Damien

Damien Whittle stared up at the swirls of plastered ceiling above him without truly seeing them. It was another day. Another day that he could have never seen. And another day without his sister.

It wasn’t healthy. Even though he’d gone through the wringer, something his leg reminded him with an unpleasant jab, calling for the morning pills, his thoughts stayed with Eliza. She turned her back and fled to London at the first sign of trouble. His first solid memory after those confusing weeks in hospital was asking after her, yet she was nowhere to be found.

Didn’t want to deal with him while his brain was scrambled, maybe, and boy did that thought sting. He shrunk away from it.

He’d have been there for her. He knew that much. He loved her and their shared rescue malamute, Avalanche, but Eliza had taken the dog off somewhere down south, and that just didn’t fit with the sister he thought he knew.

Which one was real?

“Good morning, you.”

He glanced over. The other side of the bed was empty and cold, with the patterned blue covers thrown back haphazardly, and his girlfriend leant against the doorframe, a mug in each hand. He blinked, half expecting her to disappear, but no, Robyn stood there. Her eyebrows were in the middle of rising up her forehead.

Who could blame him? She’d walked into his life when he didn’t have any lower to go, and not only that but she seemed to like him. Enough to let him move in with her, so his parents weren’t breathing down his neck every five seconds.

“Morning, babe.” The sight of her always pulled a smile from him. She edged around the bed, her heavy leather boots already on, and placed one mug on his bedside table with a clunk. The warm, comforting smell of freshly brewed coffee wafted over to him. “You off soon?” He pushed himself up on the pillows and manoeuvred his sore leg around the duvet with care.

She perched on the edge of the mattress. “Yeah.”

His gaze darted over her. All her tightly coiled hair had been pulled back and wrestled into a smart bun, and dark freckles dotted the apples of her cheeks, not as though an amateur had taken a thick paintbrush and spattered paint everywhere, like he’d done back in art class, but as though a master painter had placed each and every one of them. Damien couldn’t help another gentle smile.

“I’ll be leaving around five. You got any plans for today?”

He cupped his hands around his mug and drew it close, taking a deep breath of the roasted coffee smell. He rarely had much to do at the minute. At least, not until he resumed his photography course, and he didn’t feel ready. The last thing his life needed was dealing with assignments while thoughts slid through his fingers like sand, as they were liable to do with a good helping of stress. Before stepping back into college, he needed to be prepared. “I might head out to the park to work on the portfolio.”

Robyn swallowed a mouthful of coffee. When she lowered the mug, a smile was pulling at her lips. “The weather’s looking good today. That’s good for photos, right?”

He rolled his eyes. They’d driven out into the countryside the past few weekends, and she'd listened to him bemoaning the continual cloud cover. “Yeah, the light’ll have a different texture. It’ll give the shots some variety.” He finally took a sip – strong and bitter, just as he liked it. Robyn’s dark brown eyes rested on him curiously. He drank more coffee, the heat kissing at his lips, but still her gaze didn’t shift. He cocked his head to the side. “What?”

“You had your worried face on.” She leant forward to place her empty mug on her dressing table. “Were you thinking about her again?”

Damien breathed a sigh. This was the worst thing about not being able to shove Eliza out of his brain. “Yeah, I – I’m just concerned, I s’pose.” He bowed his head over the mug to avoid her thoughtful gaze. The coffee was a deep, dark brown, and still had some swirling foam clinging to the edges of the wide-headed mug – it was a purple Creme Egg one he’d gotten one Easter, the colour slightly chipped away, and it probably matched a million others in households around Britain. He heard Robyn’s sympathetic noise and forced himself to continue. “Just – she’s probably fine, I know, but I wish she’d call?”

“Yeah…” Robyn patted his shoulder. “It sucks she hasn’t.” Her watch vibrated, and he looked up to see her checking it, her mouth puckering with annoyance. “Damn, I have to get going.” She leant in to kiss him – a warm peck on the lips, pleasant and brief. “I’m so sorry. She’ll call when she’s ready, I’m sure.” She grabbed her mug and got to her feet, brushing at the creases in her trousers. “Enjoy your day.”

