Under Rose-Tainted Skies by Louise Gornall Read Free Book Online Page B

that herself?’ Busted. This woman is to mental illness what Sherlock Holmes was to mind-bending murder.
    â€˜She did. I just . . . I couldn’t remember exactly whatshe said.’ I feel dirty.
    â€˜Norah, she isn’t keeping anything from you. She told me she wouldn’t do that.’
    I bite my lip to keep it from curling under. ‘I just wish she were home.’
    â€˜Of course. That’s normal. Anyone would feel that way.’
    I nod. Our conversation has run dry. Dr Reeves’s eyes flit around aimlessly, land on the note from the boy next door for a second before finding me again.
    I’m not making this easy for her. Mental slap. I look away, focus instead on the contents of the fridge.
    â€˜So, I can still call you on that number you gave me?’
    â€˜Of course.’
    â€˜Even if it’s the middle of the night?’ I turn the carton of orange juice in the fridge so the label is centred, facing out.
    â€˜Any time. I mean it.’
    â€˜Thank you. And thank you for stopping by. I really appreciate it.’
    â€˜Coffee date? First thing Wednesday morning?’ she says as I walk her back to the door.
    â€˜I mean, I’ll have to check my schedule, but I’m sure I’ll be able to fit you in,’ I tease. She quirks a sceptical eyebrow, and, with a smile, she leaves.

    It starts to get dark sometime around seven and I switch all the lights on in the house. From the outside, I imagine it looks like I’m storing the sun in here. The Trips, a New Age kind of couple who live across the street, will be shoving more of their ‘Save the Environment’ leaflets through our door tomorrow morning. Don’t get mewrong, I’m deeply concerned about my carbon footprint, but I’ve watched enough horror movies to know that when I’m home alone, I’m ninety-eight per cent less likely to die if the lights are on.
    Mom calls just before eight, and we stay on the phone for over an hour. She keeps asking me if I’ve eaten properly, then starts encouraging me to try the anti-anxiety meds I’ve had in a drawer for six months.
    â€˜This is the perfect opportunity,’ she says. ‘You’d only have to take one, then lie back on the couch and let yourself drift off to sleep.’
    I have this thing about swallowing mind-altering medication.
    It makes me gag the second it touches my tongue. Like it’s coated in superglue, it physically won’t slide down. I don’t think doctors are trying to take over my brain or anything. And I’m not one of those people who think medicine poisons your body and you should try natural remedies first. I can’t take the herbal tabs either. It’s the idea of relinquishing control that makes them too sticky to swallow. I’m too wrapped up in worrying about everything that could go wrong while these tablets have me half drunk. You know which guy is dying first if the zombie apocalypse happens? The one lying on his couch too spaced out on meds to run.
    I say goodnight to Mom when she starts yawning, then grab a blanket and collapse on the couch. My eyes stalk a pair of sewing scissors on top of a box at the side of the patchwork armchair. These will be my weapon of choice should a home invasion occur. I’m so set on this idea that I push the coffee table back two inches so it’s not in myway. My mom would ask why I don’t just move the scissors closer if it makes me feel safer. And I would tell her that I can’t do that because being too prepared is like tempting fate.
    I need to go to sleep. I need to stop thinking. Just for a second.

I wake with a start, cold and drenched in blue light from the standby screen on the television. At first I think that’s what woke me – it’s blaring and I am the kind of girl who stirs at the beat of a butterfly’s wing – but then I hear a voice.
    Some guy shouts, ‘ That’s not good enough!