Another Slightly Grim Story

The sharp taste of his own blood swung him back around into consciousness. He blinked, and tried to move his head into the direction of the light, but as he did, a wave of blackness threatened upon him again, and he stopped trying. His lips were cracked and dry, and the blood seeped into the rivets in his skin like water through the desert. He coughed, and sparkles of light seared his vision as his head shook.

He might be a bit of a rookie detective, but he had the distinct feeling that this was not good.

His mind flicked back to its last moment of coherent thought before he awoke to his own blood in his mouth. He had been here, on the brink of possibly the most significant deduction of his short professional career, about to ambush the woman he thought was responsible for the murder of three young, healthy professional men. All three had been abducted and tortured before their untimely deaths, and the general consensus was that they were murdered by one big mean monster of a guy, but he had had other ideas from day one. The fact that he was correct, at this very moment in time, served him no great comfort.

He closed his eyes slightly and listened for the sound of life in the darkness. Was she here, watching him, waiting to see if he awoke so she could begin toying with him for his life? Or had she incapacitated him and gone off for her next victim? He knew he wasn't her usual type of prey. He was young, yes, but unlike the other victims, relatively uneducated and definitely not wealthy. He might have been pretty highly regarded among his professional peers-he had a knack for putting the pieces of a crime together that few could rival-but the other dead men had been graduates of some of America’s finest universities, and had gone into careers which meant that their bank balances left little to be desired. He was just some cop, twenty six and pushed to the front of the professional queue. She wouldn’t waste her time on him. Not normally, but seen as he had broken into her house with the intention of arresting her for the murders of which she was responsible, he could understand how he might have thrust himself into her spotlight.

Wallis. He had told Wallis where he was going. His partner, older and far wiser than he, had thought it was a dead end, but he knew. He knew he was there. As the night drew on and he didn’t return, Wallis would raise the alarm. The older man was pretty decent in looking out for him. If Susanna called the station asking why he wasn't home yet, Wallis would know to come here. Trouble was, he didn’t have any idea what time it was. He might have arrived here an hour, or a day, ago. And was this even the house he had broken into in the first place?  And, God, what if Susanna didn’t bother to call? She was checking on him less and less these days.

Shit.

In the darkness, he heard the unmistakable sound of a door opening and soft footsteps on the wooden floor, although they were making a concerted effort to remain silent. His head felt hot, as though the wound that had been dripping down into his mouth had become infected, and another wave of darkness threatened him as he tried to concentrate on the room’s other occupant. He kept his eyes closed, not wanting to lose the small element of surprise he had over his attacker. 

She drew closer to him and he knew it was her from the lightness of her footsteps, and as she came close enough for him to tell, the gentle scent of her perfume. Although his eyes were closed, he knew she was only centimetres away from his face. He could feel her breath on his skin. For just a moment, Susanna flickered into his mind, and he wondered whether he would ever see his wife again.

“Hello Jimmy,” she said into the darkness, and it took every ounce of his self restraint to not react to the surprise of her voice. She began to trace her finger over his face, and had he not known better, he would have thought it was the touch of a lover. As it was, it felt like the hands of death.  Her fingers danced over his skins, cupping his cheek slightly and running her hand, almost gently, though the day-old stubble that shadowed his face. He kept his face lowered, still maintaining his alleged unconsciousness, but when she lifted her hands through his hair and plunged her fingers into the wound on his skull, he lifted his head and howled in her face.

She kept her face only inches from his, her bloodied fingers wrapped around his matted hair. “Did you think I didn’t know you were awake, Jimmy? I have night vision cameras in here, you know. You’re my little pet.”

There were streaks of lightning rushing through his vision, and the steady stream of blood into his mouth had returned. He looked deep into her hazel eyes, expecting her to be devoid of any emotion, but he could see how much pleasure she was getting from this. Although undeniably beautiful, her loveliness was robbed by the insanity which overtook her delicate features. Her olive skin was soft, but was covered in flecks of his blood and her full lips were curled into a snarl.

“What were you doing, coming here? This isn’t even my home. You walked right into my…lair, I suppose. Right into the den of the wolf. You must have known I would kill you. And I liked you, you know? So handsome, and funny. One of the best cops I’ve ever worked with. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised that it was you who figured me out. I just wish it hadn’t been.”

