Innocence

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Authors: Suki Fleet
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out where I am. I remember little after lying down in the grass last night… only a dreamlike recollection of someone carrying me.
    I work out it’s a caravan and the furnishings are quite retro—velvety cushions, wood veneer in the kitchen, bauble-patterned wallpaper. It wouldn’t surprise me if the color scheme turned out to be muted brown and orange.
    Inexplicably, I feel safe. And I know I shouldn’t, especially as I have no memory of how I got here.
    It’s not until I notice Malachi’s twelve-string guitar stood next to the door and a row of empty bottles lining the kitchen counter that I know for certain where I am. Relief, apprehension, and some other, more secret, emotion churn within me.
    With painful clarity I realize I’m going to throw up.
    Shakily I get up, willing my legs to move towards the bathroom, but I don’t know where it is and panic makes the sickness harder to control.
    I fling open the first door I come to and, unable to hold it in any longer, I stumble forwards and throw up on the end of Malachi’s bed.
    Utterly mortified, I collapse to my knees, completely spent.
    I hear Malachi groan as he wakes, and I remember how indifferent he was to me the morning after I drove home.
    “I’m really fucking sorry,” I mumble thickly, my throat tight. “I’ll clean it up. I didn’t know where I was going.”
    “Crap,” I hear him mutter. He must see the mess on his blankets, me crouched pathetically on his floor.
    The bed shifts as he gets up.
    “That’s one sobering wakeup call, kiddo.” He sounds tired and resigned but not angry or disgusted, which surprises me.
    I glance up just as his arm comes around me and he helps me to my feet and down the hall into the small bathroom next door. He reaches into the tiny shower cubicle and turns it on, holding his hand under the spray until it warms.
    “That should be okay,” he says. “Think you can manage to clean yourself up?”
    I nod weakly, swaying as he releases his arm from round my back.
    Running a hand through his wild hair, he looks a little uncomfortable. “Need me to stay with you?”
    “I’m okay,” I say, trying to sound certain. “I’m sorry.” I feel I should be repeating the word over and over.
    “It happens,” he says, matter-of-factly. “I should’ve left you with a bowl or something.”
    After he closes the door, I strip off my sick-splatted clothes and pile them in the corner. I can’t stand up any longer, so I sit on the floor of the cubicle and let the water wash over me, the gentle spray soothing my head and my stomach a little.
    The water turns cold after a few minutes, and I crawl out and wrap myself in the one towel I can see hung on a plastic rail next to the sink. The fixtures on our boat are mostly wood, and I like the way wood feels, the color of it, how no two pieces are exactly the same. Plastic like this feels so temporary, but it’s clean and white and cold. Wedging myself between the toilet and the sink, I close my eyes.
    “Christopher? You okay in there?” When I don’t respond right away, Malachi knocks on the door.
    I reach my hand up and pull the handle and the door opens into the room. Peering at me wryly, he asks, “You want to stay there for a bit?”
    I nod.
    “Okay.” He looks like he wants to say something else but changes his mind and leaves me.
    I’m dozing again when someone thumps on Malachi’s front door.
    It’s Dad. I can’t hear anything he says, just the low, pissed-off grumble of his voice. I really don’t want him to see me right now. If he knows I’m hungover like this, he will make things as unpleasant as possible for me. He will think it serves me right, and maybe it does, but I’m not a masochist. The door finally shuts, and I don’t know whether or not to let myself feel relieved.
    “That was your dad.” Malachi leans against the doorway, hands in his pockets. “He’s leaving now with Liam. I told him you were sleeping and I’d bring you back later. He seemed

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