It was cold, insufferably so. My breath turned to vapour as it met the air. Fishing in my pocket for my pack of cigarettes, I tripped, catching myself before I fell.

Jack was chasing me. I could hear him staggering behind me. I’d recognize his tread anywhere. Moving as fast as I could, I hoped to outmanoeuvre him, but he caught up, grabbing me by the arm and knocking my cigarettes to the ground. His mouth was turned down at the corners. “What’s going on?”

“Seriously?” I bent to retrieve the package. Standing, I pulled a cigarette loose with my teeth.

“Why are you being so weird?” Jack raised his gloved hand to meet the tip of my cigarette, lighting it with a flick of his Zippo.

I inhaled, attempting to silence the throbbing between my legs. It always aroused me when he lit my cigarette.

“I was up all night. You didn’t come home, again.” I was whisper-yelling so as not to draw any more attention. “Then I came to meet you—which you begged me to, by the way—and have to watch some bitch run her fingers through your hair.”

“Oh please, don’t be dramatic.” He reached for the cigarette and took a long draw before placing it back in my mouth.

I was melting into placidity, so easily malleable. Jack had this effect on me. He could soften me with a few simple gestures. I wondered why I was even mad as I scratched my neck again, digging my nails in hard and fast, up and down, feeling the warmth and wetness of blood.

“Babe, stop scratching.” Jack grabbed my hand, holding it in his. “You’re bleeding.”

“No, I’m not.” I was stubborn, clutching the ire, questioning myself, questioning everything. I jerked my hand away, staring at it. Blood was caked beneath my nails.

I glanced past Jack, spotting the lanky man once again—the one who had waved at me. He was standing nearby, clutching a penny-farthing bicycle. Our eyes met.

“I’m sorry about Jessica,” Jack said, softly. “She’s just high on a power trip or something.”

“Don’t be sorry.” I took a draw on my cigarette before flicking it. Turning away, I began walking straight through a garden plot filled with flowers in various forms of decay. I heard a crunch and stopped, standing on one foot, balancing to see the bottom of my boot. A withered rose was jammed into the groves of my sole. I looked over my shoulder.

Everything had vanished.

Chapter 44

I was cracking into smaller pieces, each morsel stringing, viscously adhered to my foundation. It reminded me of when I was a child, playing on the merry-go-round at the park by our house. Annabelle and William sat beside me as I clung to the metal bars. Glancing at my knuckles, I noticed the yellow and red paint was chipped underneath, revealing black iron speckled with rust.

The park was quiet and empty. It had been raining all morning. The swing set and teeter-totters were vacant and dewy beneath clearing grey skies, and as the heavy clouds shifted, the sun revealed itself. The grass glistened with beads of moisture as my father hunched over, an old blue baseball cap fitted on his head, his feet firmly planted on the ground. His jeans were worn at the knees, and the neck of his burnt orange T-shirt stretched from my mother’s inability to properly do laundry. Each time we spun around, he grabbed the metal, pushing us with all the force he could muster, nearly falling over with each thrust. Annabelle’s long black hair flew backwards as she clutched the rail, her arms and legs wrapped around it. She was terrified. William let his head fall back, laughing and squealing, shouting, “Faster, faster, faster.” The sheer velocity at which we moved should have catapulted us from the merry-go-round, but physics kept us from falling.