“He came to the funeral, you know. That’s when it happened. Maybe it was guilt that made him do it: A life for a life. Too bad it didn’t work.”
When I don’t respond she leaves as silently as she arrived. No hello, no goodbye. I hope it’s the last I ever see of her.
I force myself upright, causing stars to pop in front of my eyes. I’m not sure when last I ate but I’m sure it was more than a day ago. I can’t bear to eat when Demi can’t. I don’t care if I starve to death. I want to be with her. The thought kept me in bed for days, but I’m awake now.
I force my legs over the side of the bed. They’re stiff, as if my brain has made up its mind that I’m dead and rigor mortis has already set in. Pins and needles have caused my feet to curl inwards, and I have to rub my thighs vigorously to get the blood flowing before I can finally stand up.
Wolverine jumps up excitedly, yapping at my ankles and whipping me with his tail. I ignore him and continue to lurch my way to the bathroom. When I get there, the effort causes me to fall forward and I clutch the side of the basin to keep from sinking to my knees. I smell like sick sweat and onions.
The guy in the mirror doesn’t look anything like me. The face that stares back is corpse white, with hollow eyes and a thin, drawn-on mouth. He’s nothing like the sun-browned surfer who spent hours in the water. I’m a monster now, which makes sense, considering what I plan to do to James when I see him.
I wash my face with cold water, and brush my furry teeth. My stomach reacts to the water by complaining loudly for food. But I don’t want to eat.
In the lounge, Mom does a double take and guiltily drops the magazine she was reading onto the floor. While she fumbles for it, I grab my car keys from the hook on the wall.
“Damian? Where are you going?”
I wish I was still that little kid who could lay all his problems on his mother, and be able to walk away trouble-free to carry on playing computer games or whatever the hell I did for fun at that age. But I’m not that kid any more and some problems are too big to entrust to someone else.
“I’ll be back now-now.”
“Honey, I don’t think …”
But I’m already walking to my car. All the camping stuff from that weekend is still in the back seat. I hesitate before unlocking the door. As hard as it is seeing the camping mattress we shared and the fold-out chair she sat in, I have to push past the pain. I have to do this. He killed her. Now I have to kill him.
I DRIVE in a trance. I suspect I’m not really awake; I’m pushing the pedals and turning the wheel by instinct alone.
Back in school we always used to scare each other with ghost stories about Groote Schuur Hospital. It’s terrifying to look at – all towers and arched Gothic windows overlooking a small cemetery crowded with stone angels and homeless people.
The inside is pretty scary too. My feet take me past rows and rows of people waiting to be seen by doctors, all with the same haunted look. Nurses gather behind murky glass windows, grim as gargoyles.
I walk down pale-green corridors, slipping into the shadows. No one stops me or asks me why I’m there. There’s no notice board displaying the visiting hours, no Thank You cards from past patients. The air smells sharply of surgical alcohol.
I search each room in the ward, taking in one broken body after another. Patients stare at me curiously, but no one speaks to me. Maybe they can sense why I’m here. Somewhere down the passage a baby’s cry fights to be heard above the grumbling air conditioners. A tube light flickers from the ceiling, deepening the shadows. I stumble on.
When I first spot his pale skin and black spiky hair it doesn’t seem real. He’s sitting on the side of the bed, buttoning up a rumpled black shirt. Was it the one he wore at the funeral? It must be. It feels like we are all survivors from that day, stuck in time, waiting for someone to hit the Stop button.
He doesn’t see me staring from the doorway. Hatred boils up inside me, fuelling my starved body, and my hands instinctively ball into fists in my jeans pockets. Seeing him sitting there, living and breathing like a normal human being, is too much. Suddenly I can’t breathe. My hand reaches out to the wall for support.
I watch him pat the pockets of his black jeans, looking for something, then smooth back his hair. The stitches on his cheek are the only sign he was in an accident. He touches his face lightly with the tips of his fingers and flinches. It’s nothing more than a scratch. A scratch! How is that possible when he’s supposed to be dead?
He catches me out of the corner of his eye, but doesn’t turn to face me. He continues to pull on his shoes with exaggerated coolness. When he speaks, he doesn’t look me in the eye.
“Let me guess. You’re here to tell me that it’s my fault and you wish I had stayed dead.”
“Something like that, yes.”
He coughs out a laugh. “You’re not the only one. But please, go ahead. Get it out of your system.”
God, I hate him. “How can you sit there and act like it’s no big deal? You fucked up my life, all our lives.” The words are bitter in my mouth; the act of talking to James sickens me.
He takes his time to look at me. There’s a hint of sadness there, but mostly defiance. How dare that little prick feel anything for her? I want to kick those sarcastic teeth into the back of his skull.
He pulls on a black leather jacket, the kind the bad guys always wear in movies, one arm at a time.
“I’m sorry she died, Damian. I really am. If it makes you feel better, you can do whatever you want to me. Punch me, kick me, whatever. I won’t stop you.”
It’s funny, really, how he continues the bad-boy act like it’s some sort of protective coating.
My body starts to shake. A laugh is working its way up my throat.
My reaction is clearly not what he expected and it deflates him. The defiant look disappears. His eyes search the room, but the other beds are empty. We’re alone. Good. I want him to be scared.
“She was everything to me, you know. No, you wouldn’t know what I’m talking about. You’re the type who only plays with girls. She wasn’t just some crush. She was my whole fucking world.”
I’m not talking to him, but to myself. He seems to have realised this. His face has gone white, and he’s watching me carefully, keeping his distance.
I brush my fingers through my hair. My body has stopped shaking, and I can feel my strength slowly returning. My face starts to hurt. It’s because I’m smiling. He was right in a way. It feels good to get it all out of my system.
“Do you think I liked hanging out with you guys or going to those stupid trance parties? I did it for her. I’d do anything for her. I don’t have a reason to be alive without her. Do you understand that?”
He doesn’t answer, but continues to stare at me, waiting for me to finish. He’s trying to guess my intentions. Let me make it easy for him.
“She drowned because of you. That’s why I’m here. I’ve got nothing to lose. You know that, right?”
Without saying a word, James slides off the bed and stands to face me. I haven’t known the guy that long. I don’t know if he’s a coward or a fighter, but it doesn’t matter. There’s no way I’m letting him walk out this room.
I enter the room and slam the door behind me.
He steps forward. “Whatever you’re planning to do, I just want you to know …”
My first punch finishes his sentence for him. I don’t stop, but continue to pound my fists into his flesh. His body shrinks into a ball to try