4/27/2017 0 Comments Bait by Kristina DyerBAIT The room is spinning. My head is pounding. I can’t see. My hands are shaking already. The bed is sweaty, the sheets clinging to me like damp hands. My stomach heaves and I retch onto the floor. My throat burns and my eyes stream hot tears. I can smell stale drink and smoke off myself and cringe at the reek of my own body. Zack groans and kicks me. I fall out of bed, my palms and shins scraping against the rough carpet. More cuts. It doesn’t matter. I get up and stagger to the wardrobe, dragging out one of Zack’s t-shirts. I tug it over my head and shuffle, zombie-like, into the living room. Em is sprawled on the sofa, half-dressed, her eyes fluttering and her mouth open. I waken her brusquely and scowl at her as she stares blearily up at me. “Move.” Em gets off the sofa, grumbling. The room’s a mess. There are sticky rings on the coffee table from our drinks, and the ashtray’s full of butts. The kitchen boards are covered in three days’ worth of takeaway boxes and there are dirty dishes everywhere. There’s a distinct smell of vomit coming from the bathroom. I decide I don’t care about any of it. I slump down on the couch and start to roll a joint. My hands shake so badly I drop it. “Shit.” I scrape the green off the coffee table and pack it in again. It’ll do. I fumble for the lighter in my pocket. Light up, breathe in, deep, deep, good. My head swims nicely. It still pounds like drums are banging in my brain, but the high helps. Em brings coffee, hot, black, strong. It burns going down. Drink, drag, drink, drag. My mouth and insides are on fire, but in a good way. I feel alert and sleepy at the same time, not properly alive yet. I close my eyes and take another deep draw on the joint as Em begins to roll one of her own. She knows I’m not going to share. Zack comes out of the bedroom. His long hair is dishevelled, like a blond bird’s nest, and his eyes are bloodshot. He’s thrown on his old, ragged bathrobe and tied it loosely around his waist, and his feet shuffle in dirty socks. He looks like shit. “Did you start without me?” he demands. His hands are clenched into fists by his sides, and his eyebrows are knitted together in a frown. I duck my head apologetically. “Sorry.” I offer him the spliff but he shakes his head disdainfully. He goes to the cabinet and brings the wooden box with him, the one with the old band stickers on it. Slipknot, Sum 41, old-school screamer music that always gives me a headache. He drops down onto the sofa beside me and pulls out a little bag of white powder. He cuts it into straight, snowy lines on the coffee table and snorts it up. My turn. Anticipation tingles in me, like an itch that needs scratched. Snort, snort, like glass in my throat, like ants in my brain, it stings deliciously. Swallow, bitter taste, then the lightbulb. Ah, I can see, I’m alive. Em’s turn. Her eyes go wide and dark, like black holes. She looks like a shitfaced rabbit. It makes me laugh, my throat burning with a sharp, uncontrollable cackle. Zack slaps my leg irritably. “Shut up. You sound like a fucking maniac.” He grabs the back of my neck and pulls my head down to his lap. I get it over with quickly, he’s done in two minutes. I spit into my empty coffee mug. “Go shower,” he tells me sharply. “You’re going out today.” The water is hot, hot, burning. My skin turns lobster red, it feels like I’m standing under a lava flow. It’s the only way I feel clean anymore. I dress casually; jeans, hoodie, boots. I scrape my hair back into a ponytail and push sunglasses on to hide the purple rings under my eyes. “Take those bloody shades off,” Zack growls, “and put on make-up. I want you to look good, not like a fucking tramp.” I do, and change my hoodie for a low-cut tank top. The bruises on my arms have faded to a greenish yellow. They’re not too obvious, so I don’t worry about it. I take my hair down again -- it needs dyed, badly; there are a good six inches of brown root fading into the blonde -- and slick on mascara. My cheeks are hollow and sunken, so I add some blush. Better. Zack nods his approval and I slope out of the flat, trying to ignore the niggling jealousy as I see him beckoning Em to the bedroom. I’m the bait. I get the girls for Zack, and he pays me in drugs and lets me crash with him. I’m lucky I have him. I’m lucky I’m not on the street, that I have a bed to sleep in and food to eat, when I can face it. Without Zack, I’d be dead in a gutter somewhere. I walk through town, vodka and a few joints in my handbag. I swig from a bottle of Lucozade and suck hard on a cigarette, pretending it’s a joint and imagining the beautiful, head-cloudy feeling. Soon. I reach the shopping centre and hang about the food court. I get a burger and eat it one-handed, texting Zack pictures of girls. After an hour, he gives me a target. Two of them. They only look about thirteen. No sweat. I stroll over to them, hitching my confident smile to my face, and bend over, catching the eye of one of them; she’s a real baby-face, with big blue doll eyes and blonde hair. Zack will like her. He loves the innocent ones. It works as it always does. A sly grin, an offer of a drink in the park, and the girls are like mice to my pied piper. They