He looked down and saw his badge in her hand. Was that how she had known he was coming for her? He’d never dropped it before. She flicked it open for him to see.

Oh, Godammit.

It wasn’t his badge. Although the words were too saturated with blood for him to read it clearly, he could make out one corner of Wallis’ face. His partner had come for him, and it had cost him his life. The older cop wasn’t really all that old. Forty three only a month ago. He still had a young son in high school, less than ten years younger than Jimmy himself. And now he was dead. Jimmy looked up into the eyes of the woman that he knew was going to end his life, and spat in her exquisite face. She never even turned away, never made a move to wipe her cheek. In fact, she allowed a brief, beautiful smile to cross her lips.

“It wasn't my fault, Detective. I never sent him here. I think you’ll find that was you. I wouldn’t have killed him had it not been for you.”

She said these words quietly and calmly, and Jimmy knew they were true. He could have waited, could have gotten backup or called it in, but he hadn’t. He’d called Ian Wallis, who’d told him he was a stupid bastard and that no ninety pound forensic examiner could be responsible for three murders.

Four murders.

And now Wallis was dead, and he was, he reckoned, only minutes behind. He had a strong suspicion that if left alone long enough, the head wound which was pulling at the threads of his consciousness would take his life, let alone whatever wounds he was undoubtedly about to receive.

She flicked the badge wallet closed again, and placed it at his feet. Her hair fell over her face slightly as she did so, and Jimmy leaned forward, testing the strength of his weakening body. A kick might disable her, he thought. He was a strong guy, ran every day, and he liked to think he had a certain level of resolve. Injured or not, he might be able to knock her out until help arrived. That was providing there was help coming, of course. Wallis might not have called it in, tried to cover Jimmy’s back and ending up getting them both killed. Jimmy was never going to know what was happening out there. All he could do was try. All this ran through his head in adrenaline filled seconds. He might not get another chance like this, and he knew he had to take it.

            He pushed his body backwards, preparing himself to issue her with a kick that would knock those perfect teeth out of her pretty little mouth. She was still looking down at the picture of his fallen partner as he lunged forwards, ignoring the pain that ran through his skull and the blood that clouded his vision. He propelled himself at her and she fell, but the impact very nearly stopped him, too. She took the brunt of the fall as they landed, but recovered far more quickly than Jimmy himself. He lay on the floor, trying to breathe through the pain that invaded him as he realised that although the head wound was probably his most sinister injury, it wasn't his only one. He had at least two broken ribs and his ankle was soft and mushy. How he had managed to run at her was a mystery, but he knew he had little chance of getting up anytime soon. He closed his eyes, willing the pain away. She scrambled to regain her footing, but Jimmy lay on the damp wood of the cellar floor, no threat to her now.

            “Nice try, Jimmy. More than any of the others have tried. More than Ian tried.” Her voice was smug, triumphant, but more than that. Every time she spoke, there was a hint of sexual allure in her voice, a flirtation. Jimmy had heard it plenty when she was talking to him-in fact; the tone was nothing new when it came to the way women spoke to him. He was no fool, and he knew his good looks went a long way in getting female witnesses to be that bit more helpful than maybe they would be for other cops.

            “It is a shame that I’m going to kill you. I’m not a complete monster, you know. It’s been a shame for all of them, in their own little way. But for you, and for Ian, it does seem that little bit more tragic. Ian, because it was your fault and not his. And you,” She leaned down so that her face was, once again, close enough to kiss, “You because you’re so handsome, so good, and you have that little wife of yours who adores you and a baby so newborn that you’ll only ever be a tragic hero to her. A face in photographs that she’ll never know.”

            He lifted his face to hers then, anger blazing in his eyes. Numb from his pain for a moment, he pushed himself up so that their skin touched.

            “She will not lose me,” he hissed, “You won’t take me away from them you psychopathic bitch.”

            Once again she smiled. “Oh, Jimmy,” she murmured softly, “I already have.”

