#Chapter4
In the centre of Newcroft Avenue, a relatively busy street that was bustling beneath the Saturday morning traffic, Little Moon shop had a way of standing out. Like most of the buildings that backed the sidewalk, compact together like Jenga blocks, it held the same squat quality in structure, and harboured the same weather-beaten edge. But that was where the similarities stopped.
Looking fresh from the heart of Balamory, the brickwork had been plastered in a dark blue paint, a stark contrast to the grey granite of those that surrounded it. The sign above wasn’t neon, but for how bright and bold it was, glaring out from a thick red border, it may as well have been.
It made it impossible to miss.
/"Are you sure about this, Isaac?/" Blake asked, breaking through my wayward thoughts. Brought me back to reality. He’d unplugged his seatbelt and turned in his seat to look at me. /"He might not even be there. Doesn't he work with somebody else? Could be his day off. Especially if he was as wasted as you last night./"
Scowling, I spared the shop another look. Two large, rectangular windows sprouted from either side of the door, and both had been engraved with symbols and words. It was hard to tell if we were too far away, or if my eyes were just weak sauce, but for all the squinting, I couldn't bring the glass’s print into focus.
The truth was that I wasn't sure about this. I was as far away from sure as man was from Mars. Going to the dentist for a series of fillings and extractions held more of an appeal than walking through that door.
I wanted to put last night’s events behind me. Far behind me, locked in a box and bound by eight different sets of heavy duty chains. I never wanted to hear the name Deacon Baxter again. Never wanted to see or hear anything that would have reminded me of just how fucked up he’d made everything. Made me.
But life was a sick bitch, and she had one twisted sense of humour; I’d left my phone at his house.
If not for the pretty row of zeros in my bank account, I would have just cut my losses and bought a new phone.
/"Then I’ll find out, won’t I?/"
/"Do you want me to come in with you?/" Biting down on his lip, Blake eyed the store.
/"I don't need your fucking help,/" I snapped. The facts said otherwise: I was wearing his clothes because mine were fucking rank. I was in his car because I didn't drive. I was on his time because I had felt too shitty to walk or grab the bus, and had ended up accepting his offer of a lift. I wasn't sure what kind of brain malfunction I had suffered last night, but I was still struggling to comprehend why it was him that I had crawled to like a little lost puppy.
He didn't deserve my friendship. He didn't deserve shit.
/"Jesus, Eyes,/" he breathed, blowing out a breath. The heaters were on, but the air he blew out still formed a white cloud around his lips. /"I’m trying to be a good friend to you here./"
/"Take your friendship and shove it,/" was all I said as I reached for the handle. The cold that greeted me was like a smack up the face. It hit in a way that stole my breath, bit at my cheeks and jabbed its fingers into my eyes all at once. A horn blared as I pushed my way across the road. I flipped the driver off.
Up close, Little Moon seemed more daunting than it had across the road. It stood to reason that my imagination was playing silly-buggers, but with the place looming in front of me, it felt as though I was being watched. That everyone was looking at me. That everyone knew what I had done last night.
Which was ridiculous. Right? Scowling, I pulled my coat tighter around my body. The afterscent of cheap booze and cigarettes still clung to it, but I barely noticed. It had been a while since I’d passed the freak’s shop. Before Blake drove, we used to walk this way to school. Once he got his licence and free reign over his dad’s car, it became a forgotten relic.
I had half expected for it to be gone. Not quite as dramatic as a crater in the ground, but empty and boarded up. But then again, maybe that was because I couldn't understand why anybody in their right mind would want a palm reading, or whatever the fuck they did.
Tarot readings. Tea leaf readings. Healing crystals. The vinyl print on the window advertised all those services. It was almost enough to have me turning heel, calling quits and heading back to the car-- assuming Blake waited for me. Not that it would have surprised me if he didn't. I wouldn't have waited for me either.
The door was heavy and opened with a loud whine. An overhead bell jingled. Warmth took me into its loving arms, smothering me as soon as my feet crossed the threshold.
/"Aw, fuck,/" I murmured, swallowing hard. Waves of misty smoke twirled through the air like synchronized ballerinas, and the luxuriant aroma of lavender assaulted my nose. It wasn't among my favourite scents, but in the fragile, hung-the-fuck-over state I was in, it had my stomach clenching painfully, twisting as though somebody had punched their fist through it.
It reinforced the logic that turning down the breakfast my brother had tried to make for me-- orange juice in cereal because they’d run out of milk-- had been for the best. I’d settled for popping a paracetamol and a ibuprofen cocktail and washed it down with a mouthful of tap water. It hadn't done much in terms of curing the stinker of a headache, but I’d kept them down so that in itself was a small victory.
Veiled in mystery, the interior, excluding the brief glimpse that was just about visible through the window, had been a mystery up until this point. And for some reason, it was everything I had expected it to be. Candle holders mounted the walls, varying between black and red waxes. They were unlit, allowing for the overhead lights to do all the heavy lifting, and the decor seemed to sway towards the darker side of the colour wheel.