Young Writers Society

5. Present Day

When I awoke in the morning, every inch of my body ached from having been curled up in the floor all night. I didn’t dream, or at least if I did, I didn’t remember it. A searing pair shot up my spine as I pushed myself to my feet and stumbled forwards into the mess that was my flat, and every bone clicked as I stretched myself out in the lounge. All around me were piles of crap; empty take away boxes, dirty clothes, half used pots of paint. Abandoned paintings were strewn across the sofa, a mixture of mine and Starry’s. You could tell which ones were hers - the ones painted with warm autumn shades. The sweeping summer sunsets and golden girls laying on golden beaches, each brushstroke deliberate and meaningful. I pulled one out from underneath a coffee stained cushion and traced my fingertips over the initials signed in the corner. S L H. Starry Luella Hale - a name as stupid as my own. I let it fall from my grip and land amongst shards of glass that had once belonged to a photo frame. The shards were covered in dust now, but they still cut equally as deep. As I stepped forward, my foot pressed down onto a stray shared I hadn’t noticed yet. I winced as warm blood trickled down my skin and dripped onto the carpet, staining it crimson.

There was no natural light in the room, so I limped over to the windows and drew back the heavy curtains, leaving a trail of blood behind me. There were dozens of dead flies, all cocooned in a month's worth of dust. Each one had flown to the window in an attempt to escape, and yet had found itself more trapped than before. That’s how I felt then, staring out that window at the big wide world with its flashing lights and opportunities, knowing I could never reach them again. So I pulled the curtains shut again, leaving the flies to decay in the sunlight.

Starry hated this flat. She wanted to live in a log cabin high up a mountain in the woods, where no one would find her. Where she could paint and sing and dance all day long and not worry about what anyone else thought. Not that she cared anyway, but she just wanted to get as far away from society as she could, didn’t want to participate in it anymore. “I’ve played my part,” She’d said to me one night. “I went to school, I go to uni, I work in a shop. I’ve made an effort. What more can I do?” When I’d suggested I wanted to have a career with the police, she’d mocked me.

“Why would you want to serve them? It’s basically working for the government, and we hate them, right?” She glared at my application as I showed it to her. “I can’t believe you submitted that without talking to me first. You don’t want to be a police officer, you want to live out in the sticks, with me, remember?”

I had slowly grown to hate this flat too, more and more everyday. The beige walls, the grey carpet, the second hand furniture rescued from the dump. They were all the opposite of Starry’s taste yet reminded me so much of her. She could have made the blandest of things feel beautiful, she could have made anything feel beautiful. She even made me feel beautiful, after convincing me to grow my hair out long after years of keeping it short.

Now, whenever I looked in the mirror, I didn’t recognize the girl staring back at me. Those icy blue eyes were still there, but the skin around them was pale and translucent save for the black bags that sagged. Every inch of my skin felt bruised and beaten, and my shirt hung loose from my bones. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d eaten something; I’d stopped feeling hungry anymore. This time last year I’d been a size twelve, now even a size six felt baggy. The mirror hung on the wall above a bookcase stuffed full with classics, poetry books and art books. We were always reading, crossed legged on the bed in the warm light of the bedside lamps. I couldn’t read anymore, because all the words just blurred into one continuous stream. I couldn’t do anything anymore. I was just a pile of bones.

A sharp knock at the door pulled me away from the mirror. I didn’t want to answer it. If I just ignored it, curled up on the floor and hugged my knees then maybe they’d go away.

I heard a clink of metal as the letterbox was pushed open. “Castle, I know you’re in there, for fuck’s sake let me in.”

Reluctantly, I slunk to the front door and unlocked it, knowing that if I didn’t she’d force her way in somehow. Amy stood there, hands on her hips, as I opened the door. She was smiling, but it dropped to a frown as soon as she set her eyes upon my shrivelled form.

“Jesus fuckin’ christ, Cas.” I moved out the way as she barged in and kicked off her high heels. “You look like shit.”