© Nicola Pearce

19.02.2008 

Saviour

So. Here's the beginning of a novel I started about five years ago. Five years? That's terrifying. It feels like yesterday I wrote this. Anyway. The context you'll need is that I had an idea about a cult believing that a particular child was their Messiah, their saviour, and that the mother had no option but to relinquish her newborn son. I haven't actually read this back for years, but I think it's decent. Better than anything I write these days, anyway! I hope you like it-if you don't like the content, I at least hope you like the style; my voice. Enjoy

Nic x

            The wind whipped severely around a cluster of battered trees, which bent and coiled in response. Tessa, standing at the window, watched them and felt a strange sense of empathy. I am the trees, she thought, I bend to the wind and let it control me. She watched again as one of the trees, the one she would have believed to be the strongest, relinquished a branch to the onslaught of the gale. Sighing thoughtfully, she began to turn away when her body was gripped in an almost vice-like pain. Bending her knees, she grasped on to the heavy oak table beside her as she was lifted by a pair of strong hands.

            “Do not drop to the floor like that. You could hurt yourself,” he said, practically dragging her across the thick carpet. Tessa, still staring out of the window, tried to claw away, but the pain was too bad. There was an array of glittering stars in her vision, and she inhaled deeply, trying to clear them. She knew something was wrong. It shouldn’t be this bad.

            “Please,” she begged, “I can stand. I want to stand by the window.”

            The man was unrelenting. “You’ve been standing there for over an hour. It is a little unreasonable for you to think you can do this standing up. You don’t have long left, I think. You need to be examined by the doctor.” He bodily picked her up and put her on a chaise long that was barely wide enough to fit her pregnant frame. As soon as he let her go, Tessa stood again, wobbling a little on her feet, but standing nonetheless. She looked again around the room, a lavishly decorated study, with a mahogany bookcase, several pieces of precious art adorning the walls and a moose head on a plague above the door. She had no idea where she was, no way of escape. The only concession she had been granted was the view from the window, and now she’d lost that, too. She looked at the man in the room with her. She knew his face well, of course. He had been following her for months. He was stunning, a beautifully chiselled face, a strong jaw and piercing blue eyes. His dark hair rested just on the nape of his neck, showing his broad shoulders. She didn’t know what he did in the time he wasn't following her, but she could see from his physique that he was a runner.

            He was also right about her not having long left in her labour. Her waters had broken almost seventeen hours ago, and she knew that it was coming to an end soon. He body felt wrung out, and she could feel it preparing to give birth. Her child, her beloved child, so wanted, so loved, was arching its body to free itself from the safety of her womb, and her body was ready to let it go, even if she wasn’t.    

            “What are you…” she began, but paused as another, much stronger contraction gripped her. She inhaled sharply and bent forwards, trying not to show the pain on her face, but she knew how unsuccessful she must have been. The pain was terrible, a dark creature controlling her body, tightening it, pulling at her edges. She tried to fight it, but was forced to let it overcome her like a disease. Eventually, it subsided, and she sat for a moment recovering. He watched her with curiosity, like she was a rare animal in capture, his blue eyes scanning her face as she dealt with the pain.

            “Ok now? You ready for me to call the doctor yet?” He asked, marching across the room and picking up his mobile phone, the only modern commodity in the room.

            Tessa sat back a little, still shocked by the intensity of the pain. “Is he a real doctor?”

            He seemed to consider this. His handsome face paused before he answered. “We would not put you or your baby in any danger.”

            Tessa smiled wryly. “Guess not, then.”

            “Your baby will not be in any danger,” he repeated, not taking his eyes off her.

            Your baby, she thought. No mention of the father. That seemed appropriate.

            She knew that denying the presence of the doctor would be moot soon anyway, because she was so close to giving birth. She sighed, feeling the wave of pain rising in her again.

            “Call him, if you must,” she said uncomfortably, as the contraction hit.

            As Tessa writhed in agony on the chaise long, she saw him flick open the phone and make the call. He said simply, “You’d better get in here,” before flicking the phone shut again. Tessa closed her eyes, enjoying the last few moments that would be alone, although the pain inside her was horrendous, like the baby was clawing to get out. She clenched her teeth, feeling her jaw crack at the pain overtook her. She tried to push herself further back on the chaise long, trying to prepare herself for what she knew was very, very close. She arched her back and tried to breathe, praying equally for this to be over soon and for it to never end.

