Stories in Broken Glass

Chapter Four

The indoor hockey centre of Ochim Collage is outdated compared to the rest of the school. The prestigious collage has the best robotics lab in the country, green grass on the field no matter what time of year, students in perfect form, always. So unlike the state school I attend.

I c***k my knuckles as I enter the walk-in freezer. That annoying sound of skates on ice assaults me quicker than the actual assault. A sweaty arm is slung over my shoulders and my face is shoved into an armpit.

I try not to breathe as I beat the chest of the human trapping me in the confines of his disgusting armpit. I want to scream for his beheading, but I don’t want to get any hair in my mouth. So I wait for it to be over.

I almost cry when he finally releases me and plants a big wet, slobbery kiss on my forehead. I settle for of few frosty breaths that can been seen in the frigid air and sniffling the snot back into my nose.

Keith’s older brother and my bestest friend, Caleb. He appointed himself to be the brother I never had when I was six and he was ten. He had later told me that he had only said that so that I would leave him alone. I didn’t.

He looks so different to Keith, instead of Keith’s blonde curly locks, Caleb has red hair. Where Keith has blue eyes, Caleb has green.

Keith wants to be is already a drummer in the school band that change their name every six weeks. Right now, it’s, The Black Watch, which doesn’t make sense because none of the five members wear a watch. Caleb is a hockey player. He’s going pro at the end of this year; he should have gone straight out of high school. But he wanted to stay here for a little longer.

It makes me sad to think that my best friend is going to be this pro hockey player and I’ll be here. Obsessing over this specific shade of gold, never leaving this corner of the world.

The Little Onion sells the best burgers ever. Caleb is devouring 3 of them, inhaling them without so much as taking a breath. While I’m, slowly eating my double decker—my usual order—very lady-like. Nana would be proud, the old lady who’s off in Zambia this month.

Caleb finishes his third burger, then proceeds to chug his soda.

I’ve learnt to just ignore him at this point.

“I still don’t know how you aren’t fat yet.” I remark as I finish my fries. The best friggen fries.

He smirks at me, his arms flexing as he pushes himself up in the chair.

“Well, you see, dear Vera.” His smirk climbing up his face until his eyes are squinty.

“It’s all the s-”

“I’m going to stop you right there. I was trying to insult you, not learn about your s*x life.”

He just laughs at me, throwing a hand up to his chest, “you wound me, Vera”.

I sneer at him and finish the last bite of my burger.

“Arcade?”

“Arcade.”

The Arcade has no name and is about as old as the owner, who never seems to be around. There’s two young teenagers, working their first job counting tickets and giving out prizes. Almost every teenager starts working at the no-name arcade, and even then, you don’t meet the owner. But someone owns it, because when the payslips come it’s signed.

I am the reigning champion of all the shooting games in the arcade, Caleb is always in third, but he beats me in the rally-car driving games, so it evens out.

Caleb tells me he lets me win…or used to. It became apparent that I was just good after all these years.

I’m in the middle of Rambo, when a guy out the corner of my eye catches my attention and I die. I pout and replace the g*n. Walking past the kiddy games, trying to find Caleb, I find someone else instead.

He’s rather pale, blonde hair and almost non-existent eyebrows. He looks familiar, but not familiar enough so I ignore him.

“Lucinda” a hand on my shoulder makes me spin around. I’m not sure what face I’m making but apparently, it’s the right one because the guy takes his hand off my shoulder but doesn’t back up like the boys that I grew up with do.

“No Lucinda here.” I clip, taking a tiny step back. This guy, whoever he is, documents that.

“Sorry, -” he looks as if the word tasted sour in this mouth, “I just thought you were someone I knew, a long time ago.” I expect him to back off now that he’s said his piece. He doesn’t.

“She had blonde hair like you, brown eyes like you. She had the most expressive eyes, such pretty doe eyes. So pretty.” He whispered that last part with a sinisterness that reminded me of that true crime documentary I watched with Emma yesterday. I back up.

“Well, sorry to disappoint, no Lucinda here.” I try an awkward smile, desperately looking for an out.

“Hmm, indeed. She doesn’t appear to be here. I may see you again. Goodbye for now.” And with that, he turned on the ball of his foot and left, I ran in the opposite direction.

Later I would look back on this terrible encounter and I still wouldn’t realise how easily his fingers fit in the scars on my shoulder.