She skirted around the edge of the bus station and crossed the car park, heading around to the front of the pub. Through the windows, she recognised familiar faces but no one she’d be comfortable scrounging a drink from. This wasn’t like the night before: she’d had Lily by her side and several Metz under her belt.
It would be perfect if Mike was in, she realised. I could apologise for the other night.
Breath fogging before her face, Samara quickly walked past the wrought iron fencing that surrounded the pub and stepped through the gate. Already feeling a sense of belonging in the light from the front windows, she peered inside.
A couple sat at the bar chatting with the landlord: a squat man with permanent bedhead. Guess if you owned the pub you could look how you pleased. At the tables beyond sat a couple of groups engaged in passionate discussion. One guy stood, gesturing wildly to illustrate his point, much to the amusement of his inebriated company. A small cluster occupied the quiz machine as always, glory hunters always looking for the big score. The jukebox was taken by a tall girl who seemed to be flicking back and forth through the mechanical pages of track listings. She’d decide on the same old: “Killing in the Name of”, “Girl from Mars”, or “All Apologies”, the pub signatures songs. All so familiar and welcoming. Even Lily sat in their usual booth, a half-drank bottle of Metz on the table in front of her, hand stroking Mike’s cheek as they kissed.
Samara watched them, trying to grasp her thoughts that slipped through her mind like grains of sand. Images of the night before, of the fun and laughter she’d shared with Mike, the giggling whispers with Lily, the admissions and confessions.
This is what she deserved for trying to be one of them: this disastrous inevitability.
She turned away from the gut-wrenching sight.
Across the road, just beyond the traffic lights, stood two Victorian era buildings, an ornate stone arch between them, leading to the college gardens. Students rarely used the area, even on pleasant spring days or sweltering summer afternoons. With night almost arrived, no one should be in the gardens, yet a lone figure with long dark hair lingered at the entrance.
Samara had tried. She really had tried.
Her sadistic nature made her take a final glimpse inside the pub, to capture the image to dwell on, to ponder as she felt the real pain.
She met the quizzical stares of Lily and Mike.
“Shit,” she hissed, stepping away from the window and dashing back out of the gate. Following a cursory glance for traffic, Samara bolted across the road, vanishing inside the darkness under the arch leading into the gardens. She paused; sure the deep shadows hid her from the eye of the streetlights, and looked back to The Scholar.
The entrance opened, hinges squealing in the quiet evening. Lily emerged, searching the small area of yard between window and fence. “Sam?”
Surprised you took the time to prise yourself away from him, thought Samara, heart racing. She gulped down a lungful of cold air to try and settle her gut. An aching chasm had opened inside.
Beside her, the girl also stared across the road, pale face almost luminescent.
“Sam!” Lily cried. “Where are you?”
Samara clenched her fists, starting to enjoy the sudden, sickening rush the discovery had gifted her. Her needle barely quivered day to day, but this week had offered dizzying tastes, emotions touching the red line. Like her first orgasm, unexpected from her own clumsy fumbling beneath the sheets, a door to unknown pleasures had opened. The surprise that her own mind could create such emotion rocked her. She grinned in the dark, baring her teeth in an adrenaline smile.
“Samara!” Lily stepped through the gate and onto the pavement. She waited at the curb, allowing a couple of cars to pass, before starting to cross.
Samara retreated deeper between the two squat buildings and beneath the arch, emerging from the other side into the college gardens.
She had never visited the gardens at any point during her two years studying art and nearly slipped on sudden steps that led down to a concrete path. Hearing a second call from Lily, Samara quickly righted herself and crept down. She pressed her arm across her bag, smothering the jangle of her various art supplies, and proceeded carefully along the path. It cut between two carefully manicured lawns, or so Samara thought. In the last gasp of daylight, the expansive squares appeared as flat, grey pools. The night had drained the colour from the lush gardens. Rose bushes formed dark, ensnaring clusters. The few trees had become tall, statuesque figures watching over their shadowed kingdom. Samara could appreciate the sombre beauty, the secret face of otherwise vibrant nature, clipped and pruned to preference.
Best of all, the night garden concealed.
Samara passed a park bench and crept on, aiming for a bank of trees to the left. Off the path, she traipsed through flowers, stomping them flat under the thick soles of her boots, and touched the first tree. Careful to avoid tripping on any exposed roots, she edged behind the wide trunk and pressed her body against the rough bark.
“Samara,” Lily cried, somewhere in the garden. “I’m sorry, okay? I called in for a drink after class, and he was just there, and he asked about you…”
You were my friend, Samara thought, her eyes squeezed tight. You knew what this would do…
“Sam, come on! I know you can hear me.”
Samara pulled the strap over her head and laid her bag to rest at the base of the tree. Dropping to a crouch, she opened the plastic clasps and lifted the main denim flap. In the darkness under the canopy, she searched by touch, her fingers skipping over pencils, balled up sketches, and the few coins she’d hoped would scratch up half a Coke.
“I haven’t seen you today,” continued Lily, sounding closer. “I didn’t know you liked him that much… Come on, Samara, don’t be like this!”
Metal, distinct by its chill, slipped into her palm. Samara raised her treasured implement. The blade remained hidden inside the steel handle, safely stored. Even under the canopies of night and leaf, the triangular blade glinted as it poked free, cutting the cold air.
“Fine!” The sound of approaching footsteps ceased.
Samara slumped back against the tree trunk, the heels of her boots pressing into the soft, rich soil.
“You want to be like this? Go home and make some horrible little picture of me?”
Samara rolled up her left sleeve.
“That’s what you’ll do, right Sam?”
The first bite, the tip of the sharp metal penetrating her skin, always elicited a small gasp. Her flesh warmed around the blade, but she held the tool firm.
“I can’t be your fucking bridge forever!”
The slow progress of the metal, fighting the resistance of taught corpus, blossomed sweet agony through Samara’s forearm. She wiggled her fingers against the electrical tingles that shot through to the tips. A tickle of blood slipped free and glossed across her skin, offered to the roots of her concealer.