practically frolic after me as I lead them away from the food court, and I can see their excited looks at each other out of the corner of my eye. Of course, all little girls are warned to watch out for strangers. To not go off with a strange man, to never get a lift with someone, to not drink anything they haven’t seen being poured. But they never think another girl could trick them. Girls stick together, girls look out for each other, girls are trustworthy. I’m not that kind of girl. Not anymore. When I was younger, I was as sweet and innocent as the little blonde who now sits on a bench swigging vodka straight from the bottle. But not now. I used to be a good girl, hanging out at the mall with my friends and thinking black eyeliner was rebellious. But then I met Zack. He was very different then. He was eighteen, and the hottest looking boy I had ever seen. He had a cheeky smile and deep brown eyes like pools of melted chocolate. He wore edgy clothes and smoked rollies, and I thought he was gorgeous. I couldn’t believe someone so cool would want anything to do with me, and when he paid me attention I was so flattered I would have done anything for him. I’ve been with him two years now. He has Em, too, but he tells me I’m his favorite. He treats me better than her; I sleep in the bed with him, and she has to make do with the couch. I always get first drag on the spliff, or first swig of the bottle, and he lets me leave the house. He trusts me with bringing back girls for him, because I always get the ones he likes. These girls are easy prey. I could tell just by looking at them that they were dying for a good time. I plaster my grin on my face again and draw out a joint, waving it around temptingly. “Anyone want a little puff?” I ask, blazing it up and inhaling deeply. The swirly light-headedness floods me like purest joy, and I pass it to the blonde girl. She takes it, eying it dubiously, and takes an experimental puff. Of course, she coughs and splutters and her eyes water, but she perseveres, taking two or three shallow drags before handing it on. Soon we’re all nicely stoned, and I propose heading back to my place for a little party. The girls share a look and I pretend to look in my bag as they agree, then we all troop out of the park and down the road. It’s starting to get dark, and I suggest that they text their mums and tell them they’ll be out late. They look scared, until I say, “You should each say you’re going to the other’s house for a sleepover. I used to do that with my mum all the time, and I never got caught.” Their faces brighten and they set to texting. I send a quick one to Zack to tell him we’re on our way. He’s done the usual sweep of the flat. It looks quite good; he must have had Em help, because there’s a candle burning in the middle of the coffee table and the carpet’s been hoovered. There’s a six of beer on the kitchen board, and the coke box is sitting, ready to go, on the side table. “Zack!” I call, and I can hear how wasted my own voice sounds. Zack and Em come out of the bedroom; Em’s dark hair is ruffled and her shirt’s on inside out. I feel a stab of jealousy and shoot an evil look at her. She cowers and scuttles into the bathroom. I introduce Zack to the girls. They giggle drunkenly and accept the beers he offers them, sitting squashed on the couch as he spreads out in the armchair. I put music on the iPod, one of Zack’s bands to put him in a good mood. I light up another spliff, but Zack takes it off me and smokes it himself. I go and lift a beer from the kitchen instead. I’d much rather have more vodka, but we drank it all in the park so I have to make do. The night goes as they always do. We get the girls stupid drunk, spaced-out high, and Zack works his magic. The girls are like putty in his hands, hanging on his every word. He’s charming when there’s something to be gained. When they’re so besotted with him it’s all they can do not to drool, he takes the blonde one by the hand and leads her into the bedroom. Em turns up the music and we start to dance with the other one, distracting her. Not that she needs it. She’s so blazed she can barely stand. I don’t think she’s even noticed her friend isn’t in the room anymore. She starts to fade. Her eyes droop; her words are so garbled I can’t understand a word she’s saying. She sits down on the sofa and passes out in a second. Em and I look at each other, turn down the music, and put a blanket over her. I hear Zack calling for me from the bedroom. When I go in, I see the blonde girl lying on the floor, her skirt around her waist, fast asleep. I bend and tug the hem down to cover her. “Bring Em and come here,” Zack says. I glance down at the girl again as I go. Her eyes are fluttering, her pink lip gloss is smeared over her face, and a purple bruise is starting to bloom on her upper arm. The guilt, which usually doesn’t hit me until the morning, starts to creep in, but I push it away. Em and I go back into the bedroom and do what Zack wants. He always likes us together after these kinds of parties; the little ones turn him on so much he’s always ready to go again once they’re out cold. When he’s finished he lights a joint and we share it, passing between us and filling the room with