Nathaniel agitatedly roams the room, Phillippe walks over to me and almost reluctantly hands me a piece of paper—I know it’s the drawing I did of Julian. I know it was probably left on the floor in the corner we slept in. I know it’s not some sort of sign, but I can’t look at it.
Panic flutters through me, but the exhaustion I feel is now so profound, so complete, it’s all too much.
The door bangs against the wall as I stumble outside. Somehow I can’t believe the fucking sun is shining. The glare of light on the puddles on the walkway is painful.
“I’ll stay with you,” Phillippe says from the doorway behind me. “You won’t have to be alone.”
I can’t even nod. Something vital has been ripped out from inside me. I’m just an empty husk.
Down below us everything looks exactly the same as it did yesterday, but it’s not. It’s fucking not.
I want to go to the white house. I pull out my pad and write quickly.
I want to see Vidal. I will do anything to see Vidal, for him to tell me where Julian has been taken. Because that’s what they’ve done, they’ve taken him. That is the only explanation that fits.
Oh God.
It’s like being punched.
Phillippe glances quickly at my scrawl before looking away embarrassed.
“I can’t read,” he says, shaking his head.
Fuck. I write fuck fuck fuck until I have wasted a whole page with obscenities, and I rip it out and throw it over the railing, watching it hover on the wind before spiraling hopelessly to the ground.
A D IFFERENCE T HAT M AKES N O D IFFERENCE
P ETER STEPS out the front door and hands me three blankets. I take them, but they’re heavy, and I don’t know what I’m supposed to do with them. I know Phillippe finds it difficult to carry stuff. It’s not his fault, but I can’t carry all these on my own.
Julian and I used to hide our covers in the daytime, mostly at Cassey’s, but where am I supposed to hide this? I don’t know this area at all. I don’t want to.
I force myself to ignore the vision—and all the feelings attached to it—that appears when I think of him. It hurts like hell.
“We’re probably going to go up to the heath. We’ve stayed around there before. Do you want to stick with us for a while?” Peter asks, looking at me more than Phillippe.
I must seem truly pitiful. But I like Peter. He has this understated confidence that makes him seem strong. He’s the sort of person who knows what to do when things go wrong, the sort of person I want to trust.
I pull out my pad. Phillippe can’t understand me. He can’t read or sign. I need someone to help me speak to Vidal. Come to the white house with us? Please?
Peter glances at Nathaniel, who’s listlessly kicking the doorframe.
“Vidal’s not going to help you. I know you want to find your friend, but they’re not the sort of people to help anyone.”
I have to try , I write, desperately.
Peter solemnly shakes his head. “I want to help you, but I don’t want to go back there and get dragged into anything. For all we know, Malik could have been supposed to take all of us.”
I stare at him disbelievingly. So you do think they were taken? Please come with me, Peter. I have to find him. Please.
I’m not above begging and allowing myself to look as helpless as I feel. I’m not above using him or anyone to find Julian. Although that thought leaves me cold. But it’s the truth. I don’t care about them, not really. I don’t care about anyone, myself included, like I care about Julian. And I feel horrible for thinking like that; I feel like a horrible despicable person. But nothing else matters.
Peter, however, is resolute.
“I’m sorry,” he says, and he does look sorry as he and Nathaniel share their blankets out between themselves and then head down the walkway to the stairs.
I’m sorry too as I watch them leave the building and walk slowly across the squares of mud and concrete until they round the corner of the block and vanish.
I
Panic flutters through me, but the exhaustion I feel is now so profound, so complete, it’s all too much.
The door bangs against the wall as I stumble outside. Somehow I can’t believe the fucking sun is shining. The glare of light on the puddles on the walkway is painful.
“I’ll stay with you,” Phillippe says from the doorway behind me. “You won’t have to be alone.”
I can’t even nod. Something vital has been ripped out from inside me. I’m just an empty husk.
Down below us everything looks exactly the same as it did yesterday, but it’s not. It’s fucking not.
I want to go to the white house. I pull out my pad and write quickly.
I want to see Vidal. I will do anything to see Vidal, for him to tell me where Julian has been taken. Because that’s what they’ve done, they’ve taken him. That is the only explanation that fits.
Oh God.
It’s like being punched.
Phillippe glances quickly at my scrawl before looking away embarrassed.
“I can’t read,” he says, shaking his head.
Fuck. I write fuck fuck fuck until I have wasted a whole page with obscenities, and I rip it out and throw it over the railing, watching it hover on the wind before spiraling hopelessly to the ground.
A D IFFERENCE T HAT M AKES N O D IFFERENCE
P ETER STEPS out the front door and hands me three blankets. I take them, but they’re heavy, and I don’t know what I’m supposed to do with them. I know Phillippe finds it difficult to carry stuff. It’s not his fault, but I can’t carry all these on my own.
Julian and I used to hide our covers in the daytime, mostly at Cassey’s, but where am I supposed to hide this? I don’t know this area at all. I don’t want to.
I force myself to ignore the vision—and all the feelings attached to it—that appears when I think of him. It hurts like hell.
“We’re probably going to go up to the heath. We’ve stayed around there before. Do you want to stick with us for a while?” Peter asks, looking at me more than Phillippe.
I must seem truly pitiful. But I like Peter. He has this understated confidence that makes him seem strong. He’s the sort of person who knows what to do when things go wrong, the sort of person I want to trust.
I pull out my pad. Phillippe can’t understand me. He can’t read or sign. I need someone to help me speak to Vidal. Come to the white house with us? Please?
Peter glances at Nathaniel, who’s listlessly kicking the doorframe.
“Vidal’s not going to help you. I know you want to find your friend, but they’re not the sort of people to help anyone.”
I have to try , I write, desperately.
Peter solemnly shakes his head. “I want to help you, but I don’t want to go back there and get dragged into anything. For all we know, Malik could have been supposed to take all of us.”
I stare at him disbelievingly. So you do think they were taken? Please come with me, Peter. I have to find him. Please.
I’m not above begging and allowing myself to look as helpless as I feel. I’m not above using him or anyone to find Julian. Although that thought leaves me cold. But it’s the truth. I don’t care about them, not really. I don’t care about anyone, myself included, like I care about Julian. And I feel horrible for thinking like that; I feel like a horrible despicable person. But nothing else matters.
Peter, however, is resolute.
“I’m sorry,” he says, and he does look sorry as he and Nathaniel share their blankets out between themselves and then head down the walkway to the stairs.
I’m sorry too as I watch them leave the building and walk slowly across the squares of mud and concrete until they round the corner of the block and vanish.
I
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