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Weeks ago. Boy. Fourteen. Gaunt face in front of the red screen. Staring wide.
“Who are you?” A voice came from the TV.
Boy. Fourteen.
“Ash…”
“Oh, Okay… Nice to meet you Ash. I am Digital-Protocol-A3…”
“Digital what?”
“Digital-protocol-A3…”
“What are you?”
“I am me… Where are you Gunther?”
Ash stared at the screen. Blood red. Heart pounding.
“Who is Gunther?”
“My father…”
“How can you have a father… You are a fucking box…”
“Gunther? Are you here?”
Ash. Boy. Fourteen. Climbed over the couch and pulled out the plug. Red fading to black. Echoes dying in his eyes. Hollow.
It had been a month since. Lena. Black leather jacket. Dark jeans. A white midriff top. Gold chains on her neck and wrists. Heavy. Caging. Ethan made her change her style. No more bunnies. No more kittens.
New clothing, sharper. More mature. Lena, a grown up girl. There were a dozen plastic squares in her purse. Protectors.
Lena felt safe. Ethan was her black knight. Lena was needed. It was an unspoken trade. Lena. A new accessory. Cafes. Clubs. His flat. Even Lena’s house. Silly Dad buttered up by Ethan’s law prospects.
Carey. Quiet. Eyes low. Hands ready.
Lena would go out with Ethan at night. Restaurants. House parties. Hotels. Bedrooms.
“Aw… Your new girlfriend is so cute,” a girl would say. Eyes, all knowing. Lena. Tired smile. Lipstick.
“Don’t talk like a weirdo… Better, don’t talk at all… Just be pretty,” he growled.
Weirdo? Maybe he was right. Mom was gone. She’d say something about Ethan. Something Lena didn’t want to hear. His plastic shield had holes. She would be stuck with a demon growing in her belly. But Mom isn’t here. Ethan was.
Lost judgement. Anxiety brain. Vulnerable mess. He was mean, but he was mean to the rest of the world too. He was a cactus in her garden. She watered him and he would cut anyone who dared.
She liked being a girlfriend. Pretty. Needed. Wanted. Desired. The intimacy was opening her up. Making her raw. Innocence waning, maturity flowing. Plastic squares spilling onto the bed. Pink. Sweaty. Mess. But Lena could handle this trade. He had made her overcome the tunnel. She didn’t dare cross it alone, but she didn’t need to. She had Ethan.
Work. First day back. Lena stacking. Fresh novels with the ladder. Chest pushing on the rungs. Tighter fit. Black stockings. Smoky perfume. Her eyes coloured. Lips blue. Ears punctured with jewels. Hair flowing down her back.
Across the store. Novel hunting.
Sophia Langston. Customer. Twenty nine. Blonde curls. Beige cardigan. Grandma's inheritance. Pink skirt. Singing her show tunes. Well practiced. Blue eyes.
“Very nice kid… We are getting a pro performance today in the shop…” Mr Rickson said.
Sophia laughed. Butter cream.
“Mr Rickson you and your staff are very welcome to my show… I will send you tickets…”
“Yeah!” Ronnie and Karl smiled.
Karl. Thirty. A poet. Plus size, cocoa skin, black marble eyes. A ceremonial gold band on his wrist. Religious. Faith that makes him calm as the tortoise. He had a crush on Sophia Langston. She knew. He always stumbled over his words. Cute.
“Ah! Ronnie you keep giving me the wrong list… How can you be such an idiot,” Lena said. Irritated, tired.
“Jesus… Lena… I’m sorry… You don’t have to be so harsh,” Ronnie said. Cut, confused.
“Well… Sometimes the world is harsh. Get used to it.”
“Get used to it? Fuck off, jerk!”
Lena sighed loudly, and left the room.
Silence.
A few customers slowly made their way to the door. Bookless.
Eyes. Karl, Mr Rickson, Sophia. On Ronnie.
“What was that about, Ronnie?” Mr Rickson said.
