Chapter 33 Monroe
MONROE
Five Months Prior to Present Day,
Friday Before Spring Break,
Junior Year,
Sigma
Open the door, open the door, open the door, open the door…
Darkness surrounds the terror of my thoughts. A voice. My voice? Familiarity descends. I know this room. I sat in that desk chair last night until two a.m., finishing the problem set due today. The bookshelf, the small refrigerator, the metal dog cage in the corner…
I lie frozen and listen. Gentle breathing sounds. Kieren is in bed with me. The door of his bedroom is closed, locked, I’m sure.
Nothing has changed in the few hours I’ve been asleep, yet a paralyzing terror has seized my body. I wait, unsure if it is safe to move, but also unsure why it wouldn’t be.
I play a game with myself – the kind where I tell myself when I reach the number ten, I’m going to get up. I’m going to move. But it’s a tortuous crawl. I get to ten and start over.
On my fifth attempt, I tell myself this time I will really commit. I won’t chicken out. It’s all in my head.
It’s all… in… my… head.
Five.
Come on, come on, come on.
Six.
You can do this.
Seven.
Do it.
Eight.
DO IT.
Nine.
Fucking suck it the fuck up Monroe and GET UP.
Ten.
I press into my palm, rising, and silently swing my legs over the bed. Heat chokes my neck.
Now go, I tell myself.
I stand, my feet planted firmly on the floor, and look around.
Where am I going?
With feather-light footsteps, I tiptoe to the door, praying the floorboards don’t creak this time, but then I look at the floor and remember it’s not wood, it’s concrete. Why did I think the floor was made of wood?
My hand lifts, extends, and encircles the metal knob. Twisting slowly…
Immediately, I drop my hand when I feel resistance, panicking that my attempt to test the lock was heard.
I swivel around without moving my feet.
Still asleep.
I pad with equal vigilance to the en suite bathroom and close the door, wincing as the old hinges squeal. The latch clicks into place once the door is fully shut, and I allow my lungs to fill to capacity.
Last night, after Kieren passed out underneath me, I formulated a semblance of a plan.
I’ll ask Harrison to drive me to my apartment. My tampons are there, which isn’t a lie, and I’m getting my period, also not a lie. I start the shower, hoping the ambient background noise will rouse Kieren so I don’t have to do it myself.
Details crystallize as droplets of water pebble around my feet.
My aunt Nikki lives in Queens. If I can make it to New York City by bus, I can take the metro to Forest Hills and take a taxi the rest of the way.
I’ll have to leave my laptop and belongings so as not to raise suspicion.
It’s fine. I can figure out the money to buy new things.
Next week is spring break, so I’ll have time to sort through loose ends.
Kieren’s driving home to Connecticut tonight, so he’ll be preoccupied with family matters next week.
He never confirmed whether I was going with him, which makes me think I’m not, so this plan might actually work.
Soap suds swirl around the shower drain as I rinse them away, revealing pink patches of skin from where I’ve inadvertently scrubbed myself raw.
Hurriedly, I towel-dry my hair and apply a double layer of moisturizer to my face since this will be the last time I have access to my skincare and makeup products.
I ration a travel-sized face wash, a tube of mascara, and concealer.
The rest is too big. I debate whether or not I should take my phone charger but ultimately settle on leaving it behind.
Two clean pairs of underwear will go unnoticed, I tell myself.
I inhale a prolonged breath of encouragement, and then gently, convincingly, run my fingertips across the filmy skin of Kieren’s forehead.
His clothes from last night are now stale and wrinkled with a mix of sleep and sweat.
In a parallel universe, the musky smell hanging in the air would be arousing, but now, it’s depressingly pathetic.
“Kieren,” I whisper, cupping the far side of his face. “Kieren, I have to go.”
He huffs a strained exhale. Hot air puffs from his nostrils against my skin. I caress the side of his face like one would do to a lover, and a lump of remorse catches in my throat.
“Kieren, I need to leave. Can you let me out?”
His eyelids flutter partially open as if even the dim light in the room is too harsh. “Why? Where are you going? You don’t have class.”
“I started my period and need to get stuff from my apartment. Harrison can drive me. You don’t need to get up.”
