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“I’ll never get the hang of this, no matter how many YouTube tutorials I watch.” She laughs at herself and abandons the stuff in her hands before standing up and revealing a neat swollen stomach. “You want some coffee? I can make us some breakfast,” she offers.
“Um, I’d like to use the bathroom, please?” I ask awkwardly.
“Sure, it’s right through there.” She points to the door that I already know leads to the bathroom, but I don’t tell her that. Instead, I take it as permission and go to relieve myself.
I use my finger and some toothpaste to freshen up my mouth and then head back out to the living area, wondering where Screwy is and trying to simmer down the feeling of panic that’s already building up inside me.
“The boys had a meeting to go to. They won’t be long. I promised Screwy I’d keep an eye on you,” the woman explains, and it puts my mind at better rest. “I’m Alex, by the way. Squealer’s old lady.” She smiles at me again, and I wish I had a name I could greet her back with. I don't know if I’m supposed to speak to her, but she seems friendly, so I decide it's safe.
“The one who looks like Screwy?” I ask, recalling seeing her last night with the man that looks identical to Screwy.
“Yeah, they’re twins. We’ve got our own set on the way.” She strokes her hand over her stomach and looks down proudly. “That’s what this mess is all about.” She points to the heap of wool and needles on the table. “I was giving the whole maternal thing a try. Guess I’m better off with guns and fugitives.” She laughs as she pours something black from a pot on the worktop.
“It’s easy really. If you get cast on right, you can’t go wrong.” I pick up the ball of wool and place it on my lap. The needles fit into my hands and seem to work themselves.
“Where did you learn to do that?” Alex watches in fascination, and I don’t know what to tell her because I don’t know myself. It’s an instinct, something that seems to be happening as naturally as walking.
“I can’t remember.” I watch myself continuing to work the wool around the needles.
“I don’t remember anything before the room, but… if I can remember how to do this, maybe I can remember more about myself. There was a girl at the house where they kept me, her name was Clara, she told me that they used drugs to make us sleep and it can make us forget things. Do you think I might get my memory back from before all the bad things happened?” I ramble. I can’t remember ever feeling this emotion before now. It’s more than just hope. It’s humming inside of me like it needs to spill out.
“I really hope so,” Alex smiles before we get interrupted by the door opening, and Squealer bounces his way through it.
“You totally killed it... It was a choice I made against orders. I deserve to pay the price for it, but if I were in the same position again, I’d do the exact same thing.” He lowers his voice and pats his brother on the back. Screwy looks at me awkwardly and heads straight for the sink.
“You should have heard him, babe. He stood up in front of the whole club and spoke up. Told all the motherfuckers straight.” Squealer heads straight for Alex, positioning himself behind her and resting his chin on her shoulder.
“You hear that, boys? Your Uncle Screw’s gonna be a public fucking speaker.” Both his hands slide around her to cradle her stomach.
“We don’t know that they're boys,” Alex shakes her head at me with an uncontrollable smile on her lips.
“I sure do. Me and the good Lord got a deal.” He raises his eyes and points to the ceiling. “No fucking daughters.”
I turn my attention back to Screwy, who’s leaning against the work surface, drinking from a brown bottle and not looking anywhere near as elated as his brother.
“Let’s go home, darlin’. You can smother me in Apple Jacks and eat me clean.” Squealer’s mouth moves to her ear, and when he bites down hard, I feel myself blush.
“You get used to him,” Alex rolls her eyes. “I’ll leave that with you,” her eyes gesture to the needles and wool I’m still holding on to. “Come find me if you want someone to talk to. We’re right next door.”
They both exit, leaving me and Screwy standing alone in silence.
“Was everyone still mad at you?” I break the silence first.
“They’ll get over it,” he answers back sharply, moving to sit at the table opposite me. His fingers pick at the label on the bottle so he can avoid looking at me. I want to be closer to him, to feel his warmth, but I get the impression he wants to keep his distance.
“Thank you for what you did for me. I never said that last night. I don’t know how I'll ever be able to repay you.”
“You can remember who you are, and then you can get the fuck away from this place,” he tells me harshly. Finishing the last of the bottle before banging it on the table, he storms to his room, slamming the door behind him.
It causes pain in my chest that stings as brutally as my trainer's belt. I want to chase after him and ask what I did to make him so angry. But I don’t.
The cabin is silent now. No Alex, no Squealer, and no Screwy. I feel so lonely, which is ridiculous because I’m used to being alone and locked away with only my thoughts to keep me company.
I pick up the wool and needles from the table and take them outside onto the decking, casting the needles and taking care with every neat stitch I make. It’s comforting and familiar as I breathe in the fresh, piney air around me and feel myself relax.
“That’s perfect. Don’t rush it. Speed will come with practice.” I hear a voice in my head, one that I recognize, and shutting my eyes, I try my hardest to put a face to the voice.
“You’ll be better than me at this rate, Lydia.”
