Chapter 1: Curls of Saltwater Hair

There is a man sat beside me with explosive diarrhoea. It's all over the seat and all over the floor: I am thankful it's not on me. He begins to wipe it with his jacket, managing only to spread it further and create the most grotesque sound. The sight is fucking beautiful.

This man, 32A, mouths an apology, but seems more than content and a little smug at the idea of having the whole row to himself. It's a tiny plane but I hope with every ounce of my being that there is a seat at the back near the cabin crew's area. I leave then, and 32A smiles slightly to himself.

One seat is all that's left at the back of the plane. I pretend to sleep as I hear the beginnings of complaints and confusion at the smell. I hear the passengers run up and down the plane searching for seats, only to return with disappointed footsteps to their own when there are none. I hear the cabin crew behind me as they start to act; some unsure, some hysterical, and some about to puke.

I am alone beside the blissful sleeping souls around me. Then there's an announcement from the pilot who, audibly uncomfortable, states the plane will continue towards its destination. Two hours and thirty minutes left. They are not the worst I have had to endure.

xx

I'm about to fall asleep when I hear it. Her voice. I have trouble opening my fatigued eyes; they are glued shut. Then they open, and I see.

"Ange?"

She pauses, then turns. 'B?' she whispers. I nod. It's silent for a while then. She stands, frozen.

I haven't seen her in years. Though you can tell she is some several years older, she is all but my mirror. Dressed as all the other flight attendants are; in her hands she holds a plastic bottle of what seems to be disinfectant, and a heavily soiled towel. The disinfectant trembles in her hands.

'Let me just... get rid of this', she mutters, obviously disgusted with it, as she looks to be with me as well. She goes. Mine are the hands that tremble now; I thought this might be easier, though I never expected to have to run into this sort of thing before I even arrived.

She returns half an hour later, and offers no apology. She kneels beside my chair and studies the sleeping forms around us, making sure they're beyond hearing, before she speaks.

'Let me look at you', she whispers, and shaking hands meet my face. Her features darken. 'What in the fuck were you thinking, B. I told you to stay away from there that night; you weren't supposed to be there. How many fucking times did I have to put my neck on the line for you to understand that when I tell you to do something, you do it?'

A pause.

She steadies herself and removes her hands to grip my arm rest. 'Fuck, I've had how many years to deal with this?' she mumbles. She breathes slowly, and I say nothing. I am afraid of how real everything has suddenly become. But she is only the first tonight; there will undoubtedly be more reminders.

'I thought about you a lot, knew what I was going to say if I ever saw you again, but, Bell, your fucking face, God, you still look so young'

Another pause.

Her breathing says she's frustrated, I'm guessing by the fact that I haven't spoken yet. 'I have spent the last three years dealing with this shit, B. Do you have any idea?' She looks at me like she expects to find answers written in my eyes. She does not find anything. 'Everything got fucked-up 'cause of you'

I snap. 'Don't pretend you're some fucking saint Ange, you screwed shit up just as much as I did'

'I left, B. Before it got too far, before I did something stupid like you'

'What do you want me to say, Ange? That I'm sorry? That I'm fucking sorry your word was not my law, that I didn't worship everything you ever said to me?' I grip the armrest either side of her hands, my face is in hers. 'Just 'cause you were fucking Jimmy every-now-and-then didn't give you any right to tell me what to do'

She doesn't flinch. 'Fucking Jimmy had nothing to do with it, B'. Then her voice goes soft. 'I cared about you. You were like my sister'

'I didn't need a sister, Ange'

She flinches now. 'No, you just needed someone to help you fuck your dad over'

A longer pause. I try to feel nothing.

'I didn't need your help, Ange. I didn't need you. That was the only reason you were there, you wanted someone to need you, you wanted to feel like you were part of something. I never needed you. They hated you. We knew you wouldn't last – you never had the balls'

Another flight attendant moves towards us. His eyes are focused on Ange, his feet stumbling over discarded items that lay forgotten in the aisle. Ange doesn't seem to see him, more she senses him.

When she speaks next, I know it's for him. 'It's B. Leave me alone, it's B'. He lingers for a moment – his silver nametag 'Ben' glinting softly in the dark– then wades away slowly.