            The doctor could not have been far away, because he entered the room in a matter of seconds after the call was made. He didn’t speak to her, simply lifted her knees and moved her nightgown over them. Her companion moved backwards, so that he was somewhere near her head. He didn’t touch her, and Tessa wished he would, wished that one of these men would show her some compassion. Another man had entered the room, a man she had met only once, six months before, and he was as silent and foreboding now as he had been then. Tessa tried not to look at him.

            The pain was not stopping, and Tessa was having difficult understand why there was seemingly no end to the contraction, when she felt the overwhelming urge to push. She began to bear down, and again, none of the men spoke to her, or even acknowledged her presence in the room. The so-called doctor began to help her guide the baby out, but his contact was cold and unfeeling. Tessa reached up and grabbed the shirt of the blue-eyed man.

            “The window,” she hissed, “Let me look out of the window.”

            He looked up at the doctor, who glared at Tessa as though she was a petulant child. He looked over his shoulder at the silent man, who shook his head once. The doctor turned back and said to her, “Of course not. Don’t be stupid.” His accent was quiet, South African, and in another life, Tessa would have loved to hear it, but now it cut her to the bone.

            The pain rose inside her again, and Tessa cried out. She felt as though she was being ruptured from inside, the pain burned and pulled at her. She felt the urge to push again, and she did so, letting out a scream as she felt something extremely strange pushing out of her. She looked at the doctor. “Is it out?”

            He gave her the same look again. “Does it feel out? You’re still having contractions. You have delivered head and shoulders. We still need you to push. Stop asking questions and do it.”

            Tessa closed her eyes, feeling a pain in her deeper than the labour, the sear of grief. She had never felt so alone, so overwhelmed, and she felt like a fool for letting these men take from her the best thing that could have happened. She should never have listened to them. She should never have believed their lies.

            She bent herself backwards, finally working with her body, instead of fighting the pain. The contraction did not subside but still ripped at her, but Tessa felt as though she was no longer associated with her aching body. Her thick blonde hair, usually so styled, was plastered against her cheek and neck as she gritted her teeth together. She barely was aware of herself pushing, but she felt the release as her child was pulled from her body. Immediately, her body eased, and she rested for a second.

            The room seemed eerily silent, waiting for the baby to cry. Suddenly, noise erupted from the doctor’s hands, the strong and powerfully incessant cry of her child. Tessa swore that in all of her days, she would not forget that noise. She sobbed, overcome by emotion, by her imminent loss.

            “Is it a boy or a girl?” She begged, trying to get the attention of all three men, who were crowding around the screaming child. They ignored her, so she tried to stand, but her knees wouldn’t hold her weight. Fear rose in her, sheer panic that she would never get to see the baby, never even touch it.

            “Let me see it!” She screeched, hysteria and terror blatant in her voice. The doctor looked up in surprise, and Tessa saw the face of her child.  Although it was screaming, she had never seen anything more beautiful, or more pure. The baby had wide set blue eyes, and bore her some resemblance, but it hurt her heart that the child was not an echo of her. She would leave no mark on this baby’s face, no sign that they had ever once been the same person. She cried again, reaching out for the infant.

            “I want to hold it,” she said softly, “I will not let you take this away from me yet.”

            Obviously reluctant, the doctor handed her the now swaddled baby. As if by magic, the child’s cries subsided as Tessa took hold of it. She pulled at the swaddling cloth gingerly, not wanting to make the baby cold.

            A boy. He was a little boy.

            Tessa could not stop the warm tears spilling down her face as she held her son in her arms. She brought him close, inhaling his beautiful scent, and she kissed him on the cheek. He had begun to cry again, but she pulled him close, soothing him gently. She too was crying, but she held on to him, easing his tears and ignoring her own. She murmured softly in his ear, letting him hear her voice, telling him that she loved him more than anything in the world, and that what was happening was not her choice. She pulled him closer as the doctor leaned forward to remove him from her arms.

            “You won’t hurt him, will you? You won’t let anything happen to him?” She knew her voice was desperate, but she was beyond the point of caring. The doctor was back to ignoring her, and he turned away with the child. Her companion, the handsome man who had been with her since the start of her labour, shook his head.

