The Pretty Poison

PART 15 - Chapter 9

PART 15 – Chapter 9

Another night, another dream. Who is that girl?

I pull off my comforter and sheets, letting the cool air prickle my skin. There’s something unnatural happening within these dreams. As if their foreboding visions can save me from futures unkind. As if they will grant me pardons from my sins. If I figure their message, could I find a way to forever stop the voice? I hope so.

Otherwise, why would I dream such creepy things? Right?

My fingers clench the edges of my bed as I sit forward. As mature as I pretend to be, these dreams scare the hell out of me more than anything. Inside I’m just a teenager that can’t handle what’s been done to her and trust me, I haven’t had the easiest of pasts. My stomach churns, still feeling awful from last night and my headache seems worse than before. I guess Westley’s “bed rest” didn’t really help after all. Shocker…

I turn to the clock and look at the numbers 9:13 glowing in dull, red letters. Although I see them clearly, it takes me a moment to comprehend the time. My eyes widen recalling that practice started at 8am.

Shit! I turn to wake Westley before we both are late but I see he has already up and left. My eyes search his trailer through the open bedroom door but he’s nowhere to be found. A little sticky note on his bedside table catches my eye while I scramble out of the sheets. Scribbled in his messy handwriting is “Sleep in, you deserve a little rest.”

I crumble the note in my hand. Flopping back on the spring-loaded bed, I sigh letting go as much tension from my shoulders that I possibly can. This is the first time in months where I can take time for myself. My arm reaches for the comforter and pulls it under my head instead of taking a pillow. Sideways on the bed, my feet rest awkwardly on the headboard. I’m fully awake a few deep breaths later without being tired. It feels amazing to sleep in!

After a while of staring at the ceiling and thinking of nothing in particular, I get up and pull one of my extra shirts and a pair of yoga pants out of Westley’s drawers. The materials slide on my skin, fitting like a glove and showing off the right places. My hair on the other hand sits on the top of my head looking like someone took a kitchen mixer to it.

Warily passing the bedroom doorway, I make it to the world outside. The walk down to my trailer to fetch my poi equipment is long and hurts my bare feet. But with the blue sky and the birds calling out, I think I’m better already. I’m still not one hundred percent, probably not even seventy-five percent, but I feel healthier than last night. Now, I proudly say I don’t feel like I’m about to pass out.

The metal door opens with ease and I slip into the cold that has gathered in my not-particularly-well-insulated trailer. I breathe in the chilly air and thank no one specific that I am alive today. Yesterday, all I thought about was death and my sorrow. It might actually be the reason of my dreams. I just hope it’ll be a good day.

I throw my dirty costume on my bed and notice something is off. The way it hangs loosely on an unknown object makes me do a double take. I look over at the awkward lump and move the costume to the side.

Underneath lays my practice equipment.

I turn behind me to check that it’s not some new equipment Mr. Huntsdale might have ordered. When I don’t find my poi chains and lighter fluid in the corner, I know someone has touched them; someone who’s no stranger to my trailer.

Westley.

He glances at me when I strut up to him, ignoring the fact I am clearly angry. His growing brown hair flutters in the wind as he takes down the booth outside the performance tent. He really looks so …debonair while he’s working like that. And that white muscle shirt is well named.