Chapter 1 #2
I looked around. There was nobody out except for the regular street ghosts: the drunk, the sleepless, the desperate. A car crawled past, lights slashing across my face for a split second, painting me in blue-white like the world’s lamest Broadway dancer. I started moving.
I moved quickly, hugging the buildings and staying where the streetlights overlapped.
My pulse thudded in my ears, and every sound was magnified—the slap of my shoes on wet pavement, the distant clatter of a trash can knocked over by the wind, a siren that could have been two blocks away or ten.
The burrito was cold by the time I reached my building.
I didn’t look up at the windows—didn’t want to see if anyone was watching, or if they were all dead behind their curtains.
The outer door was always unlocked, because the landlord couldn’t be bothered to fix it.
Inside, the staircase creaked so loud it set my teeth on edge, but I took the stairs two at a time anyway.
The door to my apartment stuck every time, even after I sanded down the threshold and oiled the hinges with the last of my tip money.
Maybe it was the building’s way of reminding me there was something off about my life.
I kicked it closed behind me and locked the deadbolts with a practiced flick of my wrist.
The room was smaller than some walk-in closets.
Second floor, west-facing, with a single window that looked out onto the back lot and the burned-out shell of a shoe store across the alley.
The inside was neat to the point of sterility, because I liked it that way, because that was something I could control.
There were only a handful of things in the room.
There were only a few things that would fit: my second hand futon, which doubled as bed and couch; a beat up coffee table I found on the curb in someone’s trash, stained by water rings from their soda cans or other beverages; a metal shelf with three changes of clothes, a Phillies mug I used for must-have cups of coffee; and the pillow.
The pillow was the only thing I owned that felt expensive.
Down, real down, not the lumpy synthetic crap they sold at the dollar store.
I’d found it in the trash behind the hospital, still in its package, and carried it home like a relic.
I kept it in a pillowcase so white it looked blue in the lamplight, and I fluffed it every night before bed with the same gentle touch you’d use for a pet or a living thing.
I fell backwards on the futon, arms splayed, feeling the springs complain under my weight.
My feet were on fire from my shift, and the burrito was now room temperature, but it tasted better that way—less like food and more like fuel.
I ate it in three bites and chased it with the rest of the Dr. Pepper, which fizzed in my nose and made my eyes water.
For a second, I thought I was going to cry.
Maybe I almost wanted to. The feeling came out of nowhere, strong and pure, and I sat there waiting for it to pass.
It did. It always did.
I showered with the water as hot as it would go, which wasn’t very.
The shower stall was barely wide enough for me to turn around in, but I liked the way the tile steamed and the way the water made my hair stick to my face.
I scrubbed until my skin turned pink and the scars on my back stood out like a brand.
I stared at them in the mirror after turning left and right, trying to see if they had changed.
Tonight they just itched, so I dabbed them with antibiotic cream as best as I could and put on the softest t-shirt I owned.
I checked the locks on the door again. Twice.
Then I knelt by the futon and smoothed out the blanket so there were no wrinkles. The pillow was waiting, impossibly soft, like a cloud from one of those nature documentaries. I punched it into shape, set my phone next to my head, and curled around it like a child.
I watched videos—always the same genre: adorable puppies, people scaring their friends, cooking videos.
I watched until the battery warning blinked on, then I plugged it in across the room, laid back down, and let my head sink into the pillow.
My hair smelled faintly like the diner, and I tried not to care.
Sleep took its time arriving. I lay there, staring at the patterns the city lights made on my ceiling, listening to the hum of the fridge and the drip from the showerhead. Eventually, my thoughts went hazy, and I started to drift.
My dreams were not normal dreams.
I was running. Not on a street, but through clouds, or maybe a tunnel of pure light.
The world was an endless hallway, every surface lined with faces I almost recognized, mouths opening and closing in silence.
The light got brighter, hotter, until I thought my skin would split, and then I woke up gasping, fingers knotted in the fabric of my blanket.
I checked the clock. 5:11 a.m. Not enough sleep to matter. But it was enough to get by.
I rolled out of bed, splashed my face with cold water, made coffee, and sat.
I didn’t have to be at the diner for several hours. This was the worst part of my life. I had hours to just be with myself alone and think of… nothing.