Cold Fire [SAMPLE]

[44]

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

When I was young and my disease hadn't yet overtaken my life, my mother used to take me to the beach. Every Monday while my dad was at work, for the year prior to starting school, we'd leave for the sea, packing beach towels and sunscreen and floatation devices, and we'd spend the day on the sand. During winter, we would pack a blanket and lay it down on the grassy hill before the ocean, watching as the relentless waves crashed against the shore. When it rained, we'd bring a massive umbrella and sit huddled together, enjoying the feeling of the sporadic drops of rain on our skin. And when it got hot, we'd spend the day in the salty water, soaking up more than our fair share of sunlight.

We never missed a single Monday. It was a ritual, a tradition, a celebration. And I loved it.

One particular Monday when we headed down to the beach, thick, unbroken clouds rolled overhead like an endless grey sea. Spring had just announced its arrival and little white flowers began to poke out of the grass on the hill, swaying in the persistent breeze. I remember laying a blanket on the grass, unpacking our basket of food and games, and sitting by a dull-blue ocean that seemed to have no end, merging with the clouds at the horizon. For a whole day, I sent looks at the grey-toned waves until the colour was implanted in my brain, a backdrop to everything I saw.

I dreamt about the ocean that night – about a tsunami of grey-blue engulfing my house, along with my parents and I. I remember waking up drenched in a cold sweat, my eyes snapping straight to the window that overlooked the sea. For some reason, the ocean had felt different; it had felt stronger – more alive – than ever before, and it terrified me. And every time I saw that same dull-blue colour – on a passing car, as a background to an ad, on someone's shirt – I was brought back to that day and the terror of my dream of a living, pulsing ocean that couldn't be stopped by the shore.

And it's as I step into the old squat building that I see it again.

Two dull-blue pools that strangle me into their depths, reminding me of crashing waves and unbroken grey skies.

They were waiting for me.

This whole time, my vision had been leading me to a trap.

Before me: an unbroken line of men and women, their clothing dark, their faces clouded with determination. Behind me: a locked door and no way out. And in the centre of it all: a man with the eyes of an overcast sea – a man who crashed my parents car and tried to strangle me at my front door.

They had been waiting for me.

A smile slowly creeps onto the man's face and all I see is blue. Engulfing me. Overtaking me. Stealing the breath from my lungs. I want away from here. I want to pinch myself awake and find out that this whole thing – the past ten years of my life – was just one very big, very long and very complex bad dream.

But there's no waking from reality, and I can't do anything except stand rooted to the spot as the words roll off his tongue like violent waves. "Lost, are we?" he says and steps forward. "Or have you just finally given up?"

I want to crumble into a terrified mess, but I will myself to stand tall, to keep my head high and my voice steady. I will be strong.

"Neither," I say, my voice carrying into the extensive lobby.

He raises an eyebrow.

"I've come to take back what's mine - what was stolen."

He wants to laugh – I can see it in his dull eyes – but he doesn't. "And what might that be?" His words have a humorous edge.

"My life," I shout and at the same time, I strike out. I feel power surge through me, rushing down my outstretched arms and out of my hands in the form of an enormous gust of wind. It crashes into the people before me, flinging them back like they weigh nothing, and they smack against the wall, collapsing to the ground like rag dolls.