Chapter 4
Varvara
My heart is pounding so hard, I’ve gone lightheaded. My hand shakes as I replace the canister between my breasts. “Fucking creep,” I spit out as I watch him run off. “You’d better run.”
I bend over, placing my hands on my thighs, breathing through the wave of nausea that is currently trying to take me down. I cast a quick glance around. There are a few people dotted around, but no one is paying any attention to me or my situation.
Exactly as I expected. Exactly why I pulled the pepper spray. He is right, it is illegal in this country, but twice bitten. I will face arrest if it comes down to that.
My phone buzzes in my armband, cutting off the music, and I pull it out, staring at the screen.
Marika.
“Bitch,” I whisper and put the phone back in the arm band.
I don’t cancel the call. I ignore it. I know exactly why she is calling, and both my dad and my former best friend can get fucked.
She didn’t even wait until Mum was cold in her grave before she made her move.
She is as dead to me as my mother is. The phone stops buzzing and then starts again.
I have the grim satisfaction of ignoring it again as I set off back home, needing to get inside.
I don’t block their numbers as I probably should.
I prefer to let them sweat. I prefer to know when and how many times they’ve called me.
I want to know the moment when they stop calling altogether. So far, that hasn’t happened.
I run back the way I came, more cautious than on the way down.
By the time I’ve reached my road, I’m panting, but I reach for my spare keys, slotted snugly in the arm band alongside my phone, which has stopped buzzing for now.
With a shaking hand, I unlock the front door and close it quickly, taking the stairs two at a time.
My key is ready for my flat door when I get to it, and it’s open in under two seconds.
I close it. Lock it. Bolt it, and then it hits.
I drop to my knees as my lungs give up trying to inhale oxygen. Tears prick my eyes as the delayed fear response crashes through me.
I can’t get air in properly. My chest locks. My fingers go numb. I press one hand to the floorboards and the other to my sternum, like that will force my body to behave.
My vision blurs at the edges. I squeeze my eyes shut and try to count. In for four. Hold. Out for four. My body ignores me completely and keeps spiralling.
I hate this. I hate that one man with a sexy smile, and a nice tee can reduce me to this on my own hallway floor.
I drag myself over to the hall cupboard, reaching for the handle.
It opens a crack, and I shove it further, crawling into the dark space.
I pull the door shut, blocking out all light, and my chest expands slightly.
I yank off the arm band and let it drop to the floor with a thud, kicking it away as I curl up on my side and try to force myself to even out.
My head swims, I’m lightheaded from exhaustion and the run, which was a stupid idea. I was hoping it would make me tired enough to sleep. After four hours, I gave up, and now I regret every life choice I’ve ever made.
As my breathing becomes actual breathing again and not horrid little gasps and chokes, I reach for the sleeping bag that was in here from last time.
Three months, three weeks, three days. What are the odds?
I was hoping to make it to four months, but some creep decided to smash that to hell and back.
In reality, I know it’s not just him. He was the last straw in a line of other things.
The work at night, the taxi rides home in the dark, it’s the hand on my arse, on my tits that I brush off and keep my mouth shut, even though it triggers me, and I squash it as deep as possible, because rent is due on the first and I’m twenty-eight, have no qualifications, and this city does not give a shit.
I manoeuvre myself into the sleeping bag and pull the hood up over the top of my head. It’s a cocoon of safety, darkness and sheer exhaustion. My eyes close and my breathing stutters once, twice, before the tears fall.
I hate this.
I hate being so weak. I hate not being able to sleep. I hate having to work in heels and an uncomfortable bra in the sweltering heat. I hate my big tits and my incessant need to be fucking scared.
I don’t want to be this person anymore. The one who carries illegal pepper spray and sleeps in cupboards because bedrooms feel too exposed, and despite the contradictions, enclosed spaces give me the ability to breathe.
I don’t want to be the one who checks every reflection, every shadow, every man who walks too close.
But I am.
Two years of this shit, and it hasn’t gotten easier. I still see his face, feel his hands on me… I shudder and let out an ugly sob before I force myself to stop. It’s easier now that the main event is over. My body can react to the sheer force of my will.
The darkness wraps around me, thick and safe. My breathing finally levels out properly. The shaking in my hands stops. I focus on the rhythm of my chest rising and falling, the weight of the sleeping bag, the solid walls of the cupboard on all sides.
This is fine. This is manageable. I’ve done this before, I’ll do it again.
Sleep doesn’t come. As usual.
I lie there for what feels like hours but is probably only forty minutes, staring at the darkness inside the sleeping bag, counting my breaths, trying to trick my body into believing it’s safe enough to shut down.
It doesn’t work.
Eventually, my stomach growls, and I can smell the sweat on my body. I unzip the bag and crawl out of the cupboard, leaving it open behind me. My legs shake as I haul myself to my feet. The flat is too bright now, sunlight cutting through the windows in sharp lines that make my eyes ache.
I need to shower. I need to eat. I need to function like a normal human being who didn’t just have a breakdown in her hallway cupboard.
The shower runs hot enough to hurt. I stand under it and scrub at my skin until it’s pink and raw, washing away the sweat and the fear and the humiliation of being reduced to nothing by one arrogant bastard in joggers who probably wasn’t even following me at all.
I threatened an innocent man with temporary blindness, and that just makes me feel even worse for being this way.
I turn off the water and stand there, dripping, staring at the tiles.
My chest tightens again, but I force it down.
Not now. I’ve played this game today, and I am going another three months, three weeks and three days until I even think about doing it again.
I wrap myself in a towel and move into the bedroom.
I pull on clean knickers and an oversized tee. Comfort clothes. The kind that doesn’t require a bra or matching anything. My hair hangs wet and heavy down my back. I towel it dry and then scrape it back into a bun.
Moving through the flat, I close all the curtains again.
I should’ve known better than to open them in the first place.
In the kitchen, I make toast. Two slices.
Butter. Marmalade. Tea so strong it could wake the dead.
I eat standing at the counter again because sitting at the tiny table near the window feels too exposed, even three floors up.
The toast tastes like cardboard, but I force it down anyway because not eating makes the shaking worse.
My shift starts at six. I have hours to kill. Hours to pretend I’m fine and to transform back into Varvara the hostess who stares blankly at drunk men and doesn’t flinch when they touch her.
I shove the plate into the sink and stand there, gripping the edge of the counter hard enough that my knuckles go white.
The flat is too quiet. The kind of quiet that makes every tiny noise feel massive. The fridge hums. A car alarm goes off somewhere down the street. My phone buzzes from where I left it in the hallway.
I don’t move to check it.
It’s probably Marika again. Or worse, my dad. Either way, I’m not interested. They made their choices. I made mine. We’re done.
I pour more tea and take it to the sofa, curling up in the corner with my knees pulled to my chest. The curtains are drawn tight. I pull the blanket from the back of the sofa over me and reach for the remote. I need background noise.
I put on some talk show and stare at the TV, not taking anything in at all until my aching eyes finally give up and close.