Page 8 of Wildest Forever

I am feeling a little apprehensive, but I can't work out why.

“Tea?” he asks as he walks towards a large kitchen and I feel like I have been transported back in time.

The kitchen units are worn, slightly yellow tinge to them, the lino floor tiles are starting to peel at the corners and the walls could really do with a lick of paint to freshen the room up.

Glancing down at my boot when I hear the floor peel away from the sole, my lip curls and I try and hide the disgust on my face because I don’t want to be that person.

I'm not like that.

Everyone is fighting a battle that you know nothing about.

Some are big, some are small, and I have no right to judge anyone.

“Please,” I answer his question as he pops a kettle on his open topped stove before igniting the gas.

I drag one of the wooden chairs across the floor and sit down at the worn table, my eyes watching him, his hands trembling as he reaches for the tea bags, popping them into the mugs and then spins to look at me, eyes burning into my soul.

“Camomile, okay?” he asks.

I nod.

More of a coffee man myself but I am being polite.

“How are you finding being sheriff?” he asks as his fingers curl around the edge of the chipped veneer work surface, his breaths rattling as he inhales and exhales.

“It's been okay, a little quiet at the moment but I am not complaining,” I snort a soft laugh and sit further back in my seat.

“Have you managed to find out who set the explosion off in the mine?” his eyes not moving from mine and I just shake my head in response.“Make sure you check on the ones that are closest to you... it's not always the ones who you think it would be,” and I give a nod, I know I can trust everyone around me. I have no worries about that.

“Will do,” I murmur just as the kettle begins to whistle and that has him turning around, his shaky hands lifting it and pouring it over the teabag.

A clamber of a bang echoes as he places it back on the stove then picks up the teaspoon and stirs the teabag before straining it and dumping it on the work-surface. He picks one of the mugs up and I can see it slipping from his hands so I dart up, walking across the small space and scooping it from him, thanking him as I do. I then reach for his own as I walk back towards the tableand place it down but then search for a coaster, mindful that it'll burn a ring into the untreated table.

“Don't worry about that, I'll just sand it out,” and now it makes sense on why the table looks so worn.

He sands any imperfection out of it.

I watch with intent as he sits down slowly, grunting as he does.

His eyes narrow on me before they drop to the mug then back to me.

I smile softly, curling my fingers around the handle and bring the mug to my lips, blowing softly before I take a small mouthful and give him an approving nod.

“So,” I say softly as I place the cup back on the table, “what do you need me for?” there is no point beating around the bush.

I watch as he inhales heavily, the crackle of his chest evident.

He looks over my shoulder to make sure the coast is clear before his eyes land on mine.

“I'm dying,” he says those two words so matter of fact. I mean, I am not sure how you're meant to tell someone that you're dying, but I never imagined it to be like that.

There was no emotion to his voice.

It was cold. Hard. Like stainless steel touching my skin and it caused a shiver to dance up and down my spine.

“I'm sorry to hear that,” because what am I meant to say when he tells me he is dying.

“Don’t be, glad to be out of this hell hole if I am honest,” he grunts as he takes his own mouthful of tea then turns his lips down in disgust. “This tastes awful.”

---