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Even on the crowded street Brook was afraid. Her shadow took on elongated shapes, like a monster poised to attack but when she turned to look there was nothing. Nothing but lower east side New Yorkers going about their business. If there was something after her it was biding it’s time, awaiting its opportunity.
She was two hundred metres from the apartment block when her nerves cracked and she burst into a sprint, pounding the pavement until she reached her front door. As she pushed her way through the buildings entrance she felt a chill, like the touch of an ice cold hand across her back. But the door closed firmly behind her and remained shut.
Still, as she stared at the brass deadlock she could have sworn there was someone or something on the other side staring just as intently.
Adrenaline launched her up the stairs and into the apartment in record time. Back to the door, her heart pounded for the waiting minutes until the fear subsided, until she was sure no one had followed.
Judd wasn’t in the lounge or kitchen. On the carpet beside the couch was an open bottle of whiskey, three quarters gone. It hadn’t been part of the décor when she left.
Great, she thought, her fear boiling into raw anger, if Hollow legs the social worker decides to drop in now I’ll be in a foster home quicker than Judd could down the rest of the bottle.
She found him in his studio, mixing paint on a new canvas. He was in his old painting shorts and flip flops. His face slack from the alcohol but his eyes burning with that obsessive fever he always got.
‘Hey babycakes,’ he said when he saw her standing there. ‘How was your afternoon?’
Brook wanted to scream at him that she was losing her mind, being chased around Manhattan by monsters and that she needed him to be sober, to be anything but what he was. She was never very good at saying how she felt though.
‘Apparently not as fun as your's,’ Brook said, holding up the bottle she had carried into the studio with her.
‘I’m working honey, I’m just having a couple of looseners.’ He was drunk enough to be defensive, not drunk enough to be contrite.
‘Well I doubt Mrs Holloway would see it like that if she was here.’ Brook struggled to hold back the tears for the second time that day.
‘You don’t understand. This…’ he pointed to his painting then, ‘this is for you, I need to do this…. to protect you.’
To protect her? He has no idea, she thought.
‘And how do you expect to protect me when I’m in a foster home!’
The bottle dropped out of her hand and rolled across the floor. Judd followed it with his eyes as if willing it not to break. He cared more about the stupid whiskey than he did about her. She stormed out of the studio, slamming the door behind her.
-
She was two hundred metres from the apartment block when her nerves cracked and she burst into a sprint, pounding the pavement until she reached her front door. As she pushed her way through the buildings entrance she felt a chill, like the touch of an ice cold hand across her back. But the door closed firmly behind her and remained shut.
Still, as she stared at the brass deadlock she could have sworn there was someone or something on the other side staring just as intently.
Adrenaline launched her up the stairs and into the apartment in record time. Back to the door, her heart pounded for the waiting minutes until the fear subsided, until she was sure no one had followed.
Judd wasn’t in the lounge or kitchen. On the carpet beside the couch was an open bottle of whiskey, three quarters gone. It hadn’t been part of the décor when she left.
Great, she thought, her fear boiling into raw anger, if Hollow legs the social worker decides to drop in now I’ll be in a foster home quicker than Judd could down the rest of the bottle.
She found him in his studio, mixing paint on a new canvas. He was in his old painting shorts and flip flops. His face slack from the alcohol but his eyes burning with that obsessive fever he always got.
‘Hey babycakes,’ he said when he saw her standing there. ‘How was your afternoon?’
Brook wanted to scream at him that she was losing her mind, being chased around Manhattan by monsters and that she needed him to be sober, to be anything but what he was. She was never very good at saying how she felt though.
‘Apparently not as fun as your's,’ Brook said, holding up the bottle she had carried into the studio with her.
‘I’m working honey, I’m just having a couple of looseners.’ He was drunk enough to be defensive, not drunk enough to be contrite.
‘Well I doubt Mrs Holloway would see it like that if she was here.’ Brook struggled to hold back the tears for the second time that day.
‘You don’t understand. This…’ he pointed to his painting then, ‘this is for you, I need to do this…. to protect you.’
To protect her? He has no idea, she thought.
‘And how do you expect to protect me when I’m in a foster home!’
The bottle dropped out of her hand and rolled across the floor. Judd followed it with his eyes as if willing it not to break. He cared more about the stupid whiskey than he did about her. She stormed out of the studio, slamming the door behind her.
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