            “Of course we won’t hurt him. We have been waiting for him.”

            Tessa began to sit up. “Won’t you need me, for a while, for breast milk? That’s important for his health. You’ll need me to stay.”

            He looked Tessa in the eye. “Yes, you will stay here for two more weeks. We will get you a breast pump. You will not see the child again.”

            Tessa found that she still couldn’t stand. Something was happening inside of her. “But if I’m here, what harm will it do?”

            There was no reply to this. Tessa was momentarily preoccupied with the strange pain emanating from her belly. She thought for a moment that she was still in labour. She looked up just as the doctor was leaving.

            “Wait! I'm in pain. Something’s happening.”

            The doctor paused for a moment at the door, and then turned back. The expression on his face was of extreme exasperation, as though Tessa was one problem he had no interest in dealing with. He glanced up at the silent man, as though contemplating handing the baby over to him, but then thought against it. He handed the baby to the other man, and then came over to examine her. His exam was brusque and unpleasant, but Tessa felt her pain ease as he removed something from inside her.

            “The afterbirth,” he said, as though that were obvious. “You’ll be fine after you sleep.”

            The doctor walked back towards the baby, leaving Tessa in a pool of her own blood on the chaise long. There was nothing in her left to cry, and she could only watch as he took the baby out of the room. The child’s cries echoed down the hallway, and Tessa closed her eyes, imprinting the sound on her brain. As he left, a woman, not much more than a girl, entered the room. Dressed all in white, she was clearly subservient to the men, and her head was lowered. She came over to Tessa as both the other men left the room. As soon as the door clicked shut, Tessa broke down, not caring what this girl thought of her for doing so. So was surprised when she felt the cool, small hand of the girl on her arm.

            “Don’t be upset,” she whispered, as though not wanting to alert anyone that they were talking. “You have done a great thing.”

            Tessa thought this girl was as insane as the rest of them. “I let them take my newborn son away from me.”

            The girl smiled enigmatically. “You don’t know what you’ve done. It’s a shame you don’t know.”

She began to clear the blood from the leather. She gently eased Tessa up, making sure she wasn’t still bleeding, giving her something to drink. Tessa realised this girl must be medically qualified, here to do the job the doctor wasn’t capable of. After a few minutes, she phased out, thinking only of the strong, sturdy weight of her son in her arms. She closed her eyes, knowing that exhaustion would soon let her slip away into unconsciousness, and that there she could dream that this ordeal had never happened.

Softly, and with dreams of her beautiful baby boy, and not his horrific birth, Tessa succumbed to blessed darkness, where she knew she would always remain.

One Year Later

          The streets of New York city, often written about, well cited as inspiration for the most stunning, darkest, and most provocative of creations was, to Tessa, like a huge monster, sucking the life out of its inhabitants, whilst giving them the belief that they lived in God’s greatest kingdom. She was as addicted to it as every other person she passed in the street, and yet she knew she could, and should, live without the impact it had on her life. But Tessa had yearned for anonymity, to disappear from the world, and there was nowhere better to do that then here.

            Tessa walked into a Starbucks opposite her home. The Starbucks was small, and quite quiet, away from the hubbub of the city, and Tessa liked it specifically for this reason. The motif on the walls was subtle, earthy tones and quiet, unobtrusive music, and Tessa spent many evenings here, looking out of the window, considering her greatest mistake.

            The weather outside was electric, calm and cold, waiting for a storm to break. The sky was eerily bright, and the air was expectant, knowing soon the downpour would come. Tessa sipped her coffee, settling herself in by a window, trying to snuggle as much as possible into the thick, velvet seat. She was always cold these days. It had been many, many days since she had known warmth.

Tessa looked down at the notes and papers she had strewn upon her lap. Since arriving in New York eleven months ago, she had forced upon herself some distance from the life she had known before. Before she had come to New York, before the reason she had to leave- Tessa had been a student of philosophy and belief. She had taught in a community college in Seattle, and loved her life. Now she had come home, back to the place she had been born, and partly raised, and taken a job as a secretary to a small-time lawyer, a man who dealt with business affairs and compensation claims. The work was simple and mind-numbing, but Tessa needed to numb herself from the memories that followed her. The papers on her lap were some simple administrative notes, work that she could have done in the office, but she always took some work home with her. She didn’t like having free time.