He groans as he moves onto his side, reaching around me for his phone on the nightstand. He types what I hope is a text to Harrison to come fetch me, before rolling face down into the pillow.
I anxiously check my phone. Twenty minutes have passed since Kieren’s text, and the success of my plan hinges on making it to the College Town bus that departs for the downtown Greyhound station at precisely ten a.m. I mentally start the process of summoning sufficient courage to wake Kieren again when three forceful knocks rattle the bedroom door.
“Kieren, it’s me,” announces a deep male voice.
Kieren presses himself upright, faster this time, although that’s not saying much, and lurches an unhurried procession to the door.
I watch in dismay as he pulls out a keyring from his front pants pocket, sliding each key into its corresponding lock one by one.
This entire time.
In his fucking pocket.
I’m not sure I’ve ever felt this level of crushing devastation before. Why did I just accept my captivity? Why didn’t I fucking try? How mentally fucked up does one have to be to just sit there and do nothing?
Kieren sways back to the bed. Immediately, I stand.
I take two steps and hold my breath as we pass each other, half expecting this to be a trick.
Half expecting him to grab my arm and hold me back.
The soft thunk of his body on the comforter sounds like a gunshot in my mind.
I force myself to walk at a pace I think is normal, falling into stride three steps behind Harrison.
Step one is complete.
“I’m so sorry you have to drive me, Harrison. I know it’s early. I swear I don’t mind walking.”
“It’s fine,” he grumbles as we get into his car.
Like usual, we ride in silence. My fingers twitch as they rest on the top of my thigh. Students on the sidewalk pass by in a blur. As he pulls to the curb outside my apartment, it takes substantial concentration to speak.
“Do you want to come upstairs? I’ll only be a few minutes, but up to you.” I try to keep my voice even, but I worry he can sense I’m overcompensating.
“No,” he answers without glancing up from his phone. Thank God. I hadn’t planned for the curveball of him coming inside, and I curse myself for even offering the option.
I unlock the apartment door, out of breath from bounding up the stairs, and pray none of the foreign exchange students are milling about in the living room.
The air is perfumed with the smell of coffee, but luckily, no bodies are present.
I dart down the short hallway and unlock my room.
The lock is sticky, and I’m out of practice.
I start to panic, convinced I hear footsteps from one of the other occupants, and I can’t get trapped in a conversation right now.
At last, the key turns. I slip inside, shutting the door behind me.
A quick glance around my room tells me everything is as I left it the last time I was here – a time I can’t even recall.
The comforting gravity of my own space pulls me down.
I allow myself three breaths. Three breaths of solitude. Three breaths of regret.
Blinking back to reality, I snatch a handful of tampons from a box in my closet and hope they will be enough to get me to my aunt’s house in Queens before I bleed through my pants.
The window in the back of my bedroom is agonizingly uncooperative; the wooden slats require ample jostling to slide the frame up.
I manage to get it halfway, which I decide is sufficient space to climb through.
Lowering the window requires a similar ordeal, one that feels much more precarious from the fire escape.
Descending the rickety, black metal stairs without falling off is a risk I must take, and I realize I have a sizable jump waiting for me one flight down unless I can figure out the ladder.
I can’t.
It won’t budge.
I climb onto the rungs, awkwardly lower myself until I can hang, and let go.
My legs scream when I hit the pavement, launching me backward onto my butt and into the grime of the alleyway.
Tiny, sharp fragments of stone and glass cling to my palms. I do my best to brush them off in the few spare seconds I have before I break into a sprint for the bus stop.
The alley spits me out a block north of where I need to be, which is close enough to see the parked bus actively loading passengers.
I weave through the many students walking on the sidewalk, scurry across the street as discreetly as possible, and make it to the end of the queue.
The bus doors swing closed. I’m one of the last people to board and sit in the first open seat I find.
Momentum of the bus lurching into motion jostles me into the person sitting to my right.
I plant my feet firmly on the floor as the bus tires roll over the uneven pavement of College Avenue.
Looking out the windows on the opposite side of the aisle, I see Harrison’s car still parked outside my apartment.
The bus passes too quickly for me to see his face, and I hope he’s still scrolling through his phone, oblivious.