The screen lights up, and I pause.
That tactic actually works?
My hope is crushed when I make out Knox’s name on the screen. I was going to pay a visit to their household anyway, maybe murder Agnus if she’s spending time with him. I’m sure Lars will be up to covering up murder if I give him his favourite tea for Christmas.
“Yo, Van Doren,” I answer.
“Have you seen Teal?”
“Funny, I was going to ask you that same question.”
“Ah, fuck, okay.”
“Ah, fuck, okay?” I repeat, bemused. “What is that supposed to mean? Where is she?”
“Probably purging somewhere.”
“Purging.”
“She does this sometimes. She disappears to purge by swimming or running and then she returns better. It’s just how she rolls.”
How she rolls? Why the fuck does he make it sound as if it’s normal?
And why do I feel like swimming and running aren’t the ways someone like Teal purges?
“Where does she usually go?” I ask.
“We don’t know. We never do.”
Well, fuck.
20
Teal
There’s nothing I hate more than running.
And it’s not only because of the physical activity of it, the shortness of breath, or the screaming of the muscles demanding I end the torture.
It’s the memories that come with running.
Knox and I ran as hard as our small feet could carry us when we decided Mum’s roof wasn’t the one we’d stay under.
We ran and ran in the dirty streets. We ran after we stole food from the market. We ran after we heard a policeman’s whistle, even if we hadn’t done anything. In our small minds, we believed the police would find us for the stolen food and take us back to Mum.
It would’ve happened. We could’ve been forced to go back.
We didn’t because we ran.
Naturally, all my memories of running are rubbish. Whenever I think about running, my brain fills up with fucked-up shit like maybe now we’ll get caught, maybe now they’ll take us back to Mum and she’ll make me do—
I shake my head as I forge on in the park. I stopped counting how many hours I’ve been running. I pause for water and to catch my breath, but the moment I can run again, I do that. I run.
I let my legs lead me somewhere out of this place. It’s transported me back to Birmingham, provoking loathsome memories and shit I don’t want to think about, but it also eradicates the present.
It erases the predicament I’m in — or rather, that’s what I like to think.
I stop, throwing my body on a bench, and a cat hisses then jumps away, glaring at me for disrupting his peace.