4. Ivy #2
I jam the pepper spray toward his face—but a shadow drops in from the side before I can press the trigger.
There’s a grunt. A scuffle. A heavy thud as the guy crashes against the brick wall and crumples.
I blink.
And see him.
The man from the other night.
The one I gave the sandwich to.
He’s standing over the would-be mugger, a scrap of wood still clenched in one shaking hand, breathing heavy. His coat’s still torn. Shoes duct-taped. But his eyes?
Steady. Cold. Powerful.
“I told you she’s under my protection,” he says, calm as anything. “Did you think I won’t make good on that?”
The man on the ground groans and spits blood. Doesn’t get up.
The homeless man turns to me. His face softens as he sees me undoubtedly trembling.
“You good, Miss?”
I nod slowly. “I had it under control.”
He smiles. “I know. I watched you let him get close enough to feel brave. Smart move.”
I exhale a deep breath and take stock of our surroundings before turning a small smile on him. “Thank you.”
“You don’t gotta thank me,” he says, looking back toward the alley. “He’ll spread the word. No one touches you now. Not out here.”
“Why me?” I ask, because I need to know.
He shrugs. “Because you saw me. Didn’t look through me. That means something. Out here? That means everything. ”
He walks away before I can say anything else, melting back into the dark like he belongs there.
I stand still for a long moment, pulse still hammering, hand still wrapped tight around the can of spray.
Then I shove it back in my pocket, straighten my spine, and keep walking.
Just another day in my life.
By the time I get home, my legs feel like static and my fingers won’t stop twitching.
I lock the door. Twice. Then drag my coat off and drop it in the corner like it betrayed me. My coffee cup is still clutched in one hand, cold and useless, and I don’t remember when I stopped drinking it.
I toss it into the sink and head straight to the bathroom.
The shower’s old with shitty water pressure, cracked tiles and stains in the porcelain… but it works. Most days that’s enough.
Tonight it isn’t.
I strip off my clothes like I’m peeling away a second skin. Everything feels too tight, too close, like it still holds the heat of that moment wrapped in all of my fear and fury and the control I couldn’t hold onto.
I turn the water on scalding.
Let it burn.
The steam rises fast, fogging the mirror, curling against my skin as I step under the spray. I brace my hands against the wall and close my eyes.
The sound is the same as it always was. Rushing, muffled. Almost like silence.
But just enough to cover my sobs and the tears that I can’t stop from falling.
I grab the soap and start to scrub.
Hard.
Fingertips over shoulders, collarbone, wrists. Over and over again, like maybe this time it’ll work. Maybe this time it’ll actually come off —whatever it is I’ve been carrying since I was too young to understand what it meant to be dirty without ever touching a thing.
I used to do this as a kid.
After the yelling. After the slammed doors. After he left. After she broke the last lamp and said it was my fault for making her feel like a bad mother.
I’d lock myself in the bathroom and scrub until my skin turned red. Pretend I could wash it away.
Pretend I could be clean. Good. Wanted.
It never worked.
I don’t know why I still try.
I let the water run down my face and press my forehead to the tile.
I’m not crying.
I’m just tired.
And alone.
Still alone.
I dry off in silence.
Move on autopilot.
The apartment is too quiet when I finally collapse onto the futon. I leave the new laptop untouched on the desk across the room, its black screen watching me like a second pair of eyes. I don’t close the blinds. I don’t turn on music. I don’t check my messages.
I just lay there in the dark with the heat of the shower still clinging to my skin and my heart thudding too loud in my chest.
Eventually, sleep comes.
It always does.
But tonight… it brings someone with it.
He’s there in the space behind my eyes before I know what’s happening. No name. No voice. Just presence.
Tall. Shadowed. Devouring.
He doesn’t say anything. Just stands at the edge of the dream, watching me like I’m something valuable he lost a long time ago and finally found again.
He doesn’t move, doesn’t touch me. But somehow, I feel him everywhere.
Under my skin. In my lungs. A weight that doesn’t press down so much as settle deep into my bones.
I can’t see his face clearly. Just angles. Glimpses. A mouth I think I’ve seen before. Eyes that don’t look away.
I should be scared.
But I’m not.
I should scream.
But I don’t.
He doesn’t touch me.
He doesn’t have to.
I feel him in my blood. In my breath. In the part of me I thought I buried years ago.
And then the room begins to fade. His face melts into shadow. His body with it.
But those eyes stay.
Watching.
Claiming.
Knowing.
But the answer to what he’s watching… what he’s claiming… what he knows. The answer to those questions is lost to my dreams.