Under Rose-Tainted Skies

by Louise Gornall

  I don’t make it.

  After a second blink, I wake with a start. There’s a brief moment of panic because I can’t hear a thing. Then it registers that I still have my headphones on. I pull them off and sit up. My head feels like it stays behind on the pillow. Ugh. I should not have gotten drunk on love songs. Emotional hangovers are the worst.

  Beyond midnight has crept into my bedroom and covered everything in a blanket of pitch-black. At some point during sleep, my cell escaped my clutches. I reach out, pat my duvet down in search of it. When my fingers hit the screen, the thing illuminates, blasts a laser beam of light into my eyes and scorches my corneas.

  That’ll definitely help your headache, I chide myself silently.

  Green and purple spots dance in my vision as I check the time. 2.00 a.m. Whoa. Exhaustion got me good.

  I need orange juice and a cold compress for my head. With the enthusiasm of a corpse, I abandon my phone, roll off my bed, and slump out of the door. I’ve lived in this house for seventeen years but still use the wall to guide me to the light switch.

  I drag my fingers down the wall, run them over photographs of me, Mom and my grandma, all dressed up in our Sunday best especially for this shoot, which took place on a Wednesday the summer I turned thirteen.

  The last summer I ever really lived.

  The last frame my fingers find is the gaudy gold one that displays my ‘Congratulations, You Graduated from Middle School’ certificate. The light switch is just above it, right before Mom’s room.

  I’m about to slap it on when I notice the faintest glow of silver moonlight seeping out of a crack in Mom’s door.

  That’s weird. The door is open. Why is the door open? Mom’s door is never open. We have a pact. She’s never broken the pact, not once since I got sick.

  Okay, brain, calm down. We’ve been here before.

  This little talking-to works about as well as it does when other people try it on me: not at all. The cogs of my mind are already turning, throwing out thoughts that make my blood run cold.

  It could be Mom. Maybe she’s home and forgot to close her door; she has had a lot of her own brain fog to deal with. It’s possible she slipped up this one time. But then, if she’s home at this hour, she’d be in bed. And if she’s in bed, why aren’t her curtains closed?

  Because she’s not in bed. She’s not in her room.

  I glare at the door handle, see Mom closing it before she trotted off down the stairs and left for work.

  I remember.

  I remember getting twitchy because she just headed off to work without washing the brass smell off her hands.

  My knees knock together. But if Mom closed the door, and I didn’t open it . . . Then, right on cue to confirm my suspicions, there’s a bump, and a single note from Mom’s silver jewellery box rings out. It only does that when it’s open and the crystal ballerina begins her pirouette. I feel a sharp jolt as my entire world comes to a screeching halt. My whole body starts to convulse.

  There’s someone in my house.

  I dry-heave.

  Call Mom. I reach down to my waistband, but my cell isn’t there because I left it on the bed. I look over at the way I just walked; the corridor stretches beneath my feet.

  Fuck.

  I don’t know what to do. My eyes roll into the back of my head, make me blind for a second.

  Mental slap.

  There is one thing I absolutely cannot do, and that’s pass out.

  My body aches as my muscles go into spasm. I roll my jaw, try my best to shake my shoulders loose. I have to breathe. Get some oxygen in my blood and try my best to stop my heart from tripping over itself to choke out beats. I can hear it in my ears. It might sound hypnotic if I weren’t so scared.

  I have to move, get away from this door before whoever’s in Mom’s room comes out and finds me. Going back to my room would be a mistake. If whoever is in there is robbing us, they’re going in my room next. I know they haven’t been there already because everything is untouched. A robber would have taken my phone, the TV, my iPod, but it was all still there. Shit, my gran bought me headphones that are worth more than a small car.

  Bathroom is out too; there’s nowhere to hide in there. And I stopped being able to fit inside our linen closet when I was six.

  Logic says I should go downstairs. Impossible. I’ve got weights strapped to my knees. But I have to find a way or risk meeting the intruder face-to-face. And then what? What if they’re armed? What if they kidnap me? What if they kill me? Is my survival instinct really that broken?

  I’m wasting too much time on what-ifs.

