09-09-2014, 08:42 AM
The tube carriage was mostly empty, its few occupants washed in a sallow light that pulled grotesquely at their features. Youths with hoods pulled low over their brows congregated around one of the poles, muttering in sharp dialect amongst themselves. A man in a suit sat facing inwards, cradling his head in his hands, while further down a handful of drunken revellers in tiny skirts and spiked heels giggled. Near Natalie, a homeless person was dozing, arms wrapped tight around a rucksack containing their worldly possessions.
Her vision burred as they hit a tunnel, robbing even that amount of paltry sight. Nausea rolled up in her stomach and she squeezed her eyes shut tight against the dizziness. The alcohol tasted stale on her tongue, and her thoughts twisted dully, the agony springing tears to the corner of her eyes. The need to escape tightened its grip, pushed her into recklessness that at the time possessed a perverse kind of logic. Escape where, though? She craved the isolation, suffocated by the bonds of family, and yet the same feeling cast her adrift. She felt abandoned.
The neighbourhood she stepped out into was grim. A concrete block of flats blotted out the moon, street lights pooling sick puddles of light in the blanket of dark. Laughter sprung from shadows, the primal howl of drunk kids, the screech of a domestic argument echoing behind closed doors. She stumbled her way through the estate, arms wrapped tight against the chill. Her skin prickled with the watch of unseen eyes, real or imagined, as she stepped up to buzz the intercom.
"Aaron? It’s me."
A crackle of silence answered. She pressed her head into the back of her hand, splayed flat against the wall. Defeated.
Then:
"Natalie?"
The surprise was evident in his voice. She was just relieved he was still awake at such an hour.
*
The flat was small, its entirety able to fit within any number of bathrooms in the sprawling estates her family owned. And it was crammed claustrophobically with junk. Books, trinkets, ornaments, pictures. An ashtray balanced on the arm of a sofa, stubbed with a dozen shrivelled roll-ups, a vacant shadow in place of the chair's usual occupant. A desk lamp lit one dreary corner, the table piled with old-fashioned books and a clunky laptop. The stench of smoke and the remnants of whatever they'd had for dinner heaved her stomach. Aaron caught her elbow on the way in, stared concernedly into the wet betrayal in her eyes.
"Geeze, Natalie, how much have you had to drink?"
His arm enveloped her shoulders in reply to her abject silence, lips pressed into her hair and catching her forehead so that for a moment, even in the fugue of drunkenness, she knew a sliver of peace. "Did you get the fucking tube? Because I told you not to do that."
His voice was soft, whispered, as he guided her though to the kitchen. Natalie sank into the chair he pulled out for her, watching blearily as he poked his head back into the living room then carefully pulled the door closed. Her head pounded. Yes she had been stupid. Yes it had been on purpose. Regret mixed with the toxic acid in her stomach, and yes some awful part of her wished she hadn't made it here in one piece.
"I'm sorry."
To the voice in her head? To Aaron?
He chuckled. Clinking cups, spooning coffee. "Now I know you're drunk."
She watched him pour it, steam rolling from the dark liquid. The kitchen was quaint, jammed with pots and utensils, dishes stacked on the draining board. Once the mundaneness had soothed her, in some small way made her feel a part of a world she otherwise felt like she viewed through a sheet of glass. She had expected to feel better just being here, only that barrier was ten feet thick now. She wanted to tell him - about the light, about Alvis's papers and how very afraid she was. Spill up every ill facet of her nature, every secret, every abnormality, and hope that he'd still pick up the pieces and accept her for what she was. He would, wouldn't he? He was a good man. That was what good men did.
But then what?
She could see he was tired; his eyes squinted to the task, blinking back fatigue. Judging by the lamp and piles of work in the other room, she also knew he hadn't been sleeping. Pockets of quiet time were precious to him, even when they must be claimed in the dead hours of the night. Too often the case. Soft shadows crescented beneath his eyes. His sleeves were rolled to the elbow, his skin dusted with constellations of freckles. His lips smiled faintly, absently.
He made her heart ache.
The sense of a mistake began to take shape, though she willed it not to. Natalie blinked, looked away.
She was different, frighteningly and inexplicably different, and the walls of her world could no longer contain her. Money ran like water, a deluge of luxury that burned the oxygen from her lungs. She could no longer swim in the meaninglessness of the Northbrook name, not when her family eroded in chunks and her father left when she needed him most. Maybe the only time she had ever needed him. His rejection to her visitation order stung all over again. Pressing her hands over her face seemed a better alternative to crying in front of Aaron, even though she knew he would offer comfort not ridicule.
He pushed the mug in front of her, plopped himself down in the chair opposite. The silence was thumping loud in her head, and the coffee fumes made her want to wretch. The kitchen felt oppressive. How to phrase it? How to tell him?
"Aaron..."
He breathed in tight. "I saw. I saw, on the news, Natalie. About your dad."
They'd never spoken about this before: who she was. It had been part of Aaron's appeal, his quiet and nonjudgmental acceptance. He'd been her sanctuary throughout the trial. Now with that one comment, the bubble around them burst, and the impact shuddered through her alcohol-soaked mind. Her thoughts hadn't been on her father, and it took a moment for the confusion to bleed to despair. Her father was gone. She loved him and he was gone, and it wasn't a secret she wanted to share, not even with Aaron.
