Chapter 3
Eris
Several souls survive on the generosity of strangers.
― Amit Kalantri, Wealth of Words
“I hope you’re comfortable. I left an ice pack on the nightstand. For your ribs. Those bruises look nasty.”
Eris’ head was spinning. Too many things had happened too fast and her disorientation hadn’t waned one bit.
She lingered by the bed, wrapped up in a fluffy bathrobe that made her feel like candy floss, wondering once again how she’d got here.
There was a huge blank gap in her memory between the guy she’d tried to rob and this, and the more Denny rambled, the harder it was for her to keep her train of thought on track.
“So sorry about the chaos around the flat. I have a hard time keeping up with… Life, I guess. I’m sure you’re too knackered to be bothered by my mess, anyway.”
Did this girl ever stop talking?
To Denny’s credit, she had gone out of her way, offering Eris to crash at her place for the night just because Eris hadn’t been able to answer her questions—‘Where do you live? Do you want me to drive you home? Is there anyone we should call?’
On her own part, Eris couldn’t explain what was going on with herself.
It wasn’t the first time she shut down like this, but she could usually snap herself out of it.
Now she had the impression that she wasn’t actually here, detached from reality, like in those dreams when you screamed at the top of your lungs and no sound came out.
It was like everything around her was set on a different speed and she was stuck in slow-motion, struggling to keep up.
Something was wrong with her, but she had no idea what or how to fix it.
Maybe the list had gotten so long that eventually her system had failed. Either way, she was too tired to care.
Her phone was dead. Denny kindly loaned her a charger, as if that made any difference. Eris had no one to call. She wasn’t anyone’s friend, or anyone’s relative—or anyone’s anything, for that matter. Denny, however, didn’t seem to give a shit about who Eris was.
In all her unshakable nonchalance, she had sat Eris down in the bathroom and had tended to her wounds, humming songs under her breath as Eris watched the pieces of red-stained gauze fall into the sink one by one in a trance-like haze, only vaguely aware of the sting of the disinfectant getting dabbed into her scraped skin.
“Am I hurting you? Stop me if I am, yeah? I have a high pain threshold, I’m not a reliable touchstone.”
Then Denny had helped Eris strip down to shower and told her to take her time while she tended to her bloodied clothes.
The burn of the scalding water had washed away the blood, tingeing the water pink at Eris’ feet.
She’d stared at it for long minutes, until it’d turned completely clear.
She’d stepped out with wrinkled fingertips, clean and imbued with the lemony-sweet scent of whatever soap Denny used, and now here she was, in the cosy bedroom that would be entirely hers for the night, three times larger than her own in Croydon.
The bed alone was likely worth more than her and all her flatmate’s belongings.
“I can get you more pillows if you want,” said Denny.
She had pyjamas draped over one arm; she handed them to Eris, who rolled her eyes at the Moomin print.
If she’d known sooner, she would’ve spared herself the torture of wrangling herself back into the sports bra.
Putting it on had hurt so much that the mere idea of taking it off again made her shudder.
She slanted a glance at Denny. Thanks, I guess.
Her head was getting fuzzy: she had to squint to get Denny’s overenthusiastic grin into focus.
“You must be exhausted! Get some kip, we can chat in the morning.”
This girl had a funny concept of chatting. Eris would’ve loved to be able to stress that yapping wasn’t mandatory.
“Alright, I’ll leave you alone now. Help yourself if you’re hungry, kitchen’s over there. Sleep in as long as you want, Sunday is a chill day under this roof!”
At long last, Denny left.
Eris barely fit into the pyjamas, but the fabric was soft and stretchy enough to be comfortable.
She just wanted to sleep.
And maybe never wake up again.
Lying down and pulling the blankets over herself was more painful than she’d imagined. She took the ice pack, which Denny had wrapped in a thin cloth, and placed it on the sorest part of her ribcage. Once she was settled, she almost managed to forget about it, as long as she didn’t move.
The light rain had turned into a storm outside. Eris let the sound of it wash over her as she drifted into sleep, eerily aware that it could’ve been the side of a dirty road she was falling asleep on under that same rain, in a pool of her own blood.
Alone.
* * *
Warmth.
Sweet, buttery scent.
Unfamiliar.
And light.
Too much light.
It stabbed her eyes through her lids, awakening a dormant agony in her limbs. Fear paralysed her: every inch of her body was on fire.
She made a lame attempt to sit up, but had to bite down on a whimper. The barest hint of movement was agony.
