Chapter 21 Sera
Sera
The fluorescent lights above the gas station counter buzz like insect thoughts. Constant, irritating, but so familiar they’ve become almost comforting.
I’ve been working here for three weeks now.
Time enough to learn how the register sticks, how the coffee maker in the corner spits and wheezes before producing something that tastes awesome (courtesy of my thorough scrubbing; how long had it been since a proper cleaning?), and how the locals avoid eye contact when they buy their beer and lottery tickets.
My thoughts drift between the men who have somehow wrapped themselves around my life.
James, my stalker, who drove past my house as I was leaving for work today, with no gifts for me other than his smile. His smile burns too bright when he sees me. Like I’m the sun and he’s been living underground his whole life. Dangerous. Beautiful. Devoted. Utterly mad.
He didn’t say a word, didn’t stop either, but because his van speakers blared “Tear You Apart” by She Wants Revenge, I knew he’d just gotten back from dumping the pieces of Rick’s body.
I grinned right back and blew him a kiss.
Then there’s Eddie, with his detective eyes that strip away my careful facades.
Every lie I tell settles between us like a stone, building a wall he easily tears down, but I have no more lies left.
He knows everything about me, all my sharp, shadowy corners, and still, he comes to Gas N’ Go multiple times a day for the “best damn coffee in the entire world” and visits my house every night for a wild fuck on my front porch.
And my shadow daddy, my whisper in the dark, a possible construct of my imagination or something dark and corporeal that slipped through the cracks of life and death. His jealousy seeps through the floorboards of my thoughts and my reality, but that’s okay. We belong in the dark together.
I’ve spent so long being alone. Just me and my glowing hatred, keeping each other warm at night. Now I’m surrounded, and seen, and believed, and supported.
I’m not used to it, but now I’m not sure I could give it up.
The bell above the door chimes, dragging me back to reality. A woman enters, sunglasses covering half her face despite the twilight outside. Her movements are careful, deliberate, like someone navigating a room full of broken glass.
When she turns to browse the small medicine aisle, I catch the slight swell along her jawline, the orange-tinted makeup applied unevenly, and the careful way she holds her body.
I know these signs like I know my own reflection.
After it happened five years ago, after I awoke in a muddy alleyway, badly beaten and bleeding, my mind spiraled.
I knew exactly what had happened, and I disassociated hard.
I couldn’t even say for sure how I got home, and when I finally got there, all I craved was a shower.
I wasn’t thinking about evidence. I just wanted the memories and the pain and the suffering to leave me.
Showering was the worst thing I could’ve done, but try to tell that to my scrambled brain at the time. Why should it be up to women to prove who raped them anyway? The man should have to prove he didn’t rape someone.
Afterward, I moved like this woman did, stiffly, hesitantly, with a ton of makeup to hide my misery.
Heat flares behind my eyes, a familiar rage that tastes like copper on my tongue. I busy my hands by straightening the cigarette display, watching her from the corner of my eye. She selects extra-strength aspirin, gauze bandages, cheap concealer, and an ice pack.
The arsenal of the wounded.
She approaches the counter, and her hands tremble slightly as she sets her items down.
“Will that be all?” I ask.
“Yes,” she whispers.
Her voice has the paper-thin quality of someone who’s screamed too much.
I scan the items slowly, deliberately, keeping one eye on her. “Who did this to you?”
She freezes, her head snapping up. Fear darts across what I can see of her face. “I… I fell. Down the stairs.”
“Stairs don’t leave finger-shaped bruises,” I say. “There’s no one else in here to hear you. Just give me his name.”
Her breath hitches. For a moment, something shifts in her posture—a straightening of her spine, a flash of something raw and honest. Her lips part.
The register spits out the receipt loudly, and the moment breaks.
“Twenty-seven fifty,” I say, not pushing further.
She fumbles with her purse, her hands still shaking. I bag her items carefully, and she takes the bag.
“Thank you,” she whispers, then she turns and hurries out.
I watch through the just-cleaned windows as she gets into her car. As she pulls away, I think about names—how they carry weight, how they become targets, how knowing someone’s name gives you so much power over them.
I wonder if she’ll be back.
And if she does, I wonder whose name I’ll be adding to my list.