" Life is a comedy for those who think and a tragedy for those who feel"
Horatio Walpole
As if those two are mutually exclusive. If you don't feel, that makes you a psychopath, or sociopath, I don't know right now which one. But the point I'm trying to make is it has a ' path' at the end. I'm in the latter category because I felt like my heart was being put through a shredder. I tried to sleep. I wanted to. I need to but sleep avoided me like the plague.
Sucking a lungful of air, I crawl out of the bed with the speed of a tortoise on morphine. The sun was making a majestic appearance at the horizon painting the sky in hues of golden orange, with a splash of purple red.
Once again, I went through the motions, getting dressed. Who needed a shower? There was no amount of water available in the world that would make me feel any better.
I needed to head back into Morston. My head was swimming with a million and one questions. And a had zilch. I needed answers. For some reason, my skin was scorching despite of the damp cool air that suffused throughout the cottage. And the stale smell was cloying my nostrils like nobody's business.
Enid was nowhere in sight when I stepped out of the room. Somehow the cottage looked worse at a second glance. Let's just say, I wasn't looking forward to a third.
I rummaged through the bag, that Enid had thrown together, but there was nothing but clothes. Everything I owned was still in Northenhay.
I need to have a look, and at least try to make heads or tails of the situation. And I needed my things. All my identifications were still there. If I wanted new ones, I would have to get in touch with the police. For the time being, we were hiding, and whatever we were running from, most certainly was looking under every rock or grain of sand. It was no use to anyone if we were both in trouble.
" Where are you going?" My hand freezes on the door handle at the sound of Enid's sleepy voice.
" I need some air," I don't bother to turn and look. I couldn't. I would weaken my resolve.
" We will talk once I'm back," I said rather coldly and opened the door, strutting out in the morning cold, and the bitter breeze that swept over the Island.
I didn't bother looking around. I had one target in mind, and that was: to get the boat and head back into Morston. And that was as far as my plan went. I had no clue what came after that.
I didn't exactly dress in the most flashy clothes. I wanted to easily blend in. I wrapped my head in a scarf, to protect me from the bitter cold but also to keep the colour of my hair hidden. I'm well aware that wasn't much of a disguise. I was no spymaster or ninja assassin but for the time being, all I had was me.
The boat rocked in time with the waves lapping against the pier. The Island was still silent. A sign that everyone was still asleep or dead.
I didn't know much about boats or how to navigate the sea but Morston's imposing skyline was visible, and that was enough of a landmark to guide me.
I turned the motor boat on and began my journey over the languid waters of the South Sea. Not very original when they named it. I couldn't help myself from thinking that. It was a minute distraction from my previous turmoil and it helped ease some of my nerves.
I held on to that train of thought with the desperation of a dying man. To keep me from spiralling out of control. To keep myself remotely sane. The pit of dread that had settled in my stomach was still there, weighing heavily on me. If the boat were to rock and flip me over into the sea. I would simply sink to the bottom by the sheer weight of it.
The trip didn't take as long as I thought it would. The moment I pulled into the marina, I hesitated. Mason had gone through a lot of trouble to keep us safe. I was willingly endangering myself. I had to decide whether the answers I was looking for were worth the risk.
After several minutes of weighing things on a scale that hadn't been adjusted in aeons, I finally step onto the pier and begin treading towards the docks, wary of every person I catch a glimpse of.
It was still fairly early, by the standards of rich people it was practically midnight.
I jog up the steps, huffing, even that short burst of exercise leaves me breathless. Athleticism was definitely not in my vocabulary.
The moment I surfaced at the docks, I was assaulted by fisherman, and a pungent smell of fish. I couldn't tell if it was fresh or otherwise but it turned my stomach inside out. My first victim was a shrub, next to a bench where an elderly lady sat feeding seagulls and pigeons.
I wretch, gasping for air but nothing comes up, other than bile. The old lady turns her head towards me and grimaces in disgust, gets up and moves to a different bench, giving me a stink eye. As if I had any control over it. She must've thought that I had drank the night away on one of the yachts parked in the docks. Not that I cared at this point.
I wipe my mouth with the sleeve, heave a shallow breath trying my best to keep the inhalation of fish stench to a minimum. Not that it worked.
Desperate for fresh air, or any kind of air for that matter, I swerve between the fisherman barracks and make my way towards the main road. The roof of the mansion peeks at me, from above other buildings. People on the streets milling about, their lives moving on, mine screeched to a halt.
I didn't ponder, very much and immersed myself in the crowd choosing to take the longer route. Good thing, I spent my childhood with my nose buried in books. I read all sorts. The spy ones were the most useful. Frankly, I didn't remember much from them, after a while they all looked the same and said the same thing.
But I got the jist of it. The bare minimum. Lose yourself in large crowds, walk at a steady pace, and if followed enter the first establishment you find and call for help.
I had no one to call for help.