The world is made of wax. The periphery blurs, shimmers as though its atoms are too tired (HURT) to hold together. Discomfort dogs my heels, the incessant sensation someone is following me that won't go away even after I look back.

And look back. And look again.

It looks exactly as I remember. Except summat's off: everything's been moved an inch to the left or sunlight has thawed it all and night hardened it at a slight tilt. Memory (pain hurt) is the best of liars: it'll have me insisting I'm right even when my own eyes prove otherwise.

I hover opposite Sakda's. The brick townhouse is ablaze in the cold night. The windows vomit light into the inky street, silhouettes osmosing into each other only to splice again.

A gust smacks me with the smell of cheap liquor. Who's in control now: memory or craving?

Summat rustles. (PAIN!) I whip around. Lighting speed. Heart becomes a choking hazard.

It's only a waxwing perched in a rowan in the front yard of an identically ramshackle home. As I watch, the bird bursts from the branches, leaving the entire cluster joggling. The red fruit bob and cling to brittle phalanges with the desperation possessed only by things that have overstayed their welcome.

Wind tickles the back of my neck, innocuous until it braids a noose to strangle me with: from beneath the alcohol, chlorine emerges to burn at each inhale.

My heart, which hammered against my ribs only seconds ago, barely dares to beat. A grass snake that withers at the sight of predators, it plays dead in my chest.

Don't kill me. Don't kill me. I'm already dead.

With numb fingers, I fumble to ring Diwa. She don't answer the first or the fifth attempt. I jitter to keep my muscles active and flick the lid of my zippo in my pocket.

Open, shut, open. Shut.

I could leg it.

Even as I think it, I know it's not an option. Then I'll have hurt Nicolás for nowt. It's my fault he's upset. Everything bad in his life is my fault.

I only have one option: breach my exile.

If only I could get high or drunk. But that would defeat the whole purpose of being Diwa's sober chaperone. Why did she have to ring me? We're not mates! Let it serve as a reminder to throw my phone in the Alexandra Park pond when I next pass.

I cross the road.

Sweat slathers my skin the moment I'm over the threshold. Though I've no intention of lollygagging about, I take my jacket off; the spikes and chains and insect patches and other miscellaneous things I've stitched onto it don't exactly blend into the crowd. The black hoodie beneath is much more anonymous.

They're going to catch you.

The flavour of cigarettes coats my tongue. So Lailah Paracha still smokes inside. Or is this one of those lasting consequences you can't get rid of even when you've changed for the better?

Disorientation follows me inside as the 2D crayon sketch of memory don't match reality. I could swear the mahogany key holder and the landscape painting have switched places but there's no sun-fading or patched-up marks in the wallpaper to indicate such a change.

The bass of Trap Queen reverberates in my knees as I enter the hoard. Combined with a dozen drunken conversations held at once and the sloshing of blood in my ears, the noise threatens to cause an avalanche. The whole house is about to collapse.

Heads turn as I pass. They move with a hive mind, faces blank save for eyes much bigger than they should be.

They're going to catch you. They'll catch you.

The floor ripples under my Vans. Hardwood? No. Something worn that sinks under my weight. The jungle-pattern wallpaper moves. The cheetahs lurking behind tufts of grass snarl at me.

The living room is much smaller than I remember.

Or maybe it's more crowded than I've seen it. People meld into one, eyes bursting like burn pustules from their skin to stare at me. On their cheeks and their shoulders and the backs of their arms.

Intoxicated adolescents spill from the open door to the back garden where they smoke—unnecessary considering Lailah used to light her first cigarette before she even got out of bed—until they're absorbed back into the glob of glittery sweat and gingerbread-flavoured alcohol. Christmas spirit.

'Excuse us.'

Annabella and Ju approach me with their fingers clasped together as a rescue rope. They pant the tang of cheap liquor, more oozing from their pores until it's absorbed by the holes in my skin.

Is it possible to get drunk second-hand? Is it possible to get alcohol poisoning? I imagine it seep through my flesh and into my bloodstream. Will I die? My heart is beating fast enough to explode. Am I about to die? Am I–?