  I have to move before I shut down. The only parts of my body that are still working sufficiently are my arms. I crouch down, lower my butt on to the carpet, and push myself towards the top of the stairs. It’s just like rowing, except there’s more friction. A lot more friction. The resistance-fuelled scrape of my skin against the worn green carpet that lines our landing stings worse than when you catch your arm on a boiling kettle. It’s like having your legs exfoliated with an electric sander.

  My toes test the floor in front of me, silently tapping out my path like a white cane. When the solid surface disappears, I know I’ve reached the first step. I push myself down; my body hits the second step with a sharp jar. I mentally promise my spine to be more careful with the next one.

  I keep going, hit the halfway point at the same time I hear Mom’s door squeak. It’s dark out here, not as dark as it was before my eyes adjusted, but still pretty well drenched in night. I pray it’s enough to keep my presence concealed and scoot towards the banister, where there is slightly more shadow.

  The intruder leaves my mom’s room backside first. It’s probably better if I don’t see him, but that prepared-for-everything part of me has to know which room he goes into next, has to know what he looks like in case the police ask. I have to know for me too. When this is all over, I’m going to need to be able to put a face to the person that broke into my home and ruined my safe circle for ever.

  I blink away tears and wipe them off my cheeks. The intruder turns, and I startle, fight hard to hold a squeal back behind my teeth. The jackass is wearing a skeleton mask. Vomit rises up in my throat. I lift a trembling hand, slap it silently over my mouth, and swallow my gorge back down, along with a tidal wave of sobs. When he moves along the hall, his jacket makes a scrunching sound. I notice his jeans, or rather the skulls stitched on below the side pocket . . .

  My mind races back to the moment I first saw them.

  Oh, shit.

  I’ve got to get out of this house. This is the Helping Hands guy. The one that stood in my kitchen a couple of months ago, ogling my nearly naked frame. I remember his dark eyes climbing up my body like a cockroach.

  Bullshit he had a key. Bullshit he was following company procedure. There’s no way my mom would let anyone have a free pass to our house. I should have known that, should have been able to see through his lies. I don’t let my mind question whether or not he’d planned to rob us that day, because if he had that would mean I interrupted him. God, he must be pretty angry at me for that.

  I watch him disappear towards my bedroom, and then I carry on sliding down the stairs until I hit the bottom step. I can’t take it twice. I don’t have time. I wonder if he figured out what was wrong with me. He’d only have to ask his boss.

  I’m suddenly afraid he’ll catch on to my escape attempt if he finds my room empty. My heart tries to choke me.

  I slide onto the floor on my hands and knees and crawl towards the door. My teeth slam down on my tongue when something bites into my palms. There’s a popping sound. Several popping sounds. I freeze. Try to swallow back more tears and a mouthful of hot saliva.

  At first I can’t figure out what it is. Something is slicing into me and my best guess would be I’m crawling through a field full of sharp paper. But when I lift my hand, I see it, glistening in whatever moonlight has managed to sneak in through the porch windows. Broken glass.
My head snaps around to survey Gran’s Georgian glass cabinet. He must not have been able to pick the rusty antique lock because he’s totalled the front of it, and I’m bleeding all over the debris.

  No time to dwell. The door is only a few feet away and my eyes are rolling again. I hold my breath, think of my bed, my soft warm sheets, my favourite book, Mom and me talking about television, Luke’s smile and the way his skin feels against mine.

  The pain doesn’t stop, but the popping sound does. Somehow, I’ve made it.

  My hands are soaked ruby red. They shake like the tail of a rattlesnake as I reach for the latch. It clicks, and I pull back the bolt. The door is unbroken; he must have found another way in. I pull it open a fraction, let the moonlight pour in. A rush of fresh air engulfs me, and it never felt so good.

  But now I have to make it across the driveway. It might as well be an army assault course. I pause, squeeze my teeth together so tight my jaw feels like it’s going to snap. The sweat surfacing on my palms exacerbates the sting and sets my cuts on fire.

  I can’t do it. Fuck. I can’t do it.

