It's 12.30 am and I stand on the balcony, just staring into the darkness. My feet are cold, I'm wearing no shoes -- just socks -- and the wind caresses my skin with icy fingers. The temperature has dropped sharply since I came outside, and I know that I should go inside. It's warm in there, the fire's blazing and the TV plays softly to itself. But I won't; not yet.
The fire's on to keep the loft warm, not for me -- for Blair. And the TV is permanently on a news channel. In the last three hours I've heard how the Queen of England is to visit, and property prices have risen again. That a fire took the lives of a whole family and Wonderburger is being sued for too hot coffee. That a pig escaped from a slaughterhouse and that Blair Sandburg was still missing presumed dead after his car was found abandoned in a ditch four weeks ago. That report lasted less than a minute. Yesterdays news now.
When I hear that my heart seems to stop a moment, and I clench the railings hard, causing pain to flair in my arms. They still hurt after spending over two weeks searching the woods near the car. Digging in the dirt, tearing apart undergrowth, climbing trees to see further. I absently scratch at the bandage that encircles my arm, covering the place where I'd been scratched by some thorns. A thorn that made my skin itch and break into hives within seconds. But I hadn't stopped, just pushed the pain aside and kept on looking. Blair was out there, and I would find him.
I don't know if I'll ever forgive Simon, who found me half dead with exhaustion on the forest ground, and made me come home. Despite my anger and later my pleas he pulled me to the car, and I had to follow, too tired to resist. Made me shower and eat and put salve on my burning skin. Then sleep for the first time since Blair went missing, since he went to pick up some takeaway and never came back, leaving me first annoyed, then worried, then out of my mind until his car was found two days later with congealed pizzas on the backseat.
Then I'd gone crazy, searching the woods, needing to find Blair, ignoring those who tried to talk, intent on one thing only -- Blair. But he wasn't there. And I'd listened and looked and smelled and once had even sat on the ground and tried to use the spiritual connection that Blair was sure you had. Then had surged to your knees and beat the ground with dirty hands as I felt nothing but the crazy beat of my own heart.
Now I searched by day, were made to rest at night, someone making me go home as soon as the clock struck nine. My babysitter would watch me eat something, then leave, knowing I'd be waiting at six in the morning. My eyes feel gritty, my skin tight and hot. But I kept the loft warm -- for when Blair came home. And I spent the night on the balcony, senses thrown out miles in the night. I hear babies cry and dogs howl. The rustle of sheets as people whisper sweet nothings in their bed, a thousand arguments and a million words. I see lights flash on and off across the city like some kind of code and the boats bobbing in the sea.
It's life in all its sordid and splendid glory, and I embrace it all, my senses moving through it on the quest for what was familiar. Blair's voice -- Blair's smell -- Blair's face. But night after night I fail, and I lose a little of my soul as the sun rises each morning, each bright new day signifying nothing but failure.
So I stand at the railings, with the TV on and the fire blazing, and I wear no shoes because I forgot to put them on as I hurry to take my spot. And I'm cold and heartsick but I hold one of Blair's hair ties in a death grip, twanging the band against your skin when I feel tired. As a guide it's pathetic, but it's all I've got, so it'll have to do. Because I'm not going to move. Not until I see the next days babysitter drive towards the loft and I'll choke down some toast and coffee and change clothes before leaving to start another day.
I'll be here every night until Blair's found, so I twang your band and look to the north. It's going to be another long night.