I Am Grey

by Washington, Jane

  She was gone.

  I cursed, restraining myself from running back up the stairs and blaming all of this on Jen. My phone buzzed, and I almost dropped it in my haste to pull it out of my pocket, holding it up before my face as though it would change my life.

  It was a text from her. Mika.

  I trusted you.

  For just a moment, I panicked, thinking that Jen had sent her the video after all, but there were no previous messages. This wasn’t about the video. This was about the bathroom.

  22

  Rainfall

  Mika

  I was standing in the backyard when the storm broke. With the torrent of water, the humidity also broke, turning the balmy night into something suddenly unwelcoming, the chill so biting that it drove everyone indoors. I had no idea where Nicholai was, or why he had run out.

  I was overwhelmed with emotion, as though there had been a dam inside me and Nicholai had finally kicked down the retaining wall, sending logs crashing painfully through my defences and flooding me with new life. I stood there in the rain, needing the cold water to wash numbness over me. I needed a break from the torrent of emotion, the unceasing thoughts that sprang up inside my head, all of them clamouring to the forefront, wanting to be heard. I wanted the numbness, and yet I also felt free for the first time in a year. Free of my self-imposed, reactionless prison. I could get angry, if I wanted to. I could break down and sob, and there would be no consequences, only the wetness of my tears mixing with the rain. I could scream. I could laugh. I could feel again.

  It would wear off—I knew that. I was high on adrenaline. Vibrating with the aftershocks of opening myself up to someone and having them reach in and hold me by the heart. It was an exhilarating feeling. I wanted more of it.

  My phone had vibrated at some point as I stood outside, and the thought of checking it finally occurred to me, clicking into place like some kind of faulty cog, unused to turning. My mind was so sluggish, so slow to return to the real world. I pulled out my phone, opening the message from Nicholai.

  It was a video.

  I clicked it, staring at the screen as rain plopped onto it, warping the image of myself by the bathtub. I was already half-naked, already touching myself.

  Already betrayed.

  I couldn’t even pause to think about how he had managed to take the video. Maybe his phone had been positioned a certain way in his pocket. It didn’t matter. If I thought about it too deeply, it would crack me in two, and I couldn’t allow that to happen.

  I took off, rounding the side of the house and finding my way back to the front. I could see Jen getting in her car and driving away, her face wet from the tears that I should have been crying. The difference between the two of us was painful. She drove off, and I followed her, kicking into a run. She was sane—that was the core of it. Something had happened to her that night just as something had happened to me, but she was crying it out, jumping into her perfect little hatchback and moving on.

  I pulled out my phone, slowing to a walk as I typed out the words to Nicholai. I trusted you.

  I wasn’t sure why I said it: maybe it was a plea, a cry for him to prove me wrong, to call me and tell me that it was all a mistake. I was imagining it. I was just crazy, that was all. There was no video.

  I waited until the water soaked into my phone and the screen turned black. Deeming it now useless, I tossed it to the side of the road and picked up my pace again. I had no idea where I was and no way of telling time, but it felt like a couple of hours had passed before I finally hit a familiar street. I didn’t have a house to go to, or a phone to call anyone on, so I turned toward the lighthouse. My own little refuge.

  The pain was stabbing through my legs by the time I got there, and tears were finally falling down my cheeks—though they were more from the pain than anything else. I kept going, past the lighthouse, toward the cliffs. It seemed like it wasn’t the lighthouse that drew me anymore, but the houses. I wanted to climb into one of them: a place where I was warm and wanted.

  No. You know what? Fuck that.

  Warm and wanted was an illusion created by hot beverage companies. We all had that image in our heads: a woman in a sweater, her sleeves pulled down over her hands as she clutched a cup of soup, or coffee. Her family was a wallpaper existence, all of them assumed in the quiet, peaceful background of her moment. That wasn’t reality. Reality was an argument about trash cans, or a bad dream in the middle of the night going untold. It was a moment of feeling alone while surrounded by people, or a feeling of failure and insecurity. It was all of those tiny, grey feelings that drive us to create the illusion of ‘warm and comfortable’, just as a seed of competitiveness drives us to succeed, or the pain of loss propels us toward love.

  All of the picture-perfect houses were full of tiny grey moments, and as I dragged myself through the rain outside their windows, I realised I didn’t want their lives after all. I wanted my own life back. I stopped outside the house with the lighthouse-feature, the rain soaking me through to the skin. It hadn’t bothered me so much when I was running, but the longer I stood there, the more the cold sank into me. I was shivering before long, and I turned to face the cliff with a sinking feeling.

  There was no way I was going to be able to climb into my little cave in this weather.

  “Shit,” I muttered, pulling my backpack up and over my head as I sat against the gate to the vine-covered courtyard.

  My plan was just to rest. Just for a moment ... but I was soon drifting off with the sodden weight of my backpack resting over my neck and shoulders.

  “Hey, girl?”

  I jolted awake, the backpack falling off as a hand on my shoulder shook me. It was still raining, but there was an umbrella over my head, shielding me from the downpour. There was breath in my face, a putrid mix of weed and cheap wine.

