I don't feel like this is going anywhere.
_____
Moments later--moments that she wouldn‘t ever remember--she found herself on her back on the sidewalk, blood in her hair and freezing water all over her face. Someone was scrubbing her forehead none too gently and when it reached the cut on her head, she cried out, the pain making her eyes water.
“Stop screeching, will you?” said the dratted boy, who was kneeling next to her looking thoroughly innocent.
“You knocked me over!” She started to sit up and her eyes streamed. He dropped a bloody rag and backed away, watching her get painfully to her feet.
“What a nasty trick I’ve played,” said Locke, looking far from contrite.
“I probably have a concussion, you stupid shithead. And the dog that I was walking--”
“Is back with his kind master, free of your dirty hands.” He laughed and glanced at the blood on the pavement. “Yeah, you might have a concussion. But if you’re lucky it will make you smarter since you can’t really get a lot stupider.”
Anger made her forget the throbbing pain in her head and she turned towards Locke, raising her hand to hit him. But he backed up and shook his head.
“Nah, don’t do that.”
But she was determined, and closed the distance between them, attempting to slap him in his ridiculous face. She had never hit anyone before, and she might have been afraid of doing it wrong if the bloody spot on the head wouldn’t have been scrambling her already slightly disorganized mind.
“I told you not to.” He caught her wrist and then began to drag her across the street. “You probably need to rest. It was good I was around to pull you out of the way of that sports car. After you ran into that pole you were so confused you might have done anything.”
“Let me go, you stupid lying bastard!” Trying to pry his fingers off her wrist was obviously impossible. and so she kicked him in the shin.
“Ow! Dammit!” He let her go and stepped back.
Feeling awfully dizzy, she tried to speak, “I--I--” But before she could tell him he would never get away with his heinous deeds, she fainted.
______
Something smelled like alcohol and Cretia hoped it wasn’t her. Voices crawled near, muffled and unintelligible.
“Wh--what the hell?” she mumbled, trying to sit up.
It took her over a minute to realize she was on the floor in her own closet. For a moment it was a relief, and then she groaned, her head pounding and her memory much too clear. Had that stupid boy carried her into her house, up the stairs and then dropped her happily on the floor of her own closet?
Swearing under her breath, sure that her eyes would come toppling out of her head if it hurt any more, she crawled out of the closet. Footsteps on the stairs interrupted her progress and she leaned back, letting her head rest on the closet door.
“Lucretia? Where are you, sweetie?”
Cretia was immediately sure of two things: first, that her mother was outside of her door and, second, that Locke had somehow persuaded her mother into allowing him to permanently stay at their house. Now, it was very uncommon for Cretia to be right in anything, and so the fact that one of her two guesses was correct seemed to be quite an accomplishment.
“I’m,” began the girl, rubbing her forehead. “I’m in here.” She wanted to add that it was ridiculous to believe her to be anywhere else, but her head simply wouldn’t allow it.
The door swung open and her mom was holding a laundry basket, looking annoyed. Quite disturbingly fast, her expression changed its mind, becoming inimitably concerned and terrified. She dropped the laundry basked and rushed to her daughter’s feet.
“Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god!” cried Cretia’s mother, obviously incapable of thinking of anything intelligent to say. “What . . . what happened to you, sweetheart? Darling, what happened? Why didn’t I--? When did--”
Cretia waited for her mother to leave room for an answer, but no room came. Severely frustrated, and confused as to how her mom could not have seen a boy carrying her unconscious daughter through the house, Cretia interrupted.
“That boy across the street tripped me with a piece of his broken swing-set and I crashed on the concrete, my damned head catching my fall. All right? Do you understand now? Are you going to call the police and have the bastard arrested, or will he continue to roam free, his sick sense of humor free to damage more people without warning?”
Apparently, Cretia was accustomed to people warning her before they attempted to give her a concussion.
“Okay, slow down. What happened, honey? A boy did what?”
“He tripped me, you idiot woman! The stupid boy tried to fucking kill me!”
Cretia’s mother paused, shocked by her daughters outburst. Her expression changed back to annoyance and she stood, hurt and disbelieving.
“If you can’t talk civilly to your mother you will be grounded for . . . much longer than the weekend. Now, clean the blood off your face and unload this laundry. If you want an aspirin I’ll be downstairs.” Quickly, she disappeared past the laundry basket and Cretia could hear her heavy footsteps on the stairs.
Stupid woman! Cretia despised her.
Standing shakily, she leaned against the door, her head throbbing and her stomach heaving. But she told herself not to vomit, and it worked. How she managed to reach the bathroom had nothing to do with her ability to do so, but more to do with her inability to realize that she couldn’t. And yet she did and was able to wash the blood from her face and hair, and then stare at the jagged cut a little to the left of her left eyebrow.
