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This memory inspired the novel I wrote. I'll leave it to you to decide what it's about...

Chelsea

We used to know a place, way out from the village, behind an old coach garage, where ruined cars got left. Loads of them. A few shrubs and trees hid them properly from view and me and Chelsea would go down there all the time, just to smash them up, just to jump on something. 

One time I was smashing a wind screen and I saw that the passenger seat was covered in blood. It was deeply saturated, so that the upholstery had started to fur on the surface with so much liquid to contain. I called for Chelsea, my hands were already cut from the glass I had been smashing. She stopped and came over. Wordlessly she picked me up off the front bonnet I was standing on and set me onto the ground.

“Never tell anyone about this ok? If you tell anyone, we won’t be able to come here anymore.”

I looked up, she was totally solemn. What I had seen in the car scared me but seeing Chelsea so serious scared me more. I just nodded.

She caught her breath, the air flaming out of her chapped lips, and put me on her shoulders, carrying me back to my bike. 

We had to walk the three miles home, and when we got to the end of our drive Chelsea gave me an excuse so embarrassing for cutting my hands I've never been able to live it down. Somehow I thought it would be better than the truth. I trusted Chelsea more than I trusted anything I could think of.

I went back to the cars again, but never to smash them up. After a while the place just turned to rubble, no one ever took the cars away, maybe no one else knew about them. But Chelsea would still go. I asked her once, why we still went down there, what would happen if one of the people driving the cars came while we were there. She told me that’s what she was waiting for. She wanted to see what they’d be like.