“Bye, babe.” He foisted a weak smile onto his face to meet her parting wave. The front door clicked shut, and he was alone.

Damien breathed a sigh. The mornings were so long when he woke up with Robyn, stretching on forever before she came back in the evening, bringing back smiles and light and conversation that distracted him from the worry that gnawed at him. He thought about going back to sleep, maybe until something like ten o’clock, when lunchtime was in sight. The sun would be further up by then anyway. He could miss the trail of schoolkids that traipsed through the park. And it would be fewer hours to fill.

He was about to burrow down under the duvet, but just as he was twisting to place his mug on the bedside table, he remembered why that was a bad idea. Pain shot through his leg, lancing into the underside of his kneecap, where it had been shattered just a few months before. It was time to get up.

He groaned and fumbled for the crutch he’d left leaning against the bedside table. It was a grey, uncomfortable thing that he’d had since leaving hospital. The coffee mug found its way onto the bedside table and he pulled himself round, so he could slide his arm into the crutch and haul himself to his feet. His face twisted into a grimace with the spike of pain, but he edged around the bed, the thin, corded carpet rough under his bare feet, and limped into the hallway.

Here the lino was cold and slippery. He would’ve liked carpet throughout, but that probably had something to do with how he had to lug a crutch around nowadays, and he always felt precarious on smooth surfaces. Travelling anywhere recently meant thinking about the steadiness of his crutch. It stumped alongside him as he made his slow way past the chipped and peeling bathroom door towards the kitchen.

It was more lino underfoot in here. Damien scowled to himself as he manoeuvred around an old tile that had once been waterlogged, and now peeled itself from the floorboards as a trip hazard. When Robyn spoke to the landlord about it, she'd been told the lino was staying as it was easier to maintain.

You’d never have guessed that one.

But he was clear, and he was nearly there now. On the counter that snaked around the corners of the room he could see his prize. His pill organiser, or as he alternatively dubbed it, his holy grail. Partially because it held his all-important tablets, but mostly because it went walkabout into the void at least twice a week, and Robyn had to quest through the flat to find it.

He flicked open the Wednesday morning box and, leaning against the countertop, tipped its contents into his palm. A tiny pile of white pills and capsules tumbled out. Their names were tongue-twisters waiting to happen, and since the crash he’d been pretty terrible at remembering things like useless strings of letters. But he remembered the important thing – the white pills were painkillers to help with his leg, but the weird, plastic-like capsule was for some clinical trial thing he’d joined while in the hospital. It was supposed to help his memory.

It was working, he guessed? Thinking about the past few months was akin to pulling himself out of a thick mudhole. At first everything was scrambled and covered in thick gunk, slowing everything down, but now at least things were slowly cleaning themselves off. He swallowed them and turned his attention to breakfast.

Ten minutes and a couple of laborious trips between kitchen and living room later, he was sat at the plastic Ikea dining table with a plate of buttered toast and another coffee. Two months ago, that timescale would’ve wound him up, and that probably would’ve slowed him down even more. He was getting there now. He’d carefully balanced the crutch against the wall behind him. The radio was still wittering away in the kitchen, and the subdued beat of a pop song thumped away into the quiet of the flat.

That was the jarring thing about living with Robyn. She worked long hours as an engineer and that left him adrift in her silent flat. Back home there had rarely been quiet, with Avalanche barking and snuffling around the living room, his mam arguing with the talk show host on the radio, especially when politics came up, and then his dad would come back in the evening to stick on a film and crank the volume up so high it felt like they had surround sound. College had been noisy too, so there had been no time for spare thoughts there. Eliza often retreated to her room when everything was in full swing, and Damien never quite understood how she could bear the silence.

Now it made him uneasy, but at least he could think straight in it.

He finished the toast, licked the butter from his fingers, and found himself staring at the clock next to the television as caffeine started to buzz through him. It was barely eight o’clock.

