Chapter 4
Chapter four
Lottie
I stumbled
into my apartment, fumbling with the lock as the world tilted sideways. Mr. Snuggles dangled from my trembling fingers as I finally got the door open and practically fell inside. The shaking was worse now—not just my hands but my whole body, tremors running through me like electric currents.
I knew these symptoms. I'd been fighting them since I woke, trying to hide them from Walker.
"Just need to check," I whispered to myself, dropping my keys twice before managing to set them on the wobbly table by the door.
My studio apartment was just one room plus a tiny bathroom. The kitchen was barely a kitchen—just a mini fridge, a hot plate, and a sink with a dripping faucet. But it was mine. My safe place, even if it wasn't actually very safe.
I lurched toward my bed, where my glucose monitor sat in its little case on the nightstand. My fingers felt thick and clumsy as I tried to open it. When I finally got the case open, I fumbled with the lancet, pricking my finger and smearing blood across the test strip.
The monitor beeped, and I squinted at the number: 42 mg/dL.
Too low. Dangerously low.
"No, no, no," I whispered, panic rising in my chest.
I stumbled to the mini fridge, yanking open the door. Mostly empty juice containers, a half-eaten yogurt that was probably expired, and nothing else. I'd been planning to go grocery shopping after my shift today.
The shelf above the hot plate held a few cans of soup and a box of saltines. I grabbed the crackers with shaking hands, tearing open the package and stuffing three into my mouth at once. The dry crackers stuck in my throat, but I forced myself to chew and swallow.
Not fast enough. Glucose tablets would be better, but I'd used the last ones two days ago and hadn't been able to afford more yet.
I fumbled through my purse, searching for any candy or sugar packets I might have stashed there. My vision was starting to blur around the edges, dark spots dancing in front of my eyes.
There—a squished packet of sugar from the coffee shop where I'd treated myself last week. I tore it open, dumping the contents directly into my mouth. The sweetness was cloying, but I didn't care.
I sank onto the edge of my mattress, waiting for the sugar to take effect. My heart raced in my chest and sweat beaded on my forehead despite the chill in the apartment. I'd let myself get too low. If I'd still been with Walker when I crashed completely...
The thought made me shudder. He already thought I was helpless. Watching me have a hypoglycemic episode would have confirmed every assumption he'd made about my inability to take care of myself.
After fifteen minutes, I checked my blood sugar again: 68 mg/dL. Better, but still too low. I forced myself to eat more crackers, counting them out carefully. Six more. That would be enough carbs to bring me up without sending me too high.
My insulin. I needed to check if I had enough left.
I crawled to the bathroom, pulling open the medicine cabinet. The insulin vial was nearly empty—maybe two days' worth left if I was careful. The prescription was ready at the pharmacy, but I wouldn't get paid until Friday.
Three more days. I just had to make it three more days.
My vision had stopped swimming, but exhaustion weighed on me like a lead blanket. I dragged myself back to bed, collapsing onto the thin mattress. Mr. Snuggles had fallen to the floor, and I reached down to retrieve him, wincing as my bruised muscles protested.
"We're okay," I whispered to him, smoothing his matted fur. "We'll be okay."
But would we? Walker had been right about one thing—this apartment wasn't safe. The lock on my door barely worked, the building was filled with questionable characters, and I'd been harassed more times than I could count just walking to the bus stop.
But I couldn't afford to move. The rent here took nearly two-thirds of my paycheck from Sunny's. The rest went to food, insulin, and bus fare. There was never anything left over.
And Walker...I closed my eyes, remembering the frustration in his eyes when I'd refused his help. He'd been kind—kinder than anyone had been to me in a long time. He'd made me feel safe, protected. The way he'd stroked my hair until I fell asleep...
Tears welled up, spilling over onto my cheeks. I'd pushed him away because I was ashamed. Ashamed of my poverty, ashamed of my illness, ashamed of needing help at all.
My uncle's voice echoed in my head: "Nobody wants a sick kid. Nobody wants that burden."
He'd drilled that into me from the moment I was diagnosed at age seven. Every insulin shot, every doctor's appointment, every time my blood sugar dropped—they were all reminders that I was broken, a burden, unwanted.
I checked my glucose again: 95 mg/dL. Normal range at last. Relief washed through me, followed by bone-deep fatigue. I should eat something more substantial, but I didn't have the energy to get up again.