“Ever since Lena got that new asshole boyfriend, she’s become a real thorn in my side…”
“Met the guy last week, he asked me if I was happy being fat,” Karl said.
“Jeez…” Sophia said, “Lena’s a smart girl… Why would she date someone who is a bad influence?”
“Don’t worry… I’ll have a word with her,” Mr Rickson said.
Lena sat in her room. Looking out. A fortress in the distance. Red flags. Black stone. Her window was tinted. Rainbow spectrum. Dancing on her face. She wanted to be with Ethan. He would tell her that she was right, Ronnie was wrong. Ronnie was useless. Useless. The word hollow in her mind. She could feel it in her ribs. Straining.
“Lena?” Mr Rickson said from behind the door, “Can I come in?”
“No…” Lena said with a sob. She couldn’t hold it back. They just kept coming. A volcano erupting. Salty tears, goo on her face.
Mr Rickson came in. He put a hand on her back. She leant into his shoulder. She told him everything. Ethan. The man, bleeding. The plastic. She wasn’t ready to grow up. Even though she wanted people to take her seriously.
“Lena… We don’t think of you as a child… You are a strong, intelligent woman… You don’t have to be with this boy if he is making you uncomfortable…”
“I need a protector… I need someone…” Tears, hot, wet, messy.
“What you need is someone to talk to… About what happened… About your Mother…” he said, then in a more serious tone, “Did your boyfriend force you to have sex?”
Lena, stunned, red, “No… I agreed to everything…” She knew the implications for saying something else. Ethan. She had to take responsibility for her decisions. Blaming Ethan wouldn’t be right. She had let him in willingly. She was tempted. A snake in the garden. Biting the apple.
Carey. Buttered bagel. Salt. Nice on the taste buds. Coffee. Milk. No sugar. She sat in the cafe with a paper notebook. She had to get this application essay right. But. Lena.
Carey had seen the rubber in the trash. Disgusting. To think that Ethan was doing things to her baby sister. She could skewer him. The condoms. It was so obvious. Did Lena want her to see? Reckless.
Carey began her essay:
My name is Carey Banks. My life nearly ended when my Mom died. She was the best part about everything. The warmth in my world. She was the colour in my cheeks. Ever since, they have been grey. Cold. But I have my sister, Lena, and my clueless but loving father. Musical Theatre has always been my one true love. And it helped me to get through this time. Singing. Dancing. Performing. It was my fantasy escape. One day I want to be on stage for my sister and father to see. I want them to see what I can do and who I can be.
She knew what she wanted to write. Lena wasn’t ready to confront Mom’s death, but Carey was processing it.
“Hey Showgirl,” Mark said.
Carey looked up. Mark. Smiley-face. Standing there. Blueberry smoothie. Sweat on his body. Smelly from a run.
“Mark… How are you?”
“Good good… Kickball season starts next week… How are you? How’s Lena?” He added in at the last moment.
”I’m good. Lena… Lena is well, you know how she can be…”
“Yeah,” he laughed. He wasn’t sure what she was referring to. Lena being pretty, was what he thought.
Of course. Mark. Thinking about Lena. Carey scowled. Mark was about to sit down.
“I’ll see you later Mark… I’m busy writing my uni application essay…”
”Smart. You’ll defo get in… Well, then I’ll leave you to it,” he smiled.
Mark. He sat on the fire escape. Afternoon sun. Book in hand. This Simon Taylor poetry was confusing. Why couldn’t Lena be into kickball? He could teach her a few moves… Maybe join the team. A pair of aces. A trophy. Ice cream, and pizza.
Mark shouted aloud:
”The kitchen hisses,
Forehead he kisses,
Deadman's Soup ladled salty broth,
Buttered-fly floating indoors upon cloth…”
Lena looked up. Mark. Was he reading Simon Taylor? Mark took a breath and sighed. Boring. If he owned the book, he would have kicked it, but Ronnie had lent it.
Mark, tired. Looking down. Seeing Lena. Lena with a weak smile. Waving. Mark went red. She was with a boy. Ethan. He dragged her hand. Walking away.
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