She sighs, and I turn to face her again. 'He got me this job. After I left, I told him everything and he got me this job. I don't ever have to go back there, I am free of it. I might never have really been a part of it, but if you think I am not relieved that I wasn't, you're wrong. I'll never need it again. But you will', she says reluctantly, ' I can see it in you, that spark – the one that would burn a whole city to the ground and leave you laughing alone in the ashes if you let it. You will always need to go back. I am free'

'Do you expect me to be proud of you?'

'No', is all she says for a while. 'I expected you to be proud of yourself', she mutters, 'all those times I imagined what this would be like, I thought you would be there and just smile like you used to. I thought I would be able to feel it in the air like some poison. I left because, when I imagined it, I was just as proud of you as you were, and it disgusted me'. Her hands begin to loosen themselves from my armrest, then her fingers rub soothingly on the backs of my hands.

'How could anyone be proud of you?' she muses. She stands, and I am no longer comforted. 'You were my only regret, Bella; that I couldn't save you'

Then she leaves.

I don't see her for the rest of the flight, and I doubt I will ever see her again.

xx

Despite the fact that when we arrive it is A. three in the morning, and B. pouring down with an unfortunate mix of deformed snow and just-on-the-verge-of-freezing rain, the lingering stench of bleach and diarrhoea is enough to turn the passengers to animals and the exit to a buffet.

There are endless queues between me and the freezing, black night. Normally, I would've been pissed – I hated queues – but this time I am thankful. Slightly. It gives me time to prepare – there will undoubtedly be more reminders.

I wait nervously in the arrivals hall. It will be his hair that sets him apart, as it had always done, and so I search for that – the space is unusually crowded for three a.m. My mind wonders as I watch the tide of people slowly ebb away: some children bobbing on shoulders like buoys, some dragged away crying and clinging to the floor like seaweed. I left Forks as a hermit crab, I think; I was always home, it was the world that moved around me. I was carried away by a power that pulled and pushed against everything that had ever been created, leaving nothing more than dust and sand. I had tried escaping from that shell, I'd even come close sometimes, but it seemed that I was it and it was me. There was no escape for the hermit from its shell.

I see the brown curls then. They are lifeless and lined with grey, but they are attached to the same man I left – my father. He sees me then, and it is as if the life has drained out of him as well. Here is another hermit, returning to its shell.

He comes to stop in front of me, several feet in front, and says nothing. 'Charlie'. I break the silence.

His features are heavy with disappointment and hurt. He sighs deeply, 'Bella'.

We say nothing more.

He turns without taking my suitcase or offering any help. I drag it behind me and the hum of its wheels is the only noise we make.

The cruiser is alone in the car park; this is the second. I slide in the back with my bags as Charlie ghosts into the front. The partition is pathetic in its attempt to show all that there is between my father and I. All the unspoken words.

I busy myself with imagined conversation as he drives down the dark and silent roads; it's something I've become more familiar with over the last couple months.

In my mind he asks me how I am. I reply with a short answer, it gives nothing away – I am pleased with the results of my preparation. What was Phoenix like this autumn? He questions. This time my answer is longer – it was strange, I say, much cooler than I'm used to it being. The last couple of years it's been really hot, it's like we can never get enough air. His lips tighten, and he nods politely. I tell him I had fun, that it was fun but not that I didn't know it was serious, because I did, I made friends and they helped me. Somewhat. He doesn't seem comforted by that.

I'm about to ask him what it was exactly that he had wanted me to do there, when he speaks. 'I fixed your old room up for you. You'll sleep there 'till we can figure something else out', a pause, 'We'll try figure out something soon'. His voice is gruff from not speaking, and betrays no emotion.

'Thank you', I say. He eyes me through the rear-view mirror, a twitch of surprise running through his features. He nods slightly.

Our house is second on the left, and we arrive just before six-thirty. It took me less than ten minutes, but I hear Charlie's snores resonate from upstairs by the time I get all my stuff out of the cruiser and into the house. I pause and let my eyes adjust to the blackness.

The rooms are nearly unrecognisable. On my left the living room has been completely moved around, perhaps even fully refurnished – I can't tell under the mess and the blackness. I stumble blindly into the kitchen on the right, and feel my way to what I think must be the table. It is a disfigured beast, heaving with stacks of paper and littered with all different types of case-files.

I sit on the only seat not topped with anything, and close my eyes.

This is the way the world ends.