She gathered up the papers and set them aside, knowing that once she got home she’d be glad of having something to do. As she did so, she knocked the coffee cup over, sending almost an entire cup of coffee onto the counter. The hot brown liquid slid across the table, just as the waiter was passing with a tray. He stopped, and began to wipe up the coffee. He smiled up at Tessa. She knew him well, she was here almost every day, but she never spoke to him, never met his eye. Still, she couldn’t stop herself from apologising for the spillage. He chuckled, his eyes creasing at the edges.

“Don’t worry about it. That’s what I’m here for. I’ll get you another coffee if you want it.”

Tessa shook her head frantically. “I don’t want to be any trouble.”

He smiled again as he stood. “No trouble. It’s on the house, so long as you don’t go bragging about it,” he winked as he headed back to the coffee machines.

Tessa nodded, only half sure she should accept. The last thing she wanted was to encourage him, because she didn’t want to invite conversation. He seemed to be busying himself making her coffee, and Tessa left him to it. She would gladly pay him for both cups of coffee, so long as he left her alone.

“Tessa? Tessa Drake, is that you?”

Tessa froze. She stared forwards, hoping the voice would leave her alone if she didn’t respond.  She turned herself away from the noise, praying inwardly that she wouldn’t have to talk to whomever it was that was calling her. She heard nothing for a moment, and she relaxed her shoulders slightly. She was safe for now. When she felt the fingers coil upon her shoulder, Tessa screamed and almost rose completely from her chair. She turned; smacking her forehead against the elbow of whomever had reached out to her. Tessa screamed again as the woman began to apologise profusely.

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean-Tessa, that is you, isn’t it?”

Tessa resigned herself to the fact that there was no escaping her having a conversation with this woman. She looked at her properly for the first time and saw it was Melanie Stokes, someone she had known both in high school, and by coincidence, they had both gone to the same college. Melanie’s almond shaped brown eyes were narrowed in concern.

“Are you okay? You didn’t answer when I shouted you.”

“Yes, I-I’m sorry about that. Sorry about your elbow.”

Melanie slipped into the seat beside her. Her long body had filled out slightly since the last time Tessa had seen her, but she looked better for it. Instead of looking boyishly lean, she looked curvier and more comfortable with her body.

“Oh, don’t worry about my elbow, Tessa. I smacked you in the head. You okay?”

Tessa was about to respond when the waiter returned with her coffee. Tessa managed a smile for him, but was thankful she didn’t have to embark upon a conversation with him now that Melanie was at her table.

“To be honest, Tessa, I wasn’t even sure it was you, you look so different,” Melanie said, making no secret of the fact that she was looking Tessa up and down, and Tessa couldn’t blame her. In the past twelve months, she had undergone a radical appearance change. She had always been curvy, but her appetite had long left her, and she was now skinny, almost bony. Her pelvic bone jutted out as did her shoulder blades and ribs, and although she didn’t look ill necessarily, she certainly looked different. Her hair, always blonde, was now a deep shade of chocolate, but she had been unable to change it so far as to shorten it, because more than even she had wanted to hide behind her tresses. Her clothes were dark, always shades of brown and black, anything to avoid being noticed,  because her newfound hollowness had given her cheekbones, had made her wide green eyes even more appealing,  and her lips, always plump, look surgically enhanced, and despite her desire to be unnoticed, her clothes had done little to hide her from the world. Melanie was looking at her strangely, and Tessa shrugged.

“Yeah, I just, y’know I felt like a change.”

Melanie nodded, and smiled. “Well, I know what you mean. After college, I think my hair must have gone through hundreds of different colours and styles. My stylist was sick of seeing me. I was trying to find myself. Such a cliché.” Melanie laughed, and motioned for the waiter to bring her the same as Tessa was having. “I love the brunette though, it suits you. Really brings out your eyes. And you must have lost a hundred pounds! Not that you needed to lose an ounce, but still, you look great.”

Tessa nodded, and picked up the coffee in front of her. She actually had no idea how much weight she’d lost in the past year. It didn’t seem important.  She felt she ought to respond, and Tessa smiled for Melanie.

