Chapter 2
Bronwyn
I got home in an uncharacteristically bad mood. I stomped into my room and wiped the lip-gloss off my lips. Why didn’t Miette trust me anymore? We used to be best friends, but now she was cutting me out. Was there something wrong with me? I flung myself onto the bed and started sobbing passionately.
“Winnie?”
“Go away!” I screamed. I was shaking, the way I do when I am angry. Clumsy and I feel as if everything is far too fragile, as if I could break it easily. I threw my pillow at the window.
“Get out of my room!”
My mother didn’t answer, but quietly retreated. She knows me when I am in a temper. I tried to cry for a few more seconds, but it didn’t work. I couldn’t press my face into the pillow, otherwise I wouldn’t be able to breathe properly. The tears were stuck in my throat and my hands, legs, arms were shaking. I hit my head with my clenched fists. It hurt quite a lot. I wanted to rip something. I took a fresh piece of paper out of my binder and ripped it quickly, but it just feels weird, so I put the two halves of computer-generated lined paper on my desk. I looked at myself in the window. It is as dark as if someone had painted the windows black, so it was almost like a perfect mirror. My eyes were red and the colour is high in my cheeks. My face was sort of squashed. I turned to the side slightly, but it didn’t really make a difference. A half-sobbing, half-choking girl peering at her reflection out of suspicious puffy eyes is looking out at me. I turned in disgust.
Is this how I looked when I fell on that pipe last year? I twisted round to look at my back. Sure enough, there it is. A small, colourless crescent mark above my hip, witness to my stupidity, testament to my ineptness. One small slip. It was icy that day; I am not usually so clumsy. That was when I learnt how complicated life is.
I imagined a thousand different Bronwyn’s, each one different from all of my split-second choices. If I hadn’t been being stupid on that day, been mucking round, I wouldn’t have a scar on my back. Maybe I wouldn’t know so much about the world, about pain and fear. I am still terrified of hospitals. That Bronwyn is lucky.
The Bronwyn that is the most different is the one that was never adopted. I am adopted. I don’t know who my mother is. Neither does Mum, or Dad, or Morgan. I am not like a heroine in a story, yearning for the loss of her mother. I did not try and find her, find out her name or where she lives. She left me. Every time I think about her, getting dangerously close to missing her, I remember that. She left me. She didn’t want me. I tried to make myself hard. But sometimes I think of that girl. Maybe her hair is long and her smile is soft instead of mischievous. Maybe she has a baby brother and a mother that has her eyes, a father who helps her with her homework. I tried to harden myself to this girl, this Bronwyn I could have been. But it doesn’t work. And I cried.
Wrong. Wrong. Everything about that night was wrong. It was too hot and the sheets were scratchy on my legs. I couldn't breathe. Everything stifled me. I slip a coat on and quietly pad out of the house. The door is locked, but I have my spare key. I make barely any noise as I slip out of the house. The clouds are swollen and heavy, with light rain sprinkling lightly from the heavens. I lift my face to the sky and enjoy the feeling of moisture on my face, washing away the sweat of my stuffy room. The coolness, the freshness of the air makes my skin tingle.
It is darker still outside, the blackness welcoming me. It hides me from normal people’s eyes, making me invisible. I cannot even see my oven feet, my own hands. There are no stars, no moon. I could disappear here and no one would know. This sent a delicious tingle of fear down my spine. I could be anyone. I am a queen of the night, far above others who fear the dark. It helps me, hides me. I was having so much fun playing my game, I was disappointed when I reach the first pool of artificial light on the pavement, so I slipped into the wet grass in front of the supermarket. Carried on away from the streetlight. I kept going until I could not see myself anymore, but the mystery is not the same.
Abruptly, there was an acute, startling sound. I looked up sharply. There is a man with his collar turned up, standing under the pool of light. I did not see him before. He was looking right at me. I fight to quell the rising panic in my throat. He surely cannot see me, not when I cannot see myself. I make a small step. His eyes are still staring at the spot I was. He cannot see me. I daren’t breathe out. Fear. I want to run. But my instinct tells me to stay. A movement might make him see me. He would see a small girl staring at him with terrified eyes, crouching in the darkness. I want to scream. I want to cry with fear. I am shaking again, but not with anger. I am terrified. Suddenly the man turns slightly. He is looking at me again. Straight at me. Our eyes brush, and I know that he can see me. His eyes tighten.
