Imaginary Friends - 12: Downtown

Downtown

Late that evening, at about ten to eight, Sara finally returned. She dropped her bag on the hall table and kicked off her shoes, looking glad to be home.

“Hello!” she called, looking about her before spotting me in the living room.

I was curled up on the comfy fabric sofa, smelling of vanilla bubble bath and wearing some loose fitting sweats I’d dug out from Sara’s wardrobe. There was a half-finished mug of sugary tea on the coffee table in front of me and I had an old mystery paperback lying open, cover side up, beside me.

“That’s not how you treat books”, said Sara, coming to the doorway. “Would you like a bookmark instead? I’ll fetch you one when I go up and get changed.”

“Yes please”, I chortled, picking up the book. “What did you do today?”

‘That says a lot about her, don’t you think?’ Mercy asked. By that, she was asking me to conversation juggle again…

‘It does, but what did I tell you earlier? Are you capable of listening, Mercy?’ Used to it, no, but capable, without a doubt.

That was a short lived exchange.

“Forensics. How about you?” Sara replied as she climbed the stairs. She was really dodging the question with her own.

I could relate to that.

“To summarise: bath and down-time.” I took a sip of tea, knowing it would soon go cold.

Sara returned sporting dark grey pyjamas and her hair had been shaken down from its clip. She handed me a reddish brown bookmark, which had a name at the top: Vulpes vulpes, the Red Fox. I stared at the matching picture in fascination; the face of the animal was kind of cute in its own way.

“Thank you.”

“I thought you’d like it. I also know you haven’t had any gifts recently”, Sara replied. “What were you doing in your down time other than looking at my Mini Library, as it’s known to my friends?”

“I had music on”, I answered. “I think I must’ve dozed off at some point.”

“Basically the second I closed the front door this morning, I had a thought.” Sara’s tone was no longer so light. “Can I really take you outside when you’re wanted? You can plainly see I’m not used to being on the side of the fugitive.”

It was me she was afraid for right now, more than her own safety or integrity.

“Due to the doctor’s serious ego issues, you can be sure he’ll want to nab me himself. Quietly, so he would probably try to avoid a public scene. No fuss, no mess that way.” I paused, trying to work out what else I could say to convince her. “If he involves the police, they will probably look into him and find some pretty colourful stuff. But I may be wrong… Are they looking for me at your work? You’d know if the London Met were onto me, surely?”

I would have put on a mock serious air, but it would not have been exactly appropriate. The situation felt like the opposite of the kind where I’d do that. However, Sara was still holding in a laugh, revealing a smile framed with dimples and pronouncing the apples of her cheeks.

“I love it”, she said, her voice bouncing just a tad with amusement. “You took your time to figure him out. There’s, hands down, no taste fouler than that of one’s own medicine. Clearly you thought of this before I did. To answer your question, they’re not onto you at work as far as I know.”

“Besides, I don’t want to stay in this house all the time. That was not at all what I meant by freedom. Not that I’m saying we shouldn’t take care.”

How could I be so brave, but at the same time having to repeat everything to myself to be sure? Torn, always torn.

“Alright, alright, tomorrow it is”, Sara replied, yawning. “Speaking of tomorrow, I don’t know about you, but I’m completely shattered, so I’m going to crash.”

There’s definitely something about someone saying they’re going to bed that makes you feel tired. I ended up following Sara’s suit within fifteen minutes. I discarded the sweatshirt and climbed under the covers of the guest room bed…

Next morning was a sunny one. Daylight streamed through my window, strong daylight, so I wasn’t surprised to see that it was almost nine o’ clock.

The eyes of the girl in the mirror sparkled; her skin had already started to look less washed out. Freedom is beautiful.

‘Of course it is’, remarked Mercy. ‘Someone really needed that sleep. You’re way better in yourself.’

‘Like I said, freedom will do that to you.’

By now I had clambered out of bed and was halfway to the landing.

Downstairs, Sara was waiting for me. She was fully dressed, signalling she’d been up a while. She greeted me with a countenance bright enough to rival the sunlight. That kind of happiness is infectious.

“I didn’t want to wake you. I know how great a remedy sleep is”, she said. “I hope you feel better.”

“Much better, thanks”, I replied, helping myself to cereal from a cupboard. I finished quickly, as much from excitement as from appetite.

At the back of Sara’s wardrobe, her off work section, a multitude of jeans and t shirts were present in a range of washes and colours. I opted for simple blue jeans and a green tee. Less lounge-y than the sweats, but not too much.

London’s streets were abuzz, as could be expected on a Friday. I stared around as we walked at the never still crowds of people around for the same reason as us. Okay, not quite the same reason, but they were still perusing shops, just like us.

This typical London experience was the overwhelming part of the outing. We passed sights and landmarks on our way round, things that I knew from the memory of better times. No matter that I hadn’t been that way for ages.

Shopping, I ruled, doesn’t really change no matter where you are.

That said, both our feet were hurting when we eventually climbed into the homeward bound taxi with about a dozen different bags between us. Amongst other things, there were skirts (I was in the mood, don’t ask), tees of my own, skinny jeans, a jacket and even a change of shoes.

Somehow, the new look seemed incomplete. I wanted it to go a little further than the clothes. That was how I ended up asking for hair dye as our last purchase. Let’s face it, who hasn’t at some point, even just once, wondered what they’d look like if they changed their hair?

Sara’s reaction was, “You could’ve asked for worse… Not to mention I’d probably want to do something of the sort if I were in your shoes.”

Something was going on behind her eyes, like she was trying to picture something by slotting all the details into place one by one. Whatever she was thinking appeared deeply engrossing.

Later on

I felt a tinge of excitement as I massaged in the hair dye. The experience was almost therapeutic (pun maybe slightly intended), scrunching and re-scrunching my hair, making sure it would all be covered.

Looking briefly in the bathroom mirror, I saw the thin white foam all over my head that would leave behind the colour. It felt weird to have been let near the stuff, but I tried to dismiss the notion.

Novelty was getting old now.

With care, I proceeded to rinse out the product, working in sections to limit the mess. Another rinse. The smell of ammonia, however faint, did not fade.

“Oh!” Mercy and I reacted in perfect harmony as I lifted my head back into the mirror’s frame.

‘That looks good’, she complimented. ‘Red suits you, actually, in a funny way.’

‘Why thank you.’

I did a quick check for patches I’d missed. Not bad for a first attempt.

My hands were another matter.

Despite wearing the plastic gloves that came in the kit, the colour had still seeped through onto my palms and the backs of my hands. They were coated in a – in a…

Red. Stain. A warning to all (stay away).

Why now? Why was it that this of all times reminded me of that day? I choked a little; that day was a demon I’d yet to be rid of.

I ripped off the gloves. Still there. Turning my hands over, my own palms glared at me. Not able to bear seeing them anymore, I submerged my hands in the sink of water. I did this in such a manner that it was over before I really consciously thought about it, like the way you pull off a waxing strip.

‘C’mere, Lady Macbeth’, said Mercy. She seemed to know where she was needed and started wringing the colour off in the water.

Stupid things cause the stupidest reactions, especially when they sneak up on you. Even my supposed transitions couldn’t go by without first transporting me to the past. Was nowhere safe?

“How does it feel to be broken?” Doc. Not so long ago, even.

I resisted the impulse to cry out (to no one), or at least the part of me that believed the memories were my cross to bear did.

But I was changing, growing. I would start mending on my own, had to, or remain partially stuck in that place forever (forever, forever).