CHAPTER THREE #2
The neighborhood got really quiet as I approached my apartment.
A bus drove by, and I found myself listening to the small sounds around me.
I heard another set of footsteps in the distance.
This time, I looked over my shoulder. A man in a jacket was walking on the side of the street.
His hands were in his pockets. He didn’t look in my direction.
He just kept walking, and then he disappeared behind a row of cars.
I faced forward again. Was it the same person as earlier?
Was someone following me? The question stayed with me as I turned another corner.
Then someone wearing what looked like the same dark jacket appeared ahead of me.
They walked through the glow of a streetlamp.
I slowed down. A couple walked between us.
When they passed, the man was gone. I stood there for a second. I searched the pavement ahead. Everything looked normal, but I found myself walking a bit faster.
By the time I saw my apartment building, I was gripping the strap of my purse tightly.
I felt relieved when I climbed the steps and unlocked the door.
Before I stepped inside, I glanced back at the street.
It was calm, almost empty. A taxi drove around the corner.
Another car drove lazily through the intersection.
Nothing seemed unusual, but I still felt like something was off.
I stood there for a moment. Then I slipped inside and locked the door behind me.
My fingers stayed on the lock longer than they needed to.
I tested the handle once. Then I turned away, but I found myself reaching for it again before I’d even taken two steps.
The second check should have been enough, but I stood there for another moment.
I stared at the door until I sighed. Then I tried the handle another time.
When it refused to move, I forced myself to step back.
I was irritated that after all these years I still couldn’t stop doing this.
The habit had crossed an ocean with me. It survived every new start I tried to make.
There had been a time when a locked door meant nothing.
Victor had taught me that long before I was old enough to understand it. People always imagine men like Victor as monsters. They think these men announce their anger by shouting. Victor was never like that. His temper arrived quietly.
The silence that settled over the house whenever it did was more frightening than any raised voice. That quiet meant he was thinking. I learned to recognize Victor’s footsteps before I learned to solve fractions. I memorized every creaking floorboard in the hallway.
I could tell where he was without opening my bedroom door. Some nights his footsteps carried on past my room and disappeared into the master bedroom. I would stay awake for at least another hour before believing I was safe enough to sleep.
In the morning, my mother always found a reason to explain it away.
Victor had been under pressure at work. He’d had too much to drink.
He hadn’t really meant it. I listened to those excuses for years.
Eventually they all began to sound the same.
Somewhere along the way, I stopped hoping my mother would choose me over her husband.
Her choice had already been made long before I was old enough to understand it. My mother never stepped between us. She never told him to stop. She simply carried on as though surviving beside Victor was the life we deserved. I quietly began to realize that I was the only one who would save myself.
I stared at my phone for a moment before unlocking it.
Maeve’s name was near the top of my recent calls.
Seeing her name brought me comfort I didn’t know I needed.
Nothing had happened on my walk that I could explain to someone without sounding crazy, but the uneasy feeling followed me into my apartment and settled somewhere I couldn’t ignore.
I told myself twice that there was no reason to call Maeve. By the third time, my thumb had already pressed her name. She answered right away.
“You’re home?”
I leaned back on the sofa and took a deep breath. “I just got here a few minutes ago.”
She asked how work was. I gave the answer I’d been giving everyone for weeks: the café was busy; the bar was busier; I was really tired. That should have been enough to end the conversation, but Maeve knew me too well to accept simple answers.
“You always speak quietly when you’re scared.”
I laughed softly. It didn’t sound very convincing. I told her I wasn’t scared, just tired. She didn’t say anything. I found myself admitting that my walk home felt…strange. I told her about the footsteps and the sedan and the feeling I couldn’t shake.
Maeve didn’t tell me I was imagining things.
She knew where my mind went when something felt wrong.
I’d told her about my old life before: Victor’s violence, my mom’s silence, and the night I finally escaped.
She knew those stories as well as I did.
She offered to come over, but I thanked her and said no.
I didn’t want to drag Maeve into fears that were just in my head.
I hung up a few moments later, but instead of feeling completely reassured, I found myself sitting quietly with the phone still resting in my hand.
Talking to Maeve always helped. She had a way of making the world seem smaller, as though even my worst memories lost some of their weight simply because someone else carried them with me.
Tonight wasn’t much different. The tightness in my chest had eased, yet it hadn’t disappeared, leaving behind a faint uneasiness that refused to explain itself.
Deciding there was no point dwelling on it, I changed into an old sweatshirt and a pair of loose joggers before heading into the kitchen.
I filled the kettle, waited for it to boil, and made myself a mug of chamomile tea, hoping the familiar routine would settle my thoughts.
The warmth between my hands was comforting as I carried the mug into the living room and curled up on the sofa.
It was probably nothing. Working two jobs had left me running on too little sleep for weeks, and maybe my mind had started seeing danger where there wasn’t any.
By the time I finished my tea, the streets outside had grown completely quiet.
I rinsed the mug, switched off the lights one by one, and paused at the window before heading to bed.
I pulled the curtain back just enough to look outside.
The street below was still. There were no strangers lingering outside my building, no dark figures watching from across the road, and nothing remotely unusual about the quiet neighborhood.
I let the curtain fall back into place and climbed into bed, feeling faintly embarrassed that I’d allowed old fears to creep so easily into the present.
Tomorrow would be another early morning at the café, another late night at the bar, and, with any luck, another ordinary day.