  This is my new hell. This is definitely what being damned feels like. I think Fuck a thousand more times. It’s a mistake to run a hand through my hair, but I do it anyway, splashing blood into my blonde.

  I hear the faint bump of a jackass stumbling into something upstairs. God. I hope he caught his shin on a sharp corner. I hope he smacked it down to the bone on my gothic dressing table and that it hurts so bad his stomach starts turning. But then I guess if he’s hurt himself, he’s probably going to be even more pissed off.

  I really gotta go. He could discover me at any second.

  I crack the door further so the gap is wide enough for me to fit through.

  I don’t have a heading, but I’m looking at Luke’s house. His car is in the driveway. I was hoping there’d be a light on, but the place is bathed in blackness. The Trips’ house is dark too. Triangle Crescent is sound asleep. I wonder if any of our neighbours will wake to discover missing valuables and lakes of shattered glass.

  Luke’s house is the closest option. And he brings me ice cream without black bits because he knows I don’t like them. He gets me orange juice when my legs aren’t working. He brings the stars to my bedroom so I can lie beneath them. He talks about my future, even when I’m not sure I have one. He makes me feel safe.

  I need to feel safe again.

  My legs are still as stable as jelly, so I have no choice but to move forward on my hands. Placing my palms one at a time on the ground, I give a brief thought to all the sneakers, boots, sandals, and shoes that have trodden their crap on this porch over the years. It makes me whimper. All that bacteria I’m dipping my open wounds in.

  My shoulders emerge from the door and everything grows to twice its original size.

  Come on, Norah. You can’t stay here.

  I pant out a breath, scrunch my eyes shut and then open them in the hope it will clear my vision. It doesn’t.

  I lift my palm, move it forwards slowly, and do the same again. And again. I tune out the squelching sounds until my sliced-up knees have joined my hands on the infection-imminent porch.

  The night is cool. It feels big, infinite, impossible to think the sun can overcome it. Every muscle tightens, as if my insides were being strangled by elastic bands. Snivelling, I make my way down the steps, wishing they’d stop moving and make this easier.

  With my dignity still trapped inside the house, I flop off the porch and collapse on the concrete driveway. My left hip smashes against the ground, and I bump my chin so hard my teeth slam shut, almost severing my tongue in two.

  I look up, spit blood.

  Luke’s front door is still a million miles away. How is it possible I’ve moved so much and it’s not gotten any closer?

  There’s a thump-thump-thump from inside my house. I’ve stomped up and down those stairs enough times to recognize the sound. He’s coming.

  I push through the pain, get back up on my knees, and crawl towards the boxwood bush as fast as I can. I go deaf, can’t hear anything as I haul my ass over the bush and launch myself at Luke’s front door.

  I slam my fists into the glass and hammer hard. My other hand works the doorbell as I look back over my shoulder.

  There’s a skeleton standing on my porch.

  ‘Please, Luke. Open the door.’ I try to scream, but fear is holding my vocal cords hostage and it’s a timid shout at best.

  The skeleton turns sharply, then leaps off the porch. I think maybe he’s going to make a run for it, but then he starts marching towards me.

  I thud on the door. Thud so hard it’s a wonder my fists don’t go through the wood. ‘Luke!’ This time I do scream. It rips from my throat like a liberated lion, shatters wine glasses, makes the atmosphere shake, leaves dust in its wake.

  A warm beam of orange light breaks like sunrise from behind the door. I hear the dangling of a chain and the door flies open.

  I don’t take him in, don’t say a word, just throw myself at his chest and press myself airtight against his torso.

  ‘Norah. What the fuck?’ he says.

  ‘There’s . . . there’s . . .’ It’s hard to talk through sobs. I’m choking on a river of snot and tears. ‘Someone’s in my house.’

  ‘Norah, where’s your mom? Is she still in the house?’

  I shake my head no. That’s all I manage before the feeling in my lips disappears and my face melts right off. He wraps one arm around my shoulders; the other snakes around the back of my legs.

  ‘Luke, what’s going on?’ I hear his mom ask as he lifts me up. I sink into his arms, all my muscles sighing simultaneously.

