Really appreciate everybody's reviews so far, not sure whether to carry this story on...
So more reviews would help me out ;)
Letters to Freddie will be continued this summer, this is just a quick fix while you're waiting.
Enjoy!
"You look how I feel."
I watch Anthea stagger into the house, tripping over the doorstep.
Her dangerous panda eyes are delicately bloodshot. She fills the kitchen with the stench of stale tobacco, and one-too-many pints of bitter.
She slumps herself at the table.
"Whas' the time?"
"Half four."
"Throw some eggs on," she practically gags. "Need something to keep it down."
I obey her command, cracking two into a pan.
"None for you, love?"
"No Mum," I reply, raising an eyebrow. "I'm heading out with Pandora soon."
"You're losing weight." She gestures toward my gradually disintegrating frame.
I'm in no emotional state to eat. Food is the last thing on my mind.
"The hunger pains are comforting," I retort, and that's the truth. Every pang and ache draws away from the guilt bubbling in the pit of my stomach, or the resonating torturous grip he has on my heart.
You've got to give in, Effy.
I can't. I can't. I can't.
"Freak," Mum sniggers.
I bare my teeth at her, laughing along.
"So, where are the boy's today, Eff? Scared them off have you?" she jokes, wiping her nose with her palm.
I freeze, egg in hand, back facing her, eyes stinging. "No. I'm seeing Freddie later."
And I hope I do.
He needs to see me, on my knees, wanking off some other desperate boy.
He needs to see me, on my back, letting his best friend grope me.
That's the only way he'll learn.
Effy never changes. Effy won't change for anybody. You can never have control over Effy.
I'm too terrified to stand for that.
"Such a nice boy," Anthea mumbles drowsily, her eyelids closing. "Very handsome. Nice lips. Nice cheekbones, y'know?"
"Yes," I retort curtly. "Nice."
That's all Freddie is. Nice.
And nice boys crack. Just like eggs into a pan.
Nice boys crack when they try to take control.
"He's a keeper, Effy. Not like that other one, the foul mouthed one. Though I can see why you like him, he's exactly your type."
Flames rise in my cheeks as I whip around to face her. "I don't have a type, Mum."
"Well, sure you do love," she continues, ignoring my defensive tone. "You're two of the same, you and that James Cook. Two of the same…"
She falls asleep then, head sinking onto her arms.
I storm from the house.
"Hi, this is Panda Poo - leave a rooting-tooting massage after the beepin' …"
"Pandora, where am I meeting you and the Burnout?"
I snap my phone shut, impatiently.
I perch at the bus stop, watching the buses come and go.
The flurry of people, the flurry of colours, the flurry of lives.
I want his fingertips. I want his devoted eyes.
"Hi, this is Panda Poo - leave a rooting-tooting massage after the beepin' …"
"Pandora, answer your fucking phone, would you?"
I pull my skirt down, watching an old woman struggle to get onto the H98.
It's nearing six o'clock now. Laces of orange cloud spider across the clear sky, as the November sun begins to set.
"Hi, this is Panda Poo - leave a rooting-tooting massage after the beepin' …"
"Jesus fucking Christ, Pandora. Do you want me to come over and inform your darling Mother of your unfortunate flailing off the rails?"
My phone vibrates against my leg almost instantly.
I flip it open with a sigh.
"Pandora, where the fuck are you?"
"Effy?"
My heart literally strangles itself. I swallow the apple of panic rising in my throat.
His voice intoxicates me, more than any other illegal substance ever could.
"Effy? Where are you?"
"Freddie?"
"We're supposed to go out tonight? You're not at home."
"Freddie. Fuck off."
You've got to give in, Effy.
I can't. I can't. I can't.
He has to learn.
I blink back my tears, and call Cook.
"Hope I didn't keep you waiting, Eff." Pandora squirms as she approaches the bus stop, hand in hand with her latest toy, a gangly boy with eyes too big for his gaunt face.
"Only three hours," I reply curtly, forcing a smile.
"Oh wizzar', you brought Cookie," she beams at him, desperately changing the subject.
"Busy, were we?" Cook laughs, gesturing towards the intimate clasp. Pandora drops the kid's hand like he's literally on fire. She mumbles something about 'surfing and turfing', and introduces us all.
"Jed," he grunts moronically.
We follow him as he mopes off in the direction of the upcoming 'impressive' display of angst-ridden destruction.
Banter is scarce, with Jed making jokes about drugging unsuspecting female participants with rehipnol as Cook discusses fuck worthy tottie. Pandora quizzes the sincerity of the conversation. At this, Jed slips his hand under the back her polka dot skirt and whispers into her ear.
Cook falls behind to keep in time with my dainty, disinterested paces.
He doesn't question my silence, but instead offers me his jacket.
I refuse.
When we approach neek central, it's just as I had imagined.
A mob of social outcasts and try-hards with scene style sweep fringes and laughably pretentious attire, surrounding an impressive campfire and clutching large display fireworks.
"Ladies," Jed calls to the lads, "The cavalry has arrived."
His public school accent is starting to irritate me, and I wonder aloud where Pandora picked this prick up.
Cook practically pisses himself.
As midnight descends, the leather coats and studded collars have been abandoned in a pile beside me, as everyone thrashes around to the predictably lame Dubstep collection blasting from the portable beat box. I watch them all, cans in hand, swaying and grinding to the pulsating rhythm,
I watch them from the closest park bench, eager to hear police sirens and watch the shit hit the fan.
Cook staggers out of the crowd and sits beside me, pressing a bottle of brandy into my hand.
"Drink up sweet cheeks."
I clasp the bottle. No. I need to feel everything tonight.
It can't be hazy. I have to remember every specific detail.
Every nuance in his heartbroken face.
I know he'll come. I know he'll find me.
And I need to see it. I need to see and feel the damage to his soul.
So, I bring the bottle to the ground with as much force as I can, smashing it into fragments as it collides with the concrete path.
"Whoa." Cook jumps from his seat, raising his eyebrows at me. "Peachy, whats' the beef?"
I take him by his elbow, and gesture towards the crowd. "Let's dance."
His face splits into a grin, as he follows my lead, pushing into the centre of the gyrating goons. Almost instantly they depart, and watch our bodies morph together. I throw my head back as Cook's mouth makes it's way down my neck. He drops his hands, and runs them over my chest, and down to the bottom of my stomach - all the time moving to the heavy kick drum.I feel their eyes boring into us, feel their cocks stiffening under their skater style jeans, but I don't give it a second thought. I just concentrate on the touch of the adoring boy that holds me.
I feel it in his fingers, how much he needs me. And with every gentle kiss I hear the love that terrifies him.
You're two of the same, you and that James Cook.
The moment hypnotizes me, at the centre of everybody's attention.
It feeds me.
I open my eyes as Cook's mouth meets mine, drunkenly suffocating me.
I run my fingers through his coarse hair, and bite his bottom lip.
We grin.
My eyes flitter to a gap in the crowd.
And there he is.
Skin like caramel velvet.
Eyes adorned with tears of sickened vengeance.
Freddie.
My Freddie.
Damaged.
Destroyed.
Broken.