“You don’t look so bad yourself. In fact, you look amazing.”

Melanie smiled, but Tessa could tell she loved hearing the compliment. Not that Tessa had minded telling her; the truth was that she did look happier, and her eyes were lit up, her skin glowed, and she was a lifetime away from the moody kid she had been when they were both teenagers. It’s funny, she thought, we all have our demons to battle.

            Melanie swept a strand of hair behind her ear. “Thanks Tessa. I do feel, I don’t know, more comfortable with myself. You remember in college, I was all hands and feet, so tall and skinny? I hated my body. But, I guess as I’ve gotten older, I’ve accepted myself a little. Plus, I got married last year. His name’s Scott and he’s a cop. Would you believe it? I married a cop.”

            The source of Melanie’s happiness was so obviously her husband that Tessa couldn’t stop herself from smiling. Melanie proffered her left hand and showed Tessa her sparkling rings. There was something innate in Tessa to respond to jewellery, and she couldn’t stop herself letting out a small cry of appreciation at the glittering stones on Melanie’s engagement and wedding rings.

            “Oh, they’re beautiful. You’re so lucky.”

            Melanie beamed, and Tessa once again felt a surge of sympathy for her. When they had been in high school and college, they had been friends, and while Tessa had been beautiful and outgoing, and popular with boys, Melanie had been sporty and self-conscious, and had very few boyfriends. They had been close until they had graduated, and despite both of their best intentions, they had drifted apart.

            “You’ll have to meet him. He’s not a beat cop anymore-that’s how we met, he’s a detective now.”

            Tessa raised an eyebrow. “You met him when he was a beat cop? What were you doing?”

            Melanie laughed, just as the waiter came over with her coffee. She crossed her legs and pulled herself closer to the table. “My purse had been stolen. Some junkie, I guess, I don’t know. Anyway, he was on a street corner as I was running after the guy. You know me, Tessa, if there’s one thing I’m good at, it’s running. So, I come around this corner at fifty miles an hour and run straight into Scott. We both end up on the floor, and I’m screaming at him to go after this guy. By the time we’d got ourselves off the damn floor, the thief was long gone, but you know what? I cancelled all my credit cards, and met my husband, so I guess the kid did me a favour.” She took a long sip of the coffee, closing her eyes and savouring the flavour. Tessa stared at her, wondering how long it would be before she would be able to appreciate something as small in her life. Everything was a battle for Tessa, everything reminded her of what she’d lost, or frightened her into remembering the ordeal of giving up her son. She shivered as she thought of him, of how old he was now, and how much she had already missed. She closed her eyes for a moment, trying to wipe her memory clean. Her heart often betrayed her like this, throwing the memories at her when she thought she was doing okay, that she might just be able to make it through the day.

            Melanie placed the mug back on the table. “So what about you? Are you married?”

            “No, I,” Tessa paused, realising her voice had come out strangled. She cleared her throat.

            “No, not married. I’ve been close, once, but…things happen, you know? I’ve been single for a while.” She held up her naked left hand.

            “Looking like that? How are you still single?” Melanie smiled, not patronising, but encouraging. Tessa smiled back, knowing that Melanie would never know why it would be a long time before she let a man touch her again.

            Although she had only had a small sip of the coffee, Melanie pushed it away, obviously finished with it. She cleared her throat slightly, and then looked Tessa right in the eye.

            “I’m going to have to head off now. Scott’s outside in the car, I told him I was getting something to go,” she laughed slightly at herself. “Although he’s probably not surprised it took me twenty-five minutes. Look,” she said, reaching in her handbag for a pen and scribbling her phone number down on a napkin. “Call me. I’ve missed you, Tessa. We were such good friends, and I loved seeing you. I want you to meet Scott. You will call me, won’t you?”

            Tessa stared down at her cup of coffee, wishing it could swallow her up. Her friendship with Melanie had been a lifetime ago, a time when she was a different person. But Tessa was lonely, and she was bruised from being hurt and alone for so long. She closed her eyes. Surely an old friend, one she knew was safe and wouldn’t hurt her, surely that would be okay?

            Her hesitance was not lost on Melanie, who took a step away from her. “It’s okay,” she said, her tone colder now, “You don’t have to.”