  “You okay?” the stranger asked, his hand still on my shoulder.

  He seemed to be leaning into me, or leaning on me, as though he were about to topple over.

  “You’re real pretty.” He laughed, almost uneasily. “Your skin is ... very tanned.” His words were slurring, his hand slipping to my chest. “Oopsy.” He laughed again. “What are you doing here? Doya live here?”

  I shoved his hand away, trying to inch along the gate to get away from his breath. My right hand was twisting in the straps of my backpack. There were a few sodden notepads in there, a soaked blanket, some toiletries ... nothing too heavy. I swung it anyway. The water must have added a decent amount of weight to the bag, because it hit his head with a heavy, wet thump, sending him stumbling sideways.

  A light turned on behind us, the courtyard suddenly alive, the door handle turning behind me only a few seconds later. The drunken man took off, scrambling for his umbrella, and I turned to the gate, where another man stood, holding another umbrella.

  “I’m not drunk,” he announced, as though reading my mind.

  I didn’t respond. I wasn’t sure what to say. Thank you? I could have handled myself. The man now before me was older—possibly in his late fifties, though he had a straight, proud posture. I couldn’t tell what colour his eyes were. He was wrapped in a rain coat, an extra layer of protection against the weather.

  “I’m sorry,” I finally said. “I’ll leave.”

  I turned, prepared to run all the way back to the lighthouse, but he pulled the gate open wider, spilling more light into the rain-soaked darkness.

  “If I let you in, will you steal anything?” he asked. He didn’t have a kind voice.

  “Nope,” I answered.

  “You can come in,” he decided, standing back and holding the gate open.

  “Will you rape me?” I stayed where I was.

  “Raping days are over,” he told me, in the same gruff voice.

  “Do you have a wife?”

  “She died.”

  “A daughter?”

  “She died.”

  I frowned. “If I come in, will I die too?”

  He made
a sound. It might have been a laugh. “If you keep sleeping out on the cliff, you might die.”

  It should have bothered me that he knew, that he had seen me the night before, as I stood where I was standing now and stared at his beautiful house. Instead ... it had an oddly calming effect. He had been watching me both nights, but hadn’t wanted to let me in. Surely, a predator would have asked me in on the first night instead of waiting around to save me from ... another predator.

  “I can look after myself,” I warned him, my words soft as I passed through the gate.

  “I saw that. Scrappy little thing.” He closed the gate, locked it, and then handed me the umbrella, shuffling back to the house in his raincoat.

  He must have been standing inside, already dressed in a raincoat, already armed with an umbrella, unable to decide whether to help me or not. I followed him at a slower pace, peeking out from beneath the umbrella at the little courtyard. It was mostly covered with criss-crossed wooden beams overhead, forming a vine-strangled trellis that still allowed some of the water to run through. There was a small, stone bench on the left side and another on the right side of the courtyard, a fountain in the middle. The fountain was plain, without decoration—simply a stone receptacle to spurt water from, though there was a water lily floating within. He ducked between a set of glass sliding doors at the other end of the courtyard and I went after him, pausing in the doorway to shake out the umbrella.

  “Just leave it out there,” he instructed, as he moved about the room switching on lamps.

  There was at least one in every corner of the room—one on a small side table, beside a bookcase; one on another table between two deep blue, suede couches; another standing lamp by the sliding doors; and another by a staircase, leading up to the next level. The last lamp had already been switched on. I glanced around as light gradually filled out the dark recesses of the space. We were in a family room of sorts, with wide, comfortable couches and an entire wall of overfilled bookcases. There was a door leading to another section, taking up the back of the house behind the staircase, and another room off to the front. The door to that room was open, but the lights were off. There was also a double door at the other end of the family room, directly before the staircase, with stained glass panes set into the wooden panels. It seemed to be the front door to the house.

  “Did your wife decorate?” I asked, running my wet fingers along the back of one of the suede couches.

  I realised that I shouldn’t have asked the question almost as soon as I did, but it was too late now. My touch had left a visible mark on the material of the couch, so I quickly pulled my hand back.

  “No. I did,” he grunted out, already making his way up the stairs. “Love a good catalogue. Are you coming?”

  “Uh ...” I glanced around—at the colour-coded artwork, the giant, soft-toned rugs, and the precise little decoration pieces. “Yes. Yeah.”

  I followed him up the stairs into a sprawling kitchen area. He began turning on lamps again. Apparently, he didn’t use the overhead lights.

  “Were you up here in the dark?” I asked, moving to the full glass windows at the other end of the kitchen: they had a clear view down to the cliff, past his courtyard gate.

  “I like to sit up in the attic.” He motioned to a small, spiral staircase through the darkness of the connecting dining room. “I sit in my chair and listen to audiobooks. Don’t need to turn the lights on for that.”

  “What are you listening to at the moment?”

  “I can’t remember the name of it, but it’s completely ridiculous.”

  “In a good—”

  “In a bad way,” he supplied, before the sentence was even out of my mouth.

  “Why are you listening to it, then?”

  He shrugged. “My daughter subscribed me to a whole library of them—used to complain that I’d never read with her like her mom did, so she’d pick the books and make me listen while she read along. Never broke the habit. I just choose the books at random now that she’s not here to choose them for me.”

