I breathe in.

If I get just high enough, I can see it. I can see it now. Laura and I. On UCL campus. Sharing a Lucozade. Orange, like we did on our first date. Recovering from the hangover we got on Fresher’s week, saying we’ll catch up on the lectures we missed.

We won’t.

I smile to myself, stretching out on the bench, until I can feel the carving of the plate on the back. Vera Thomas, apparently gone but not forgotten. Judging by the amount of mould on this thing, I’d say she’s both gone and forgotten. She’s stood me up, but it’s fine. She could’ve told me about this ‘emergency trip to France’ earlier, but that’s OK.

I can get blazed on my own, thank you Laura.

I can see now why she loves the dark so much. It’s calm. No one to see you. No one to judge you. I know this park is falling apart but I love it. If I had known that this park would have come to this wasteland in ten years when I was seven, I would have been shattered. But there’s something so peaceful in the wreckage.

I watch my shadow fluctuate up the side of the broken fountain through the moonlight.

Up. Down. Flicker. Left. Down. Up.

A raindrop falls onto my hand.

Thunder rolls in the distance.

I pocket my lighter so it doesn’t get wet.

As much as I love it, Nan would kill me if she knew I was out past midnight, in this thunderstorm. Bucketing down, like she’d say. Her voice would go all high and Scottish and she’d make me take a shower then take my temperature.

I know she’s just being cautious, but come on.

I’m going to uni next year.

I walk home, dragging my feet through the rain, pulling my hood up.

I slip past Nan, then down into the basement. Mum had to take my room when she got diagnosed, it was bigger, more ventilated. So I took the basement. That’s probably where I learned to love the dark. I kick my shoes off, falling onto the sofa. Laura texts me, there’s a party this Saturday. I’m free.

I’ll go.

I could get drunk right now.

And Laura and I haven’t talked much. Or met up much.

I can’t remember the last time we’ve kissed. I think we had a date today, but she’s in France.

She probably isn’t in France.

She’s probably with Lolly, honestly.

“Isolde? Are you down there?” Mum calls.

I groan.

It’s midnight on a Thursday, and I was just about to sneak upstairs to make a pot noodle for dinner.

Can she not just leave me alone for a few seconds?

I grab an uneaten protein bar from my school bag, and meet her upstairs.

“Mum?” I ask.

“Isolde. My chest. Really hurts.” She says. “I’ve taken paracetamol but it hasn’t helped.”

I look at her, skinny body in the moonlight. Her headscarf is flopping over the place.

God.

“You want me to drive you to the hospital?” I ask.

“Yes please.” She says.

“OK. Fine” I sigh, grabbing the keys to Nan’s car.

“You know your Nan can’t drive with her eyes. Don’t sigh at me.”

“You can’t even fucking sigh. You can’t even fucking breathe.” I whisper.

“What was that?” She asks.

I ignore her, walking to the car. I got my license a month ago. And the first time I drive is for my mother. No driving Laura out to get McDonalds at 2AM. No grabbing the parking space outside my school and not returning home sweating from the walk. For my mother and her fucking lung cancer.

“How’s school?” Mum asks. God, she sounds weak. She’s rasping. Coughing.

Like I’m not remembering the time I passed out at my Year 2 sports day because of her second hand smoke.

“Fine.” I say, gripping the steering wheel.

“How’s Laura? You still friends?”

More than, I want to say. But that would be a conversation that would have to wait.

“Yeah.”

“You’re OK, right?” She asks.

It’s fucking midnight.

What does she want, me to give a whole ass PowerPoint presentation?

“Yeah?” I ask, going into my bag so I can connect my phone to the radio. “Mum, I’m fucking 17, I’m allowed to have my own life. I’m not the one who was so stubborn she never quit. I’m not the one who ruined her daughter’s lungs. I’m not the one with cancer. That’s you. Your fault. So please don’t fucking try to make it mine.” I shout.

“Issy, I–“

“Don’t call me Issy.”

Then she screams.

“What?” I scream back.

“ISSY, THE ROAD!”

The lights change.

The world shatters.

I open my eyes.

My leg hurts.

“You’re OK, right?”

My head hurts.

“Still friends?”

My stomach hurts.

“You can’t even fucking breathe.”

It’s white here. White and bleach scented.

We crashed, didn’t we?

“ISOLDE!”

I look down at my leg. It’s bleeding. But I’m sure it’s fine. I’m in a hospital. We must be fine.

I ask the doctor who walks by.

The world shatters again.

***

I crashed didn’t I?

I killed you, didn’t I?

God, Mum, I’m so sorry.

I am so fucking sorry.

I was still half-blazed, we should’ve just called the ambulance.

I should’ve just called the ambulance.

***

Nan knows about Laura.

Nan knows about the weed.

Nan knows about you.

And the car.

And what I said to you.

Nan blames me.

I blame me.

I bet you’d blame me too.

***

It’s Saturday evening and Laura hasn’t texted me about the party. I still can’t feel my right arm. I don’t think I ever will. I don’t have my weed. I dont have anything. Not even Laura.

She asked about the crutches yesterday. I said I tripped and fell. She shrugged and mumbled her half hearted apology. Then she ran off with Lolly, saying that she’d forfeit her bus fare to buy a Lucozade to share. Cherry. Apparently that’s her favourite. She’s lying. It’s Lolly’s favourite.

I think we’ve broken up now.

I’m sitting in the dark. This bench again. The one in memory of Vera Thomas.

1956-1996.

If a decade ago, I’d have known I’d be here, I think I’d cry.

If two days ago I’d have known I’d be here, I think I’d cry.

I am.

Crying.

My eyes are red, but I’m not blazed. My lungs are burning, but it’s not you. It will never be you again, will it, Mum?

“Can I sit here?” A girl says, pointing to the empty space on the bench.”

“Sure.” I say.

“Are you OK?”

I blot my eyes with my sleeves, not that I could feel it on my right hand.

I shift on the bench. My lighter is still in the pocket of my jeans. Not that I have anything to light.

“Thanks. Yeah.”

“Do you like Edgar Allan Poe?” She asks. “I love him.” Her eyes light up.

I look at the tattoo on my wrist, the one Laura and I got the day we got our GCSE results.

If Nan knew about that as well, I’d almost definitely be on the streets.

‘I became insane, with long intervals of horrible sanity.’

“Yeah. What’s your name?” I ask.

“Issy.” She smiles.

“Isolde.” I say back.