            Tessa stood up, afraid that if she let Melanie go she’d never take the first step back into enjoying her life. She reached out for her friend, touched her arm. Tessa felt the softness of Melanie’s linen jacket, her arm underneath. It had been so long since she’d touched anyone or anything, so long since she’d felt her numbness lift out of despair. She knew she needed someone to lean on.

            “I won’t have to call. Let’s arrange something right now.”

            Melanie’s face broke into a smile, just as she had years ago in college when she was upset and Tessa had soothed her pain. If only Melanie knew how much Tessa needed the favour returning now.

All content © Nicola Pearce 

Anyone got the time?

Time is a strange thing. It waits for no man. My relationship with time, with the various implements in my life that dictate, count, measure or take my time is one of loathing. I remember being young, not significantly younger than I am today, and not being so tied to clock watching, to the movement of time. I used to have hours, entire days and nights, with which I could do whatever I chose; nothing if I so wanted it. I know my life and the choices I have made contribute somewhat to this; I have a full time job, which while is entirely intellectually freeing, nevertheless requires timekeeping from me. In fact, it requires it in the extreme. I clock in and out, I watch minutes slip away from me awaiting breaks, lunch, and end of the day. I am assigned break times, but I will only go if the minute has just changed. That minute is mine. I am bound by time when I am there, and then I come home to work the hours away. I make deals with myself: if I watch this for thirty minutes, I must then work for the rest of the evening. I can read for ten minutes; no, twelve, but then I must start again with my university work.

            This, too, is dictated by time. I am a student teacher, and being a teacher involves planning every heartbeat of your lesson. I had no appreciation for this as a student, and indeed I wonder if all my teachers faced their responsibilities in the way that they should. Certainly, thinking back, I highly doubt if GCSE English really required us to watch Leonardo DiCaprio in Romeo and Juliet quite so many times, eh, Mrs Spicer? I digress. I go from watching a digital clock for eight hours, to planning a three hour lesson into fifteen minute slots. It’s all about those fifteen minutes.

            Aside from this, I have a bizarre relationship with timekeeping itself. No two clocks in my home tell the same time. The clock on my phone is around eleven minutes fast. My watch is around four minutes fast, but seven minutes slower than my phone. The clock in my bedroom I consider to be reasonably reliable, but looking here at it compared to my computer, it is about a minute fast. But what’s one minute? My phone already thinks the hour has changed. That became surreal on New Year’s Eve. My phone entered the year eleven minutes before everyone else. It just had a wander around before we all got there.

            I am almost obsessed with time, with how much time has passed, or how much time I can steal before I have to begin my next task. And this, I think, is the crux of it. I work five days a week, and on the two days I don’t get paid to work, I go to university one day, and teach all day the next, so effectively, I work seven days a week. Every week. This is fine, I suppose, certainly it is a life I have chosen and is without doubt a temporary arrangement, lasting no more than two years, one of which is almost over. It is, however, incredibly tiring. Time has become my lost long friend and my enemy. I am always trying to scrape what time is left of the day after work to complete other work, or I am always counting the minutes between my snooze buttons before they go off again. I do have six of them. Sleep is something else I remember but barely experience. I spend a great amount of time watching time, or feeling bound to it. Or by it.

            So, is that it? Is this obsession I have with time-not necessarily what time it is, but the amount of time that has passed-a temporary thing? Will it be that once I get my life back, once I have the luxury of a day off, that I will allow time to pass without watching it so desperately? The other factor of time, though, is its passage in the greater sense. My friends are all falling in love, moving house, changing country, getting married. Most of them, it seems, are pregnant. Time moves without you even as you watch it, and maybe this is my obsession. Maybe I am consumed by every movement of time, because I watch it go, but I do not go with it. Undoubtedly, I age, because time can do that to you even as it leaves you alone, but the seconds, minutes, hours, years, they can still leave you behind. You can see them pass, like fish in an aquarium, separated by glass, but you can do nothing but press your hand against it. You can’t always flow with time. Sometimes it flows past you.

            I don’t know. All I know is that it dictates a great deal of my day, and I wish I didn’t care, or have to care, so much, about time. I loathe it as a result. But I have spent enough time talking about it. I’ve got to get back to work.