Blinking the unfamiliar space around her into focus, she assumed she was still dreaming: the room looked unnaturally pretty, that kind of aesthetic cosiness that you would see in cottagecore magazines, all shabby chic furniture and pastel colours.
Nothing like anywhere Eris had ever and would ever set foot in.
Confused, she tried to sit up again, more carefully, this time. She pushed up with an elbow, wincing at the stab of pain she felt in her torso. After a few tries, not without a string of curses, she managed to sit up straight.
Her head was throbbing. Badly. The bad taste in her mouth told her she’d drank—a lot—, but the gravity of her discomfort didn’t match the symptoms of a hangover.
Hazy memories came back to her in fragments: rain, beer, fear, pain, cut flowers, sunlight…
Cut flowers?
Rain and sunlight?
It didn’t make any sense.
She braced an arm around her ribs while swinging her legs over the side of the bed.
Her tongue traced the inside of her bottom lip: there was cut there, and in the gum, too.
A fight. She must’ve been into a fight. Nothing new.
Brought up on milk and violence, she’d learned to take a hit before she’d learned how to ride a bike.
She’d given and taken more kicks and punches than kisses, had scars older than her teeth.
People like her were born with trouble branded in their DNA.
She brought a hand to her throbbing head. There was a disturbance somewhere, a nondescript noise reverberating in her ears, persistent and maddening, that wouldn’t let her think. It gnawed at her until she just couldn’t take it any longer.
It took every ounce of willpower she could muster to get up.
With an inhuman effort, she clambered to the door and hobbled down a fancy staircase towards the disturbance across a living room larger than a whole floor of her house.
Dozens of books were piled on the floor at the foot of a half empty bookcase; on the couch, a balled-up blanket lay by a mass of half-squished throw pillows.
Pots of plants were scattered everywhere, a few vases of cut flowers amongst them.
Someone—a delusional someone—would’ve called it lived-in charm.
She reached a sunlit kitchen, where the buttery scent she’d smelled from the bedroom almost smothered the inviting aroma of fresh coffee. There was a girl inside, as dream-like as everything else around Eris, singing to herself as she mixed flour and eggs in a bowl.
Singing.
What breed of psychopath sang at this ungodly hour?
Fucking morning people.
She kept switching songs randomly, like a playlist on crack.
Eris froze.
Playlist on crack.
Like the one that had got on her nerves the night before.
She remembered now: the batshit crazy American dude, the blonde angel who’d rescued her, the pain… So much pain…
She leaned her arm up against the doorframe, resting her forehead into the crook of the elbow to shield herself from the light and the terrible singing that wouldn’t let her focus. She was too wrecked to put up with this crap.
Her groan caught the attention of the blonde fairy. A flash of golden green lifted on Eris, immediately followed by a radiant smile that put the sun shining outside to shame.
“Oh, hey! You’re awake!”
The chirpy tone combined with the obvious assessment pried another groan out of Eris.
“How’re you feeling?”
As shitty as I probably look.
“Hungover?”
No, but can you pipe down?
The fact that Eris wasn’t actually responding to any of the questions wasn’t a deterrent for the girl. What was her name? Eris couldn’t remember. Something cutesy and dainty…
“That’s ibuprofen.” Blondie pointed at something. “I made ginger tea, and banana pancakes will be right up, if you’re hungry. I also have apples, kiwis, frozen pineapple…”
Dolly, Demi…
“No, wait, I’ve run out of apples. I really need a shopping list…”
No, neither.
Eris’s attention floated to the table, where a blister pack of tablets sat by a glass and a jug of water. She eagerly grabbed the tablets and downed a couple without even bothering to make sure it was actually ibuprofen. If the pills were roofies, she had to respect the pretty princess.
The water was pleasantly fresh down her parched throat. Eris poured herself a second glass, and a third, all under Blondie’s curious gaze.
Denny.
Never had a name sounded so much like its bearer looked.
“... and I made this sick raspberry jam, if you’re a sweet-tooth…”
Eris couldn’t listen. The clattering sound of Denny pulling stuff out of the dishwasher hurt her ears and the pyjamas tag rubbing against her side was driving her insane.
Exasperated, she undid the buttons and ripped the top off, tossing it on the back of the closest chair, where she eased herself down with a loud sigh of relief that instantly morphed into a whimper.
The soreness had taken over her body to the point that she couldn’t breathe too deeply without wincing.