Darker London

Every day felt long, unreasonably so. There was no need for the day to have so many hours in it when Helena was just counting them down until she could go back to bed. She thought other people might have read it as depression, but she wasn't really sad or numb so much as she was constantly hungering and anxious. About everything. Living in London, living with the people she did: it made for a stressful life when you were always wondering the next thing to hit.

But maybe she just assumed her life was more stressful. Sure, other people didn't face demons and church monsters, but they had to deal with all the other things that troubled Helena. She wasn't special. She was dying at exactly the same speed as all the other dumb humans around her.

( And I don't think on why I'm here or where it hurts )

Helena wasn't doing well.

This wasn't a new experience. Helena hadn't been doing well for the last six months, as much as she tried to keep the extent of it under wraps. She knew the main trigger for her slow downward spiraling was the police putting her rape case on 'inactive'. She couldn't find anyone else who would testify in a court or even talk to the police, so the whole thing had become pointless. Her solicitor had made it very clear that it would be near impossible to get a conviction without anyone else coming forward. All the guards had really good reputations, and Helena still could be 100% sure which ones had been her attackers in the first place. Sure, she'd gotten a name from one of the girls who had agreed to talk to her before pulling out, but without her going on a stand it was worthless.

( Babe, there's something broken about this )

A proper medical crew met them at the hospital, and Stephie sat in the van near his head, trying to keep out of the way as they moved him. Lucas was waiting when she finally emerged, and gave her his hand to help her jump down. She looked pale – not Miles pale, but pale.

“Ruined your hoodie,” she said, wiping a bloody hand on the bloody hoodie. One sticky clot fell to the ground from where it was clinging to the centre pocket. Stephie made a face.

“Gross,” said Lucas.

( ... )

The sunlight had woken Stephie, as it had woken Miles and Astrid. This meant when Stephie was fighting to keep her burgers down as they rattled out of Cambridge in the Melon, Josie was fighting to pull tranquiliser darts out of herself. Stephie had thought that no one could feel worse than she did this morning, but she was quite frankly wrong.

Wearing a pair of sunglasses she’d found in the glove box, she talked with Lucas on the drive back, both of them sharing stories about fuckups of the past, of juvie in particular, remembering why Misha had called them the male and female versions of each other, way back when they first met in 2008. They talked about how various members of their social group, themselves included, had relied too often on arson as a solution to their problems, and Lucas even told her that fire kind of freaked him out, now.

Stephie said maybe she was going to chuck out her lighters when she got home in case the need to burn shit arose again. Lucas applauded her mental health decisions.

( ... )

A number of blocks away from Cherry Orchard Lane Stephie heard a vehicle pull in beside her, and spun around to face it, ready to fight it. Fists raised like she could take on a van and everyone inside it. “Just me!” said Lucas, leaning across the passenger seat, the window rolled down.

Stephie rolled her eyes hard. “Fuck OFF, Lucas!”

“Hey,” he said, putting the Melon in park and jumping out to follow her on foot. “Not gonna say anything, don’t have to talk, just want to make sure you don’t get plucked off the street by some punk in a van.”

“I don’t need your help.”

( ... )