"And I'm just saying, if you need to talk. I'm here. You know that I'm here."
She pushed back her chair. "I should go. I need to go."
Her vision burred as they hit a tunnel, robbing even that amount of paltry sight. Nausea rolled up in her stomach and she squeezed her eyes shut tight against the dizziness. The alcohol tasted stale on her tongue, and her thoughts twisted dully, the agony springing tears to the corner of her eyes. The need to escape tightened its grip, pushed her into recklessness that at the time possessed a perverse kind of logic. Escape where, though? She craved the isolation, suffocated by the bonds of family, and yet the same feeling cast her adrift. She felt abandoned.
The neighbourhood she stepped out into was grim. A concrete block of flats blotted out the moon, street lights pooling sick puddles of light in the blanket of dark. Laughter sprung from shadows, the primal howl of drunk kids, the screech of a domestic argument echoing behind closed doors. She stumbled her way through the estate, arms wrapped tight against the chill. Her skin prickled with the watch of unseen eyes, real or imagined, as she stepped up to buzz the intercom.
"Aaron? It’s me."
A crackle of silence answered. She pressed her head into the back of her hand, splayed flat against the wall. Defeated.
Then:
"Natalie?"
The surprise was evident in his voice. She was just relieved he was still awake at such an hour.
*
The flat was small, its entirety able to fit within any number of bathrooms in the sprawling estates her family owned. And it was crammed claustrophobically with junk. Books, trinkets, ornaments, pictures. An ashtray balanced on the arm of a sofa, stubbed with a dozen shrivelled roll-ups, a vacant shadow in place of the chair's usual occupant. A desk lamp lit one dreary corner, the table piled with old-fashioned books and a clunky laptop. The stench of smoke and the remnants of whatever they'd had for dinner heaved her stomach. Aaron caught her elbow on the way in, stared concernedly into the wet betrayal in her eyes.
"Geeze, Natalie, how much have you had to drink?"
His arm enveloped her shoulders in reply to her abject silence, lips pressed into her hair and catching her forehead so that for a moment, even in the fugue of drunkenness, she knew a sliver of peace. "Did you get the fucking tube? Because I told you not to do that."
His voice was soft, whispered, as he guided her though to the kitchen. Natalie sank into the chair he pulled out for her, watching blearily as he poked his head back into the living room then carefully pulled the door closed. Her head pounded. Yes she had been stupid. Yes it had been on purpose. Regret mixed with the toxic acid in her stomach, and yes some awful part of her wished she hadn't made it here in one piece.
"I'm sorry."
To the voice in her head? To Aaron?
He chuckled. Clinking cups, spooning coffee. "Now I know you're drunk."
She watched him pour it, steam rolling from the dark liquid. The kitchen was quaint, jammed with pots and utensils, dishes stacked on the draining board. Once the mundaneness had soothed her, in some small way made her feel a part of a world she otherwise felt like she viewed through a sheet of glass. She had expected to feel better just being here, only that barrier was ten feet thick now. She wanted to tell him - about the light, about Alvis's papers and how very afraid she was. Spill up every ill facet of her nature, every secret, every abnormality, and hope that he'd still pick up the pieces and accept her for what she was. He would, wouldn't he? He was a good man. That was what good men did.
But then what?
She could see he was tired; his eyes squinted to the task, blinking back fatigue. Judging by the lamp and piles of work in the other room, she also knew he hadn't been sleeping. Pockets of quiet time were precious to him, even when they must be claimed in the dead hours of the night. Too often the case. Soft shadows crescented beneath his eyes. His sleeves were rolled to the elbow, his skin dusted with constellations of freckles. His lips smiled faintly, absently.
He made her heart ache.
The sense of a mistake began to take shape, though she willed it not to. Natalie blinked, looked away.
She was different, frighteningly and inexplicably different, and the walls of her world could no longer contain her. Money ran like water, a deluge of luxury that burned the oxygen from her lungs. She could no longer swim in the meaninglessness of the Northbrook name, not when her family eroded in chunks and her father left when she needed him most. Maybe the only time she had ever needed him. His rejection to her visitation order stung all over again. Pressing her hands over her face seemed a better alternative to crying in front of Aaron, even though she knew he would offer comfort not ridicule.
He pushed the mug in front of her, plopped himself down in the chair opposite. The silence was thumping loud in her head, and the coffee fumes made her want to wretch. The kitchen felt oppressive. How to phrase it? How to tell him?
"Aaron..."
He breathed in tight. "I saw. I saw, on the news, Natalie. About your dad."
They'd never spoken about this before: who she was. It had been part of Aaron's appeal, his quiet and nonjudgmental acceptance. He'd been her sanctuary throughout the trial. Now with that one comment, the bubble around them burst, and the impact shuddered through her alcohol-soaked mind. Her thoughts hadn't been on her father, and it took a moment for the confusion to bleed to despair. Her father was gone. She loved him and he was gone, and it wasn't a secret she wanted to share, not even with Aaron.
"And I'm just saying, if you need to talk. I'm here. You know that I'm here."
She pushed back her chair. "I should go. I need to go."