Chapter 31
Tessa
Felix's words echoed like a cracked iron bell in my mind, each syllable reverberating against the walls of my skull, filling every hollow space until I could hear nothing else.
“She’s nothing. Just some debtors brat.”
I had followed him when he made that phone call. I was so curious about the ledger; about what was going to happen next. But now, curiosity tasted bitter in my mouth.
I thought he saw me. I thought I mattered.
But standing there in the dark, my fingers gripping the doorframe hard enough to hurt, I realized I was just another notch in his belt. I was a small, meaningless victory, one he would forget as easily as he counted it.
I had been invested in this brownstone, this life, and him.
And it had all slipped away. I was nobody again—the scared, invisible girl I had been before he took me, before I thought someone might see me, before I had dared to hope I mattered.
The shadows around me deepened, curling like smoke, wrapping me in a suffocating embrace.
I could barely breathe, the weight of his dismissive words pressing down on me, suffocating any remnants of my self-worth.
A wave of nausea hit, sharp and unrelenting, twisting my stomach into knots.
My knees nearly buckled, and I stumbled toward the bathroom, gripping the doorframe for support.
The air felt thick and heavy, each step a battle against the sickening churn inside me, until finally I barely made it, leaning over the cold porcelain as my body rejected the world I had thought I could hold on to.
I needed to get out of here, away from anything that reminded me of him.
There was a window on the second floor that didn’t trigger the security alarm.
I had accidentally discovered it one day when I had been cleaning and spilled a cocktail of chemicals across the floor, scrambling to mop up before anyone noticed.
In the chaos, I had pressed against the window to steady myself, and the latch had given way without a sound.
I didn’t mention it to Felix, because I had never planned on leaving. If I did, that meant he would kill my father and harvest his body for organs. But I didn’t care about that anymore. Felix could rip my father apart and sell him to the highest bidder and I still wouldn’t stay.
Not after I had seen him gambling, when he should have been working to pay off his debts. All the nights I’d broken myself trying to justify him, trying to believe there was some way this nightmare could be repaid—it was all a lie.
I yanked open the closet, hands trembling, and dragged out a dusty backpack I’d found there weeks ago.
My body moved before my brain could catch up.
I threw on the first clothes I could grab, not caring if they matched, just needing to be covered.
Essentials—snacks, water, a flashlight, anything that might keep me alive—were shoved into the backpack in a blur.
The only cash I had was the change leftover from one of our grocery store trips.
My heartbeat thundered in my ears as I slung the bag over my shoulder and turned toward the stairwell. The window wasn’t just a weakness in the building anymore. It was my exit.
The only problem I hadn’t completely thought through was the fact it was on the second floor.
In my head it had always been a neat exit—slip through, disappear, be free. But now, standing in front of it with my backpack digging into my shoulder and my pulse roaring in my ears, the drop looked a lot farther than I remembered. Freedom was only a few feet away, but so was a broken ankle.
Then, I saw it. An old drainpipe bolted to the wall just beside the window, streaked with rust but still clinging stubbornly to the bricks.
It ran all the way down to the ground, past a stack of overflowing trash bins shoved against the wall.
My stomach lurched again, but this time with adrenaline instead of nausea.
I pushed the window open as far as it would go, swung my legs out, and grabbed the pipe with both hands.
It groaned under my weight, bolts creaking in protest. One slow, careful slide at a time, I lowered myself down until my boots hit the lid of a trash bin with a hollow thud.
The impact nearly sent me toppling, but I caught myself on the edge, heart hammering.
I’d made it. I was outside.
I was terrified.
I hadn’t been on my own in months and now, I was standing in the dark, with the freedom to go wherever I wanted.
The night air felt too big, too strong, pressing against my skin like ice water.
I clutched the straps of the backpack until my knuckles ached, staring at the empty alley stretching out in both directions.
Freedom was supposed to feel like flying. Instead it felt like standing on the edge of a cliff, staring down into a black sea.
I started jogging, my feet pounding against the cracked pavement, until the alley spat me out onto a wider, dimly lit street.
