It started then , in that moment on that beach , with a parent handing you to the underworld only to take you back again . It felt unfair , a deal gone wrong . You should have experienced death that day . You ’ ve been chasing it compulsively ever since .
*** ‘ What about like , compression ? Implosion ? Being , like , crushed ?’
Elodie asks this with an air of generosity . She gives you her time , just like she gives you her spare room and a discount on council tax , and makes suggestions with an earnest expression , ginger eyebrows crinkling over the bridge of her nose .
‘ Nah ,’ you say , suspecting that what she really wants is to see you die somewhere that isn ’ t in her flat . She ’ s tired of walking into rooms and finding your body ; helping clean up the blood , the clumps of rotting flesh , the shit and bodily fluids that insist on shooting out of you the second your heart snuffs it . ‘ Sounds like a ballache with the healing . Would be nice if I ’ d just shoot back together straight away , but with the burns that time …’ Cringing , you tuck your hair behind your ear , hiding your face with your mug of coffee . ‘ Can ’ t be arsed , really .’
Elodie sighs , reaching over you for the remote . Your chest is in bits , feels like you ’ ve been shot . You thought the fork-in-toaster method seemed a clean way to go when the idea occurred to you , but no , you ’ re a live-wire ; your body blinked out and came to with such precipitance that the power still hisses in your bones , in your shaky wrists and static forearms . Elodie gets a shock when her elbow brushes your skin . She throws the blanket over you unhappily .
‘ A bomb ?’ she tries , looking at the TV determinedly , chewing the inside of her freckled cheek .
*** When it all began , the ritual was innocuous , was hardly a ritual at all . There was no blood sacrifice , no verses in Latin , no upturned crucifixes clutched in your fists .
You ’ d missed the first train to Piccadilly and found yourself stranded at the station between showers . You hate that pathetic sort of rain , the rain everyone refers to as spit . It ’ s spitting . Spit is fitting , you think . It ’ s exactly what it feels like . God ’ s smug spittle lashing at your skin , impossible to blink away , camouflaged by a bleak , bottomless morning . ‘ Next one ’ s in twenty-five .’ You actually convulsed at being spoken to . It was a low voice , a man ’ s voice , standing a few paces to the right of you in a puffer jacket and beanie . He was older . ‘ Yeah ,’ you said , trying to be polite , turning half-away from him and thinking , okay , creep . ‘ Just if you fancy jumping it .’ You froze . Turned to face him . ‘ Eh ?’
Loïs Bolton 21