“Thanks.” I closed and locked the door behind us, deliberately hitting my head against the wood as I did so, cursing under my breath. Amy had been a friend at uni, the kind you sat next to because it was convenient, not because you actually liked them. She was tall and curvy, and always dressed like she was heading to a job interview - close fitting clothes, red lipstick and nylon tights.

She sighed heavily as she made her way into the kitchen, eyeing up the masses of dirty dishes and overflowing bins. “Good thing I came over, Joe and Mia kept saying to just leave you alone but I said they didn’t know you as well as I did, so I thought I’d knock and see if you were in - I was just passing through on my way to work.” The gas hissed as she turned the hob on and placed the kettle on top of the blue flames. “Niamh said you’ve stopped turning up to work, I hadn’t noticed because obviously we were on different shifts but I heard about that huge meltdown you had. Niamh convinced the boss not to fire you yet. I promised her I’d get you to call in or something. It’d be good for you to go in, be busy. It might take your mind off of stuff, you never know. Oh, you take milk and sugar right?”

“Not anymore.”

“You haven’t really missed much work at uni, though you need to submit those poems we were working on before Christmas by next week.” She just kept wittering on like that, talking about everyone and anything, filling me in on the lives of people I didn’t care about. She put sugar and milk in my tea.

The kettle began to whistle, and Amy turned off the flame as she eyed the stack of envelopes building up on the side. “Are these bills?”

She picked one up and opened it, the tearing of the paper making my skin crawl. Her eyes scanned through it quickly. “Shit, Cas, you need to pay these!”

“Really? Who would’ve known!”

“They’re gonna switch off your gas and electricity if you don’t!” As she made her way through the stack her worry began to bloom and grow into panic, and she kept biting at her fake nails, the snapping of the plastic the only sound in the room for a solid ten minutes. “Castle, you need to pay your rent or you’ll get kicked out, I can’t believe you haven’t been already.”

“You’re exactly what I need, Amy, someone else to worry on my behalf.”

Ignoring me. Amy put the kettle on again as enough time had passed to render the water lukewarm. It was like she thought a tea would make all the bills go away. She handed me a mug once she’d made it and I gripped it tightly, letting the ceramic gently burn my palms. I watched as she raised her cup to her stained lips. No - it wasn’t her cup. It was Starry’s. The pale pink barbie mug she’d rescued from a car boot sale, with a chip in the rim she’d filled in with a pink biro. Amy was oblivious to the fact that she was drinking out of a dead girl’s favourite mug.

I placed my own cup carefully down on a rare empty spot on the counter and took a deep breath. A sharp intake of air that mirrored the sharp knock at the door that brought Amy into the flat.

“That’s Starry’s cup.” I stated slowly, drawing out each word.

She looked down at it and then back up to me. “Cas, it’s a cup, it doesn’t matter.”

I grabbed the mug from out of her hands and flung it across the kitchen, much like I had done at the club last night. Light brown tea splashed over the walls, over the floor, over the textbooks that had amounted on the table. The mug smashed into the corner of the wall, breaking into a dozen little pieces upon impact with the kitchen tiles.

Amy looked from her hand to the corner and then to me. “What the fuck. Cas, what the fuck?”

“That was Starry’s cup.” I growled it this time, spitting out the word ‘cup’ as I felt my blood boil beneath my paper-thin skin.

“You need help, like, psychiatric help.” She hurried out of the kitchen, not taking her eyes off me until she was in the hallway. Cramming her feet back into those atrocious heels, she started to have a go at me, her tone more harsh than worried. “At least I tried to help you. What have you done, Cas? Since she died? Smashed things up? Gotten into fights? Screamed at people who just want to know if you’re okay? Starry wouldn’t want to see you like this.”

“Good thing she’s dead then!” I screamed at the top of my lungs as I shoved her out of the door, each fibre of my being seething in rage and grief and hatred. “Fuck you, Amy. Fuck you and anyone else who thinks they know what I need!” I kept screaming at the door, long after she’d disappeared down the hallway. I kept screaming until there was no moisture left in my mouth, and no words left in my brain.