smoke. When I wake up, light is streaming from a gap in the curtains straight onto my face. It’s like being stabbed in the brain. I groan and roll over. Em’s arm is thrown over me, and her hand gropes my boob in her sleep. I slap her away and get up, my head whirling, my stomach protesting. I run to the bathroom to vomit, stepping over the blonde girl who is still unconscious on the floor. I make coffee and sit down beside the dark-haired girl, who’s curled in a ball on the couch. She’s snoring softly, and the even, rhythmic sound is oddly soothing. I roll a spliff and smoke it leisurely. Zack will be in a good mood this morning; I don’t need to worry about using his stash without him. After a while, I hear Em and Zack in the bedroom. Em’s watched too much porn; she makes silly squealing noises that I guess are meant to sound like she’s enjoying herself. It makes me think of a piglet, and I suppress a giggle even as jealousy bubbles irrationally in my belly. I don’t enjoy sex with Zack, but I’d rather he did it with me than with Em. As I listen to them, their noises interspersed with the banging of the headboard against the wall, I think that Zack usually sounds more enthusiastic when he’s with me. I know what he likes, I let him do whatever he wants, and I never complain. Once they finish, Zack comes into the living room. His good mood is plain on his face. He sits down beside me and puts an arm around me, drawing me close and pressing his stubbly face against mine. I kiss him, letting him stick his tongue in my mouth, resisting the urge to pull away from his hot, stale breath. “You did well yesterday, Jodie,” he says. “What reward would you like?” A smile comes to my face; I can’t help it. I must have really pleased him, to get a reward. But I know what to say. I lean in close to him; drop my hand to his crotch. “I think you know what I’d like,” I purr, and I watch his pupils dilate. He licks his lips, reaches for the coke box. He cuts four lines and we snort them up; he’s ready in a moment and we do it on the sofa, the dark-haired girl still snoring beside us. We sit side by side, his hand gripping my thigh possessively, sharing a joint. The smoke coils lazily around us and I watch the swirling tendrils dazedly. After a while I notice a strange sound, coming from what seems like miles away. A feeble, bubbling, choking sound. Zack’s on his feet in an instant. I follow a second later, going towards the noise, and I realise it’s the blonde girl. She’s vomited all over herself; it’s dripping down her cheeks, over her chin and down her neck. And she’s choking on it. “Quick!” I gasp, suddenly completely, painfully sober. I throw myself on the floor beside her and haul her onto her side. “Zack!” I screech, thumping her back to try to clear her throat, “Do something! Call an ambulance!” Zack doesn’t move. He’s shaking his head. “I can’t,” he says quietly, his voice shaking. “I can’t.” “What do you mean, you can’t?” I demand. I’m wiping the sick from the girl’s face, trying to clear her mouth, but still she gags. She’s bright red now, but her eyes are shut; she’s still unconscious. “Zack, she’s choking! She’ll die if we don’t get help!” Still he shakes his head, and I can’t believe he’s just standing there. I turn to Em and her face is a mask of horror. She gets up and bolts from the bedroom. I hear her gagging as she runs. The girl’s making terrible gurgling sounds. Her hands and feet are jerking, and I thump her on the back again, praying that she’ll cough and clear her throat and breathe. “Please,” I gasp, but soon there’s no sound at all, and her body goes limp and still. “Oh my god, Zack, she’s dead.” My voice is empty, I’m numb with shock, she’s dead, she’s dead, oh god, she’s dead. I look up at Zack, and his face is white and sick looking. He backs away to drop onto the bed, burying his face in his hands. My hands are covered in blood and vomit. The girl -- I don’t even remember her name, -- is lying on her side, her golden hair a tangled mess around her quickly paling face, her skirt still hitched up around her thighs. I cradle her head in my lap, terrible, sickening guilt tearing at my belly like a wolf’s claws. She’s dead, and it’s all my fault. I’m the bait, I brought her here. Sirens. I hear sirens in the distance, and I know Em must have called for help. I glance up at Zack, and he shakes his head. No point in running. I sit, rocking the girl like a baby, and wait. Zack has never worried about being caught. He thinks he’s untouchable. The police have called round to the flat a few times for different reasons, but Zack’s never been charged with anything, even when Em and I both had black eyes and bruises, and once Em was passed out drunk in the bathroom. You’d think the police would have taken one look at us and arrested Zack on the spot, but they don’t care about girls like Em and me. We’re troublemakers, sluts, care-home rejects. Adults pretend not to notice us. But I know that this time, we’ll be noticed. And it won’t be good. Bio: Kristina is from Belfast, Northern Ireland. When she's not writing she enjoys baking and being overly emotional about her dogs. She's been published by 101 Words and Firefly Magazine
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