Drainer---{}---Chapter 2

by Pandora in the TARDIS. :3

It was almost midnight when I let myself into our apartment. Mom was at the kitchen table, drinking coffee. When she saw me coming in through the door, wet, cold and weak, she sprang up and ran to me.

"Gwen!" She hugged me tightly, and I hugged her back, numb and mechanical. Mom's eyes were red and streaked with her running mascara. She'd been crying, and her blonde hair was disheveled and falling from her ponytail. I hated doing this to her. Mom suddenly stopped hugging me and held me at arm's length, her wide, anxious eyes taking in everthing: My wet, tangled hair, my red, numb hands, my pale skin. I braced myself.

"Gwen, how can you do this to me? In the middle of the night, in New York City, you just run out? I was so scared and so worried and---" She ran out of her choked, breathless words and hugged me again, leading me to the kitchen table. I sat down, kicking off my soaked boots, and rubbed my frozen hands together. Mom was flurrying around the kitchen, grabbing a mug out of our cabinet and filling the kettle with water. Then she came back to our table and sat down, her sudden rush of energy gone as she sank her head into her palms and rocked up and down. Finally, she looked up at me, scared, discouraged, relieved and bewildered.

"Gwen," She whispered sadly. "Where were you?" I swallowed.

"I was out...with a friend," I lied lamely. I hated lying to her. It felt terrible, but I had to. Mom was staring at me, rapt and hopeful. She wanted to believe me so bad; it made lying to her a little easier.

And at the same time, a lot harder.

"But what could make you leave at eleven and only come back at twelve?" I shrugged.

"She...wanted to show me this store," I began. "They just built it, it's a clothing boutique. And she texted me and...and I foget to tell you." I ended lamely. "So I lost track of time."

Mom sighed, and actually started to cry. "But I was so worried," She babbled. I got up hugged her, and she clung to me as though she was drowning. The silence was only punctuated by mom's muffled sobs, and we both jumped when the kettle began to whistle. It was more of a wheeze, and very high and persistant. And annoying, but I was glad of it. I bounced up and poured the hot water into the mug, the Christmas one with the patchworks of red, green and white on it, then brought it and the sugar bowl back to the table. Mom was drying her eyes. She sniffled as I stirred in two heaping spoons of sugar.

"Not so much this late at night, Gwen," She reprimended me faintly.

"Okay. Fine," I consented, and stopped. There was a small silence as I sipped at my hot tea, and her at her lukewarm coffee. Then:

"Promise you won't do it again, Gwen," She pleaded. I bit my lip. I couldn't do that.

"I'll try not to," I said finally. I could tell that mom wanted to press for a better answer. But she didn't, and I loved her for that. I sighed and gulped down the rest of my tea. I hugged mom tightly, then put my mug in the sink and walked up to bed. I was so tired. As I walked into my room, I saw my reflection in my mirror. I sighed. Because of the Draining I was very small for 13. My small, pointed face was pale, and I was thin. As I looked, I reflected that everything about me was small and pale, except my hair. It was blonde, but streaked with dark brown. It was dead straight, and framed my face perfectly. My eyes were the same chocolate brown as my hair---and very big. When I was scared, my eyes grew even larger, mom said. "Like saucers," She'd add, laughing. Recently, as my Life Force was drained every week, the stress was beginning to show. I was tired all the time, and I grew quieter and quieter. Mom laughed less now. I left every week, feeling Connie calling me. Sometimes mom was already asleep or away when this happened. And sometimes not. I tugged off my wet clothes and dropped them in a crumpled heap at the foot of the bed. Then I crawled beneath the sheets. Before I went to sleep, I punched my pillow savagely. If only it really was Connie. She would be dead by now.

Even if she already was.

Yes, Connie is a ghost.

A Drainer.

My Drainer. But as I told her, life would have been so much easier if she had simply gone to Hell when she was supposed to, and not hung around. I wondered if she had chosen me, in particular.

Well, I wasn't flattered.