“Stupid, stupid, bastard,” she muttered. It wasn’t actually as bad as she had thought. She had felt faint because she had supposed that was the way she meant to feel. But, as it turned out, covering the cut with make-up would not hurt half as much as Locke must have hoped. Although it still hurt quite a bit.
After she had finished fixing her hair, she stomped down the stairs, still wanting to kill her mother and her neighbor across the street. As it turned out, stomping down the stairs was not the wisest choice she had made that day, and that was really saying something after the sort of day she had had.
“Yes, mother, I would very much like some aspirin!” she shouted weakly, collapsing on the last stair and feeling faint. Considering that her shout was followed by silence, she decided she would just have to add an apology for good measure. “And, along with wanting aspirin, I am very sorry for my bad language. Really, very sorry. Mother?”
Fairly quickly, aspirin and water appeared before her, along with the bony and smiling face of her mother. In addition to the aspirin, she received a lecture on the dangers of running into poles and other standing objects that might escape her notice. It was only after Mother had left for the grocery store and the aspirin had begun to take effect that Cretia realized Locke must have been for a visit. How else would her mother have “known” she had run into a pole? It definitely wasn’t something she would think up on her own.
Furious in a very unladylike fashion, Cretia surprised herself by picking up the empty glass and throwing it onto the tile floor, where it did not fail to shatter into a thousand pieces.
“This is so stupid!” she shrieked, not allowing herself to focus on exactly what was stupid, and hoping that somehow Locke would just fade out of her mind so that she could be reasonably angry about something less . . . unreasonable. But of course such a hope made no difference, and all she could think of was the horrific boy across the street and how she would get him back for so thoroughly humiliating her. If only she had known that what she had received was merely a friendly hello, and that if she were to pursue him any further, in any form, she would wish she hadn’t. But, as you know, Cretia was not the most clever of girls, or the most adept judge of character, and so she realized none of this.
Not wishing to get the broom out, Cretia kicked the biggest pieces of glass under the table and then put her shoes on to protect from the microscopic pieces. This was not very considerate of her. But she had other things to attend to.
It was nearing two o’clock, and, consequently, the sun had finally made up its mind and retreated behind a pair of assiduous-looking clouds. This irritated Cretia, but she gave in and changed into a pair of jeans before making the trek across the street to Locke’s house. The yard was empty, save for the broken trampoline, and a lamp was glittering feebly through the curtains on the kitchen window.
Her plan wasn’t among the most brilliant of plans created by teenage girls; a category not known for its genius. She was counting on two things--neither of which were very likely--; one, that someone would definitely answer the door; and two, that that person would not be Locke.
And so she knocked. And then she knocked again. And then she kicked the door. And then she screamed threats. And then she went home and fell asleep on the floor next to her bed.
It wasn’t until her pale pink room had turned a pale brown that she awoke. The sun threw shafts of unwelcome light onto the evidence of her hateful day as it made its way towards the horizon; she couldn’t have despised it more.
“Lucretia, there is someone at the door!” came her mother screechy voice. That damned name again.
Cretia was tempted not to respond, but then she realized that it might be someone who mattered, so she hastily shouted that she would be right down. Getting cautiously to her feet, she felt the inclination to run downstairs. Finding this impossible, she cursed her way down instead.
Of course there was no one there. Hesitantly, she said, “Hello?”; but it was clear there was no one there. Ridiculously clear.
“Mom!” she screamed, receiving no response. “Who was at the door?” she screamed again. And then she heard laughing. Yes, it was definitely laughing.
Cretia couldn’t bring herself to turn around. She knew he was behind her--in her house, touching her things, breathing the air that was hers--but she simply could not bring herself to look at him. It was all too horrible. Her knuckles were white on the doorknob; her face was rigid, but it didn’t have a color of its own.
“You have a comfortable couch,” he said carelessly, and she heard the couch-springs squeak. But she said nothing, and the silence was funny. “Fine, ignore me. I don’t mind talking, though. It’s probably one of my greatest talents.” But then he said no more. Apparently he didn’t find her able to appreciate one of his greatest talents. Although it seemed odd that he would explain something he did not intend to use to justify something that would only be justified if he used said thing. But Cretia only concluded this in the frenetic place behind her fury. It was cramped in that place.
After an irreplaceable period of time that would forever be seen as a tragedy in Cretia’s mind, she let go of the doorknob and closed the door. As hard as she could with her foot. It had taken her only a few minutes to decide to talk to Locke, but such a decision was too weighty to be confined to a few minutes, so she liked to call it an hour.
“Leave,” she said.
