don't light a wet cigarette - chapter 1

Chapter 1

(alcohol, cigarettes, unreliable narrator)

At two in the morning, thick mist clung to the asphalt. Walking home, I could hardly see ten meters ahead of me. Had it not been for the streetlights, my navigator stars, I couldn’t have been sure I wasn’t walking in circles. Is this how fireflies experience the world? The air outside isn’t frigid, but the chill seems to bleed into my bones anyway. When everybody in Barracuda Bay is sleeping, you can hear the sound of the waves echo through the whole town. Well, everybody except for a handful of unruly teenagers.

By the time I see my house, my bare legs are starting to go numb. What wouldn’t I give for a longer skirt? The light is on in the room on the second floor, but the glow is hidden from the street by thick foliage. The hornbeam that stood by the wall had been planted when I was born, and over time its branches grew thick and crooked. At first Mom was furious with Dad, who had planted it so close to the house front. I never shared that sentiment, as it had proven many times to be quite convenient for sneaking out.

It’s not the most graceful of acts, but despite one too many vodka shots and a decent amount of witch’s brew I make my way up the tree just fine. Well on the roof at least I don’t have to knock on the window, because it’s already open. Ashes have gathered in a little pile on the window sill as he just stands there, watching me struggle. His expression is rigid and unreadable, as it often is. A slight smirk tugs at his lips when I fumble over the panels, but there’s a distinct irritated iciness in his eyes. When I finally make my way to him, he taps his cigarette to cast off the last soot before moving aside to let me climb in.

The room reeks of smoke and expensive cologne, and there he stands. I’ve come to associate the smell with him, Finneas Alinac. Highwater Ridge’s favorite overprivileged boor. And, at the moment, a terrible pest to me. “Do you have any idea what time it is, Charlotte? In case you didn’t already know, which I doubt you do, sleep deprivation causes the brain to eat itself.”

“Oh, poor thing,” I croon. “Though it does explain a few things. You don’t get a lot of sleep, do you?” I snicker, and for a moment I think he might snap at me. However, he seems to catch himself and shoves his hands into his pockets with a huff. I take a moment to look around my room. He’s hardly let me inside since he arrived, though I can’t fathom why. It’s my room, after all; but he acts as if it might reveal some great secret of his if anyone steps inside. If there ever was any revered guest that could be compared to a squatter, it would be Finn.

The annoyance is practically radiating off of him, but he hasn’t kicked me out yet so I keep prodding. “You know, I never asked you to stay up for me.”

“Right, because it’s so easy not to. Why don’t I just slip into bed when I know you’re out getting drunk,” he retorts and jabs my shoulder with his index finger, “and I have to keep my window open for your glorious return?”

“My window, you mean,” I counter, swatting his hand away. “My window in my room that you’re borrowing.”

He rolls his eyes, putting out the cigarette. “Yes, yes. Your window in your room in your house in your shitty little coastal village. Doesn’t change the fact I’m the one staying up involuntarily.” He swipes the pile of ash out the window and closes it. “Can you get your ass in bed now? Please? Or do I have to lure you out with a bottle of brandy?”

I pretend to ponder for a few seconds, because I just can’t help myself. “I suppose I could. Only because you’re practically begging. But you should know… I don’t drink brandy.” I lean in slightly, only to push his face away when he does the same. “I’m much more of a gin type-a’-gal.”

“Yes, yes. I’ll keep that in mind. Bed,” he grits out. Then he ushers me out of the room with a hand behind my shoulders.

.

The next morning comes too quickly, the sun shining too brightly through the curtains. Whoever decided on sheer curtains? Don’t they know natural light is overrated?

Birds are singing outside and judging by the muffled hum of life, people are already bustling up and down the streets. The springs of the pull-out couch creak under the mattress when I roll over to face away from the window, rubbing my eyes. The drugstore mascara smudges over my eyelids and knuckles, and I bury my face against the pillow in agony. When I finally sit up there are two black stains on it.

On the flimsy DIY desk made up of some carton boxes and a wooden slab lies my books. The textbook is still open and the surface of my notebook is covered in unintelligible scratchy equations. I flip the page and tear off a corner to work my craft. The lines are clunky and the syllables are a bit off, but who cares? I slip the little note under the door to Finn’s- my, room.

He won’t tell you to wash off your mascara before bed,

for the fear of ruining the skin on your head.

For he is a man and he doesn’t know.

Sadly it is so.

A few minutes later, with a freshly washed face, I find my way downstairs and into the kitchen. There’s a dull pounding in my head, though the cold water seemed to have soothed it slightly. Furthermore the house is entirely silent, no signs of life anywhere. My parents must have just left, because the pot of oatmeal they’ve left on the stove is still warm and fragrant. Finn is nowhere to be found, probably out somewhere, but it doesn’t occupy my thoughts for long before something else catches my attention. A letter lays untouched on the table. And only one person sends me letters nowadays.

My heart sinks at the first line. The initial excitement is immediately, and brutally, squashed. It doesn’t take me long to understand what this is about. I don’t need to read any more to know what she’s about to say.

‘Hi, Cat, I hope you’re doing well. I’m so sorry to tell you…’

Something came up. Something undeniably life altering, surely. Her dog ran away or an ex is back in town or her apartment burned down. Whatever it might be, it could only mean one thing.

I will not be visiting my aunt in France this summer.

Without much thought I toss the letter into the fire under the stove. Ink turns to ash as I plate my breakfast.

( ‘witch’s brew’ is a direct translation from ‘häxblandning’ in swedish which is slang for a concoction of different alcohols, often liquor, mixed together. i didn’t know if there was and couldn't find any english equivalent but if you know any pls tell :) also thank you to everybody who left such nice comments or reviews on the prologue they were super encouraging and i appreciate every single one )