Oh well. He could always kill some time down the park. He heaved himself to his feet and shuffled his way to the bathroom. The tiles in here were chilly underfoot, perilously smooth and unpleasant to fall onto. The first few days of living here, his elbows had turned yellow with bruises with the number of times he’d slipped and had to catch himself.

His life sure had taken a turn for the glamourous.

He glanced in the mirror as he reached for his toothbrush. The LED strip above the cabinet reflected the grease in his black hair, like an oil slick, and the hairline at his temple was jagged with a rippling scar. He had no memory of the day of the crash at all, but he couldn’t deny that he’d spent ages staring at the gash in hospital. He rubbed at it now. It was rough under his fingers, and he didn’t like to think how he’d looked when it’d been fresh. Probably an absolute mess. He still looked skinnier than he liked, his cheeks hollower than he’d prefer, and his fingers were long and thin as he reached for the toothpaste by the sink. The light washed him out, too. He scowled at the mirror and shoved the toothbrush into his mouth.

Eventually, he limped from the bedroom after pulling on joggers and a t-shirt. Jeans were just too tight on his knee; he never thought he’d miss them so much. The extra pockets would’ve been a blessing, and blending in would’ve been nice too. Too often nowadays it was like a spotlight picked him out of the crowd.

He shuffled over to the dining table, grabbing his backpack from the corner on route. It was plain and light, a dull brown, but plenty spacious and had been instrumental in him carrying anything until his leg healed more. If it ever did heal more? A glance told him the bag was empty.

He rolled his eyes. He should’ve asked Robyn to shove some of his things back in before he left, to save the traipsing back and forth with the crutch. Shaking his head, he slung it onto his shoulder and stumped back to the kitchen.

His favourite snacks were in a high cupboard, so he dropped the backpack onto the counter surface before delving in for them. They were shoved at the back, where Robyn wouldn’t see them when she was tired after a long day and could be tempted, but he managed to filch a packet of salt-and-vinegar crisps and a Mars bar. The dietician had winked and said something about all things were good in moderation after all. He’d pass on the fizzy drink, though, as sodas left a dry stickiness on his lips. He’d take water instead.

He limped back to where he’d left the backpack. Did it look a little more solid than before? When he pushed the fabric aside, he saw why. Right where he’d been intending to throw the crisps, there sat a full water bottle. A confused frown creased at his forehead. When had he fetched that? Had he fetched that, or had Robyn left it on the counter and he’d absentmindedly shoved it in when he’d put the bag down? His memory was getting better, but still wasn’t as good as it had been…

It must have just been something he’d done on automatic, that he’d done without noticing and his brain hadn’t thought it needed keeping. His frown deepened into a scowl. He’d thought he was getting better, but he could hardly go back to college anytime soon if he was forgetting simple stuff like this.

People did all the time, he knew, but for him there was a reason why.

He dumped the food in on top and slung the bag back on his shoulder. He was making a big thing out of nothing. It was just a water bottle, for God’s sake.

He shuffled back into the living room, taking care to place the crutch securely on the lino so he wouldn’t slip. Robyn’s desk was against the near wall, between him and the television, and on it he left a list of all the things he usually took. If his memory was playing tricks on him then he clearly needed it.

It was scrawled on a small piece of notepaper covered in cartoon owls. Robyn’s handwriting was usually tough to read, but on this occasion, she’d written everything in block caps, and that made it so much easier.

SNACKS. WATER. PHONE. KEYS. CAMERA.

He slung the backpack onto the desk. It jangled with his keys, and a quick check of the front pocket told him that his phone was exactly where he’d left it. He didn’t like taking it out in case he forgot to replace it. That left the camera.

He glanced up, his gaze darting around the room. It could have been anywhere – actually, it could’ve i been in its case, back in his bedroom. He turned around, ready to make the trek back.

Movement caught in the corner of his eye. A black blob.

He whipped round, fearing a spider on the wall. But there was nothing scuttling up the white paint. It was his camera. Hovering in the air above the sofa, as though suspended on a piece of fishing line. He blinked. It was still there. There was nothing holding it up.

It was floating in mid-air.