Yes.

I press myself against the wall though they've already passed. The air is thin, stripped of oxygen. Or maybe it's my lungs that aren't entirely solid. Either way, the world is distorted. The crowd doubles in my vision.

When I don't spot her at a glance, I phone Diwa again. She don't answer. Fuck.

Fuck.

They want you dead.

You shouldn't be here. You shouldn't be here. You shouldn't be here. You shouldn't be here. You shouldn't be here. You shouldn't be here.

They'll make you drown.

Pulling my hood as far over my face as I can get it, I start my patrol around the perimeter of the living room. The mass is gathered round the sofa table playing Ring of Fire.

Someone pours pink gin into the McDonald's Coca-Cola glass in the middle and my gut writhes at the thought of Nicolás eating alone. He always eats alone. Why don't I ever eat with him? He wouldn't poison the food or take it away because I'm misbehaving. I don't have to be afraid of him.

But maybe he has to be afraid of you.

I shake my head like a dog, think of Diwa, but everyone is staring at me. Eyes in places where they shouldn't be. They don't blink even once. They're all out to get you.

They all want to see you drown.

I drown in noise. The overlapping conversations. Booming music. Hissing of the cheetahs in the wallpaper whose eyes are crimson now. My breathing. My blood. And a distant ringing that's probably not real. They all echo in the open space, multiply tenfold. The room blears. Its inhabitants diffuse to muddy shapes that ripple like reflections on water.

I can't feel my hands. I can't breathe. Pressure wraps (hurtpainhurt) around my head, a plastic bag. Pain.

'Shut the door, would ya? We're dead well freezing in here.'

The shadow who enters from the back garden in a cloud of cloying passion fruit vape yells summat back but yanks it shut nonetheless. The world mutes.

In the absence of nature, doom is inescapable.

Chlorine locks me into a box that shrinks with each breath I exhale into it. An infestation, it seeps through the pores in my skin to rot my skeleton.

It can't get through my bones. It won't get through my bones. They're all I have.

But fire is nowhere to be found when I need it. The fuses stitched into my ribs and the kindling that composes my palms are too damp to start. The toxin has a clear path to my mind. In my mind, the shimmering surface of the pool greets me, a villain who always knew they were one step ahead.

Us Ticuna are people of the rivers but the pool is artificial. The water's spirit has been slaughtered with chemicals. Like holy water, it don't belong to Pachamama and therefore feels no remorse when it drowns me.

Diwa.

The reminder shouts somewhere far away, locked behind the chlorine that possesses most of my mind. I don't react to it at first. Then summat breaks and I remember: Diwa.

Because I can't find her in the living room, I make my way to the kitchen. Water sloshes in my skull as I walk but I don't let it distract me. Someone is making pancakes while a crowd sings "I'm making bacon pancakes" and behind them, Diwa is slumped on the table. She's the only one not staring at me.

Just focus on her. Ignore the eyes. Focus on her.

I grab a vacant chair and prod her.

She pries her sticky lashes apart and a smile smears her lips. 'You came.'

It's a trap. She's the bait, they'll catch you.

They all want to see you drown.

There's a paper cup of summat in her hand. I move it as far away as I can reach. 'Give your head a wobble. I thought ya don't drink.'

Diwa moans at the frustration in my voice. 'Tryna be less of a stuck-up cunt like you said.'

'I didn't mean go chug a bottle of vodka.'

Shifting her position, she collapses into me instead of the table. Face pressed into my hoodie, her words muffle, though I have a feeling they'd be slurred incomprehensible anyway. Whining again, Diwa pulls away. Her face screws into a grimace I'm all too familiar with.

'You gonna be sick?' She nods so I stand. 'C'mon.'

Grabbing her arm, I help her to her feet. She leans into me and trusts me to guide her through clusters of our equally drunk peers in a way sober Diwa never would. The frost on my skin has hardened into an armour of ice, thick enough to keep thoughts of drowning at bay, and by the time we're upstairs, my vision is perfectly normal.

It'll melt soon.

Notes

Pachamama: Mother Earth.