I raised my hand, waving down the first cab that slowed, breath coming in ragged gasps.
“South Bronx,” I said, my voice rough, almost foreign even to me.
The driver nodded, and I climbed in, letting the door shut behind me like a seal on the past.
As the cab pulled away, I pressed my forehead to the cool glass, watching the brownstone shrink into the distance. I was gone. Finally, I was gone.
After living in one of NYC’s nicest neighborhoods, my old home felt even shittier.
The lobby door had finally fallen off its hinges, my neighbor still had their windows patched with carboard, and rust and mold still lined the outside of the building.
I walked inside, and the mold and piss smell that I had once grown immune to nauseated me.
Covering my nose, I glanced at the broken elevator before I ascended the stairs.
Each step groaned under my weight, the rusted metal and cracked concrete threatening to give way with every footfall.
The narrow stairwell smelled of mildew and stale smoke, pressing in on me like the walls themselves wanted to keep me trapped.
When I reached the floor I used to live on, a wave of nostalgia and revulsion hit me at once.
The peeling wallpaper, the faint stains on the carpet, the faint scent of rot mixed with whatever old food had been left behind—it all looked smaller, sadder than I remembered.
The door to my old apartment hung crooked on its hinges.
Of course my father hadn’t gotten it replaced.
It wasn’t like there was anything in there worth stealing.
I lingered only a moment, my fingers brushing against the chipped frame, before pushing the door open.
I was greeted by a familiar sight. My father was drunk, slouched in his chair like he had been for years, a half-empty bottle dangling from one hand.
The smell of stale alcohol hit me first, sharp and suffocating, followed by the muted glow of the TV he never seemed to notice.
His eyes were glassy, unfocused, tracing nothing in particular, and a bitter mix of frustration and pity coiled in my stomach.
I stood there seething for at least thirty seconds before he noticed my presence.
“Tessa,” he mumbled, voice thick and slurred, “Good to see ya.”
“Good… to… see me?” I repeated, voice tight, incredulous. “You send me as payment to the mafia and that’s all you have to say?”
“I knew you’d be fine,” he continued, almost dropping the bottle in his hands. “See? He just had his fun with you and let you go.”
My stomach dropped, bile rising at the edges of my throat. My hands trembled, not from fear this time, but from pure, searing rage. “What?” I hissed, stepping closer, my voice sharp enough to make him flinch. “You think this is funny? That I’m some toy he played with and tossed aside?”
The words hung in the air like a heavy fog, smothering whatever fragile remnants of relief I had hoped to cling to. I felt the walls closing in around me, each breath more labored than the last, as the bitter truth seeped into my veins.
I couldn’t stay. Not another second. Not here, not under the same roof as someone who could treat my life like a trivial game.
I turned back to him, the words tearing their way out of me before I could stop them.
“You’re not a father. You’re a parasite.
You sold me off like I was nothing, and now you sit here drunk, acting like it’s all fine.
I hope one day you choke on that bottle, and there will be no one here to save you. ”
He stared at me, slack-jawed, the bottle trembling in his hand. For the first time in my life, he looked small. Smaller than the room, smaller than the chair he was slumped in.
I didn’t wait for him to respond. I slammed the door behind me, the sound echoing in the emptiness of the hallway. My heart raced, fueled by a cocktail of fury and despair. I stumbled back down the stairs, the familiar creaking steps mocking my every move.
By the time I reached the lobby, my lungs burned and my chest heaved.
There was nothing but the night to greet me, and it felt heavy—thick with silence, with the kind of emptiness that presses down on your chest and makes each breath feel like a fight.
The streetlights flickered weakly, casting long, uncertain shadows across the cracked pavement.
Now I had nowhere to go.
Both my father and Felix had shown me, in their own ways, exactly how little I mattered. One had gambled me away, the other had caged me. Together they’d hollowed me out, leaving only a backpack and a strange ache I didn’t recognize.
The city sprawled ahead, vast and indifferent, its lights glittering like distant stars I’d never reach. Hugging my arms around myself, I stepped into the dark, not knowing where I was headed—only that anywhere had to be better than where I’d been.