Instead, I curled around Mr. Snuggles, pulling my thin blanket over both of us. Sleep claimed me almost instantly, dragging me down into darkness where I didn't have to think about Walker's disappointment or my own failures.
I woke hours later to the insistent beeping of my alarm.
My mouth felt like it was stuffed with cotton, and my head pounded in time with my heartbeat.
I forced myself to sit up, knowing I had to check my blood sugar.
My hands shook as I picked up the monitor then put it down again.
I'd check it later. I had two hours before my shift started—just enough time to shower, change, and catch the bus to Sunny's.
The bathroom mirror revealed the full extent of the damage from last night. The bruise on my cheek had darkened to a deep purple, spreading across my jawline like watercolor. My jaw throbbed when I pressed my fingertips to it. I looked like I'd been in a bar fight.
"Great," I muttered to myself. "Just what I need for customer service."
The shower was lukewarm at best—the building's water heater was perpetually broken—but I stood under the spray anyway, letting it wash away the lingering scent of Walker's home. Of safety. Of what might have been if I wasn't such a mess.
I dressed in my work uniform: a polo shirt with the Sunny's logo and a pair of khaki pants that had seen better days. My manager would probably comment on my appearance, but there wasn't much I could do about it.
Before leaving, I packed my meter, and a few crackers into my purse, making sure Mr. Snuggles was tucked safely on my bed.
"I'll be back later," I told him, smoothing his worn fur. It was silly to talk to a stuffed animal, but he was the closest thing I had to family these days.
The walk to the bus stop felt longer than usual, each step reminding me of last night's attack. I kept my head down, avoiding eye contact with the men on the corner. They whistled anyway, calling out comments that made my skin crawl.
The bus was crowded with the evening rush, forcing me to stand pressed against other commuters. I gripped the handrail tightly, focusing on staying upright as the bus lurched through traffic. My bruised body protested every jolt and sway.
By the time I arrived at Sunny's, I was exhausted again. I paused outside the convenience store, gathering my strength before pushing through the door.
Marco's eyes widened when I walked in. "Holy shit, what happened to you?" He abandoned the cigarette cartons he was stacking, coming around the counter with his hands hovering near my shoulders without actually touching me.
"Just some trouble on the way home last night," I said, trying to sound casual. "I'm fine."
"You don't look fine." His gaze lingered on my bruised cheek with an intensity that made me shift uncomfortably. "Who did this to you?"
"I can still work," I insisted, slipping past him to stash my purse.
Marco's fingers twitched at his sides as he shook his head. "I don't know, Lottie. You look like you should be in bed, not working."
"I need the shift," I said firmly. "Please, Marco. I can't afford to lose the hours."
He studied me for a long moment, then sighed. "Fine. But you stay behind the counter tonight. No restocking, no heavy lifting."
Relief flooded through me. "Thank you."
"And Lottie?" His voice softened. "If you need help, you can ask. You know that, right?"
I nodded, not trusting myself to speak. Marco had always been kind to me, but kindness had strings attached and for some reason he made me feel uncomfortable. Everyone wanted something eventually. Marco spent another five minutes in his office then left for the evening.
The shift dragged on endlessly. Every movement sent pain shooting through my bruised body, and standing for hours made my feet throb. But I kept a smile plastered on my face, even when customers stared at my bruises or asked uncomfortable questions.
"Bar fight?" one regular asked with a smirk as he paid for his cigarettes.
"Something like that," I mumbled, handing him his change. By the time my shift ended at 10 PM, every muscle in my body was screaming. The fluorescent lights had intensified my headache.
The bus ride home was mercifully uneventful. I kept my head down, clutching my purse tightly against my chest. A teenage boy offered me his seat when he saw my bruised face, and I accepted with a grateful smile that pulled painfully at my cheek.
The walk from the bus stop to my apartment building seemed longer than usual.
Every shadow made me flinch, every distant shout sent my heart racing.
But I made it without incident, hurrying past the usual group of men on the corner who, thankfully, were too engrossed in their own conversation to notice me.
I climbed the three flights of stairs slowly, my legs trembling with fatigue by the time I reached my floor. The hallway smelled of cigarettes and something cooking—probably Mrs. Ramirez in 3C making her late-night meals again as her husband worked shifts.