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Chapter 4 Part 1
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2020-07-29 19:03:53December 16th, 2012
Evening
Last night is still a little bit… foggy. In layman’s terms. Lost in the endless and ever-consuming abyss of binge drinking is probably the more technical way to put it. Temporary anterograde amnesia. Limited impairment of the ability to form new memories. The anterior of my head is hurting, I can tell you that much. Worst yet, I can smell a lecture coming on.
“Big night?” Damon cocks a brow, sliding a cup of coffee across the counter. The mere thought of it churns my stomach, let alone that acrid smell. But I’ve got to play the part.
“No, pretty boring, actually.” I can see my reflection in the coffee. It ripples with my breath, I’m closer than I had realised. But the smell oddly enough is doing wonders for my nausea. I almost feel mentally and emotionally prepared for a meal. Mind you, I’ve still got some work to do on that.
“Is that why you’re
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December 16th, 2012 Evening Damon She hardly stirs when I drop her a little more suddenly than I intended to. Of course, her bed is unmade. It always is. And she’s got a pile—mind you, a somewhat tidy one—of clothes in the corner of the room. “You need to change.” As I speak, I wonder if she’ll pretend to sleep. But she opens her eyes a couple of centimetres. “I need to sleep.” Her eyes are closed again. “Unless you want to be changing your sheets bright and early tomorrow, you need to change.” “Change me, then.” Her eyes are still closed, and a good thing at that. I’m afraid I’ve gone a bit pink. At least, I feel I have. “I’m not sure that’s appropriate,” “Why not? You’re my dad.” She rolls over. And part of me wants to accept the offer just to see her in her underwear. And another, somehow worse, part of me hopes that she doesn’t have any on. “Gues
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December 19th, 2012 Evening Damon “We forgot about the news yesterday!” Sasha is sat at the other end of the couch, her toes just inches from my thigh. I’m really not sure when I became corrupted by fantasies of her feet. They’re quite pretty. Long, slender. Straight toes. Cropped, painted nails. Protruding veins. I can imagine them padding at my crotch a little too vividly. My jeans are a bit tight. “Tarantino’s film was scrapped because of Sandy Hook.” I watch as she squints, probably trying to remember her own headline. “They dug up those two murderer blokes from In Cold Blood,” I don’t want to tell her she’s won by kilometres just yet. “Why?” “Something about some murders in Florida,” So I just nod quietly, pretending to turn it over for a moment. I wonder how I managed to let that one slip through the cracks. I’ve only read the novel
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Midday “How you feeling, thundercunt?” Tami has been swinging backwards and forwards on that brand-new swivel chair for a good ten minutes now. Rubbing it in my face that it still works. There was an incident at the Christmas party last year that involved a receptionist chair race. The one I had been stuck with suffered the consequence. You see, it’s risky business moving too freely on a swivel chair that only had two of the three wheels still attached. And I’ve become better acquainted with the ground because of it. “It’s been like a week, I’m fine.” It’s been a slow day. Not many patients. Even less paperwork. I’ve been tasked with refreshing the email folder and forwarding what needed to go where. Printing off the odd set of forms. Directing phone calls. Only, a job seemed to arise once ever half-hour. And it was a war between Tami and I who could lay claim first. She scoots closer, elbows crossed over the front desk. “I’m
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December 21st, 2012 Morning Time is making a mockery of me. The days are slow and long. The nights feel endless. Being shut alone in my bedroom with only questions and theories is enough to make me miss Bertrand. He hasn’t called. Should I? I should just sleep with him. Afterall, what on earth would a man like Damon want with a twenty-one-year-old virgin? Not that I can have those thoughts, let alone justify them by shagging Bert. In any case, the Mesoamerican calendar has reached the doomsday date. The world is set to end. Whether I should sleep with a vagrant who spray-paints parked police vehicles and calls it art is irrelevant if we’re all going to die. And whether my father killed his first son should be, too. But it’s not. I can die happy without coming up with an answer for Bert. Yes, I love you and I will now give you the most immobile sex and worst head of your life or no, ew. But
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His other hand wraps through my hair, though it feels like he’s trying to scalp me. And his lips meet mine like they never have. His teeth wrap around my lip. “Stop it.” I draw back so slightly. “You’re drunk.” It always works in the movies. “And horny,” And his lips are on mine again. He walks me backwards. Another puddle splashes up my leg. And the wind is knocked straight out of me again when I hit a brick wall. Though it very well could be a dumpster. It certainly smells like there is one around here. Maybe it’s just his breath. “Stop it!” I tug and tug at my own wrist. He’s trying to scalp me again. But this time his breath is on my neck. His teeth are tugging at my collar. Great. He’s going to rip my blouse open. I’m going to be defiled in an alleyway and I won’t even have a shirt to put back on. This is humiliation. “You’re hurting me,” I don’t feel quite as scared or angry as I thought I would in this situation—not that I’ve consider
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December 23rd, 2012 Evening Sasha “Give me your hands.” I haven’t met his eye. This is the first he’s said to me since he ordered me in the car. I can’t tell if I’m mad at him for it or if I’m mad at myself for the situation. Could very well be both. I stick out my hands a little too obediently. The faucet runs red with blood, though when he holds them beneath the water, I can hardly tell my hands haven’t stopped shaking. I can almost pretend all is well. Almost. “Who was he?” I can feel him staring at me. I’m feeling a little too ashamed to look up. I focus on the sting of water in my cuts. I swear I can see a piece of gravel wash out down the drain. I didn’t think I had fallen that hard. I measure the words. “My ex.” “I didn’t know you had one.” “It wasn’t anything serious.” The silence is deafening when he turns off the water. Only my palms keep me ancho
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“What?” Now I just want to hide back behind him. Damon seems to know. He steps in front of me. “You can’t search her; you’ll need a female officer to.” “I can search her; I just can’t take her clothes off.” Again, with that smug smile. He claps his hands together. Peers around Damon’s shoulder to me. I was right to hope for two more magpies. “Now, shall we do it here, or do you have a more private place you would rather.” “Show me your warrant.” Damon seethes. “I was hoping you would ask.” I can see him fish into his pocket. “Finished my two-year probation yesterday.” “Did you know about this?” Suddenly, Damon turns to face me. Thrusts the card toward me. Looks a bit like a student ID in a fancy wallet if you ask me. With a stupid, god-awful photo of this git rather blow-up. “Know about what?” “He’s a detective, Sasha!” He shouldn’t be yelling that; I can only imagine the things it woul
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