  “My dad didn’t like reading, either.” I tapped the glass. “The lighthouse-room, that’s your attic?”

  He grunted. An affirmative. He was bustling around the kitchen behind me, opening and closing the fridge, rustling packets around.

  “I’d hardly call that an attic,” I muttered, glancing toward the shadowy staircase.

  He grunted again, though this one sounded pleased. “Designed that feature myself. The builder said it’d look absurd. I told him to build it anyway. Here, eat.”

  I turned around to find him cutting a sandwich into two pieces. I blinked, moving to the kitchen counter and slipping onto one of the stools. He pushed the plate toward me. I lifted the top layer of bread. Ham and cheese.

  I stared at it for a long time, before he roused me out of my stupor.

  “You dairy intolerant or something?”

  I shook my head quickly, picking up the sandwich. I was starving, suddenly, and I had no idea why. I finished it in barely five bites, and then there was a glass in front of me.

  “How old are you?” he asked, cocking his head to the side.

  “Eighteen,” I replied, also cocking my head to the side. “Why are you being nice to me? Older men who live alone don’t invite eighteen-year-old girls in out of the rain and start making them sandwiches.”

  “Eighteen-year-old girls don’t risk their neck to sleep on the cliffs when they should be at home, making their own sandwiches.”

  “I don’t have a home.”

  “I figured.”

  We both paused, and he sighed before reaching into a cupboard beneath the counter. He pulled out a bottle of red wine, pouring out half a glass.

  “My wife was half French,” he told me. “She loved this shit. I always hated it, but I kept a few bottles. Figured I’d sell them one day. Doesn’t matter, I think you could use a drink.”

  “You’re a weird guy,” I informed him, picking up the glass.

  He shook his head, and I took a moment to examine him in the light as I sipped. The wine was … not that bad. He seemed uncomfortable. Unsure. He wasn’t expecting to host a crazy girl in his kitchen. He had no idea how to look after me.

  “It’s okay, you know,” I told him. “I’ll leave as soon as the rain stops, and I won’t tell anyone that you lured me into your house.”

  He snorted, rolling his eyes. He had kind eyes. That surprised me, since his voice had been so gruff. They were bright blue, like the ocean.

  “My son used to live in the downstairs section, where we came in.” He paused, his hand rubbing across the back of his neck. “There’s a door at the top of the stairs, if you didn’t see. It can be locked from either side. You can stay down there and lock the door for the night, if it makes you more comfortable.”

  “Aren’t you scared I’ll steal something?” I asked, surprised.

  He shrugged. “Guess I’ll have to take the chance.”

  I watched him for a moment longer, as I drank my wine. The liquid was giving me just enough warmth—a steady buzz to sink into my bloodstream. I would need a shower if I was going to get truly warm, and a bed would have been nice. A few days ago, I would have simply shrugged, said okay, and made my way downstairs to sleep. Now, I was a little more cautious.

  “What’s in this for you?” I asked bluntly.

  “My daughter’s name was Elspeth.” His voice had grown surprisingly quiet, a stillness settling over him that seemed to age him by several years. “She was only a little younger than you when she died. I wish someone had stepped in to help her.”

  A chill settled over me, something that sparked a thought in the back of my mind. A realisation that wanted to flare into being. I pushed it back. It tasted like a memory of something I didn’t want to relive. A hint of a person that I was trying to forget.

  “I would really appreciate a place to stay for the night,” I finally admitted.

  He nodded once: short, to-the-point. “Good. I’ll tak
e you down and show you the space. It’s been empty for a few years but I keep it ready for my son—he visits sometimes.”

  I quickly swallowed the rest of the wine and rounded the counter, placing the glass and plate in the sink. He was already at the door to the stairs, but I was hovering at the sink, unsure what to do with my dishes.

  “Just leave it, I’ll fix it up,” he told me.

  I felt bad, but I descended after him, pausing as he rummaged around in the drawer of a key table beside the wooden double doors.

  “Ah!” He pulled out an old, antique-looking key. “Sorry, the staircase door was an old feature of the house we decided to keep when we re-did everything. The lock still works, though.”

  He handed me the key and then walked past me, shuffling across the room to the section tucked behind the stairs. His walk belonged to a much older man—some of his actions a little slower than his age would warrant. He opened the door and moved around in the dark for few seconds. I admired the ease with which he made his way about the house without any light. I stepped into the doorway when a bedside lamp flickered on, illuminating a spotless bedroom—the blue, cotton sheets folded with crisp, hotel precision.

  “What’s your name?” I asked him suddenly, realising that we hadn’t even introduced ourselves.

  He paused, looking shocked, his hand on the doorknob of a connecting door.

  “Spencer,” he answered me. “And what do you call yourself, kid?”

  “Mika.”

  He nodded, pushing open the door. A bathroom. He disappeared inside, a light switched on, and then he was back in the doorway, a set of blue towels in his arms. He placed them on the edge of the bed and then shuffled around awkwardly until I realised that he was trying to get out of the room and I was blocking his way. I stepped back, and he followed me into the main room.