks up to the name at the top of my own screen. To the boring anonymous name, I have. I click through to the profile and change my screen name.
Heart_Eyes.
The account I made just to find her. No photo. No posts. Nothing that leads back to me.
Subtle as anything. I don’t follow her.
I’ve hovered over the button so many times today, thumb lingering because I want so badly for her to notice me. But there is no me to notice in this digital place. I’m as invisible there as in the real world.
She nearly caught me staring at her earlier, and the adrenaline spike had me near gagging. Burning to knock on the coffee shop door and scream that I’m here.
In the end, I’d locked up, pressing back against the wall like a coward.
Daytime’s a bad idea. There are too many people and too much risk. Ellie could spot me. Kat might recognise me.
Night’s better. People get careless when they think no one’s looking because they expect the world to be in bed like they are.
The balaclava’s empty eye holes stare at me from the table, so bleak and impersonal. I hate it. But when I go back tonight, I’ll need something to give me a bit of disguise. A safety barrier, even if it stays in my pocket.
My phone buzzes in my hand as I switch over to the Find My app.
I’d resisted using it for years despite my adopted family being all about it.
Having anyone track my whereabouts was a no for me; it’s bad enough that surprise casseroles arrive, far less the family asking why I was where I was.
I suppose it might be handy for them when I eventually lose my final fight, it’s a matter of time, really, and might give them a clue as to where I go.
Where do the bodies from the fights go?
I still haven’t switched mine on, but Ellie’s is. Which means I can see where she is. When she’s out. When she’s heading back. Useful when I’m trying to stalk her best friend.
Well, not stalk.
I groan and run my hand over my face. There’s no real denying that I’m stalking Kat. And that I can’t bring myself to stop.
I tap the screen, watching the little dot move across the map.
Not at the flat.
Good.
I set the phone back down and lean back in the creaky chair as I imagine what Kat might think if she were here. Of the peeling paint and damp spreading into the corners. Bare wooden floors with dubious stains from residents past. Threadbare furnishings. It’s not somewhere you bring people.
And Kat? She comes from the lap of luxury. A family who bought her everything she dreamt of. I still don’t know why she’s living in a shitty flat, to be honest. Had her parents cut her off?
She’s due to graduate this year. I can tell from the posts and the comments. Scheduled for a good life. A job and a future.
And what do I have?
I glance down at my hands. Scarred knuckles, still not quite healed from the last fight. Skin that is both marked from years of taking hits and years of hitting. Even the winding ivy I’ve had etched over it can’t hide the story of who I am. Nor who I’ve already been.
A bitter laugh slips out.
What am I supposed to offer her? Even as a friend, there’s nothing I can give that’s better than what she has. All of this is a fool’s errand, and I’m going to end up with my heart broken again.
My eyes drift back to the table, and the mask, then to the phone with her face still lit up on the screen.
That little heart eyes emoji beneath.
Before I can think too much about it, I cross to the corner where a bin bag sits half-full of items I never sorted through when I left my last home. Old school books and papers, clothes that I’ve grown out of, wank mags and other stupid teenage shit. A sad sack of belongings if ever there was one.
I crouch and dig through it, shifting crumpled worksheets and exercise books until I find a small plastic case at the bottom.
Acrylic paints. Mostly used up.
My art teacher had given them to me once in an attempt to find something I was good at. It sure as hell wasn’t art. The only medium I can paint with to any degree of artistry is blood. And knuckles are hardly a paintbrush.
I take them back to the table, rummaging until I find the brightest tube in there.
Pink.
For her. Albeit a far more garish colour than I see her surrounded in.
I unscrew the lid and squeeze a little onto my fingertip. It’s cold and thick, but still usable.
Dragging my paint-covered finger around the eyeholes, I smear the pink into a heart. One for each eye. The paint is stark and a little messy, but when I’m done, two ragged hearts stare back at me.
My mouth twitches.
It looks right. Like her world and mine have collided. I glance back at her face on my phone.
Heart eyes.
‘This is all just temporary. Just a means to an end,’ I remind myself.
Just until I decide whether to step out of the shadows and show myself.
By the time darkness has fallen, I’m itching to go to her. To catch a glimpse of her through her window just to reassure myself she’s still in my world.
Dressed in my cheap, black clothing, I stalk through the streets toward the student housing. Skirting it, I pace further into the more run-down section behind it, the orange pools of light that would normally bring comfort making me antsy.
You know you’re doing something wrong when you want to keep to the shadows. But try as I might, I can’t help but follow the path back to Kat.