I scream. Suddenly, he is running towards me. This cannot be happening. My legs quiver and I fall to the ground, sobbing, tears obscuring my eyes. My throat is thick and I scream so much, again and again. I want someone to come and hear my screams. But there is no one to hear me scream. There is no one to save me. He reaches me and pulls me roughly up with his hand grasping my short hair. It hurts and I shy away from him.
“Who are you?” He shouts. His voice is rough as if from lack of use. He shakes me hard, like a rabbit caught in a dog’s jaws, and I scream again, louder. I am crying helplessly. He relaxes slightly. I am just a frightened girl. “What are-” I try to break away but he has the grip of a fully grown man and his fingers are vice-like. He tries to catch me by the shoulder but I ducked and kicked him. Hard. He fell back, eyes narrowed in pain. Then I ran.
As soon as I started, I almost relaxed. I knew I was safe. I still can’t imagine anyone ever catching me when I run, except for those times when I was small. Now my legs are strong and I shot forwards like a bullet. I have trained for years and running comes to me as easily as breathing.
I heard his steps behind me. Impossible. How could he be catching up already? I wanted to turn back. But I couldn't The first rule of running. Never turn back. But this is no race.
I turned. There was no one there. This scared me. I could hear footsteps. I knew the sound of the pounding of feet, mostly behind me, as these were, but occasionally catching up, as these were as well. My running instincts kicked in and I accelerated, kicking into my top gear. My arms were not moving to the same time as my feet, my lungs were burning. And still the footsteps grew louder. Oh, God, if I get out of this alive, I swear I will never go out alone again. I was retching, wheezing for breath, dry sobs ripping through my throat. My legs were weak and I was crying helplessly again, tears streaming from my eyes, snatched away by the wind. I thought if someone sees me now, my face would look as if I was being tortured. Then I tripped over a large solid object and my world turned upside down. I was tugged viciously to the ground, my head hitting the rock with a sickening crack. I gasped as my vision swum suddenly, white spots swelling in front of my eyes. Rasping, I tasted coppery blood in my mouth. Almost gratefully, I let the darkness swallow me and my head lolled back. I lay still.
I woke up, a few minutes later, I thought. I could not be sure. My head was pounding. Groaning, I threw up, slowly, revoltingly on the ground, blood trickling down my scalp and flowing down my jawbone. I tried and push myself up, but I got such a violent jolt of head rush, almost blinding me that I didn’t try again for another minute. When I did, I swayed slightly, almost falling over.
I didn’t know where the man was. He must not have seen my body in the darkness, I hoped. I was almost too tired to be scared. The grass is wet from the rain, which has started pouring down more heavily. My clothes are soaked, water-logged. My eyes are heavy, but I pinch myself, twisting he skin painfully as I stumble through the mud. My mind is hazy with fatigue and pain. My legs are weak and trembling and I slip to the ground often. The last time this happened, I could not get up for a while. I lay there, my face in the dirt, crying as I have not cried since I was a small child. The tears stream down my grimy face and I have no strength to wipe them off. I do not know how I find the will to get up. Each step is heavy now, my feet are clumsy. Each step requires a herculean amount of effort.
I am making for the streetlight. I can see the light quite clearly now, hoping that when I find the road, I can find the way home. I pray that it will be easier on the street.
When I reach the pavement, I realize that I recognize the place. The place the man had stood. I am almost home. As I painfully pick my way to the streetlight, something catches my eye. It is glittering like a falling star under the oily pool of lamplight. Too exhausted to examine it, I scooped it up and put it in my pocket. It was cool and smooth to the touch.
I went home. My parents yelled. I yelled. My mother cried. My head kept bleeding. I collapsed. That was making for one interesting night.