  ‘Call the cops and an ambulance,’ he says. I press my head against his heart, feel its angry beat beneath my cheek.

  ‘I got you,’ he says. ‘You’re safe.’

  The sound of his breathing carries me off into blissful unconsciousness.

  Gentle fingers stroke my cheek, and my eyes flicker open.

  My body is all crunched up, bent around like a jelly bean. Mom is looking down on me, smiling. She presses something spongy against my mouth, and my lips latch on to it, suck water from it until the thing is bone dry.

  ‘Go easy,’ she says in tones softer than silk. ‘Too much too soon will make you sick.’

  I don’t focus on anything but her face. Still, dread circles overhead like a flock of starving vultures.

  ‘Where are we?’ I ask, but we both know I already know the answer to that. The smell of industrial-strength disinfectant is corroding my nasal passages. The sheets covering me feel like fibreglass. I’m in hospital.

  ‘Baby, try not to panic.’

  Panic. Right. That would make sense given my current situation, but my body seems to be behaving. I can feel the flutter of something in my chest, maybe fear. Not the same kind of fear I’ve been sharing headspace with for the past four years. This is different. Weaker. It stays hidden. I’m not sure it has the drive to push through to the surface.

  I lift my eyes, spot my hand wrapped tightly in white bandages, a yellow IV line poking out of the top. I follow the tubes attached to it, up and up, until I find two bags of fluid, half-empty. One is clear, the other milky. Safe to assume that explains the sudden change in anxiety levels.

  ‘Mom?’

  ‘It’s just a painkiller and some sedative.’

  ‘No.’ I shake my head, reach for the needle, but my other hand is bound in dressings too. It’s refusing to go in the direction I tell it to. At first I think the extra padding is responsible for restricting my movement. Then I realize it’s not the bandages at all. My body is ignoring me.

  A drunk whimper flops from my lips. I focus hard on my fingers, try to psychically beam my instructions straight to the source, but they refuse to acknowledge me. It’s the medicine. It’s circulating in my system, killing off my control like an evil little nanobot. My breathing hitches.

  ‘Sweetie.’ Mom restrains my hand with the s
lightest of touches. ‘Listen to me: you’ve been hooked up to this thing for almost two days. Two days and nothing horrible has happened. It’s helping.’

  ‘I can’t . . . I . . .’ My head goes foggy and some monitor starts beeping a single obscene note. It sounds like a microwave when it’s finished a cycle and wants your attention. Is that my heartbeat? Should it be beating that fast? Should it . . . I can’t finish my thought; I don’t remember what it was.

  The beep works like a Bat-Signal, brings a nurse thundering through the swinging door. Her hair is bright orange, dreadlocked, and she’s wearing scrubs covered in superhero cartoons.

  ‘Good morning, sunshine.’ She flashes her pearly whites at me and all I want to do is ask her what’s good about it. I give it a second’s thought but can’t find the energy to rouse my inner ass.

  Mom scoots back, and the nurse takes her place, hovering over me. The badge fixed to her ample bosom says Carmen. There’s a bottle of green sanitizer attached to the side of my bed. I watch her pump it several times until a string of clear liquid squirts from the nozzle. It goes white and turns to foam when it settles on her palms. She rubs it all over, just like I do, making sure to get all the hidden spots between her fingers. You’d be surprised at how much of your hand doesn’t get washed if you don’t spread your fingers. Then, to my horror, the nurse, a complete stranger, touches me. Without blinking, she reaches down the front of my hospital-issue gown and pulls something sticky off my chest.

  ‘Don’t think you’re going to be needing these any more,’ she says, her knuckle clipping the edge of my breast on the way back up. She saunters over to the trash can, drops the sticky things in it, and hits her hands with another squirt of sanitizer from a bottle hung by the door.

  I look at Mom and know my face is pulled in all different directions when she winces.

  ‘Just take a deep breath,’ she whispers to me. The nurse comes back. Takes what looks like a pen from her pocket.

  ‘Look straight at that back wall for me, sweetheart,’ she says. Turns out the pen is not a pen but a flashlight. She illuminates the end and shines it in my eyes.