Chapter 2
Chapter Two
The Figure
There’s a mixture of dread and excitement when I lie down to sleep, conflicting like water and oil in my stomach.
While sleep may offer others peace, dreams taunt me with memories I spend my days avoiding.
Like the pleasurable press of a bruise, I immerse myself in the nostalgia, only to be met with homesickness like a bitter, jaw-tightening sting.
I am young, possibly six or seven, as my sneaker laces whip my ankles and my heart races to match my sprinting feet.
The dusty air of the crops weighs on my achy chest, while my short curls catch like Velcro on the spikelets of barley when I turn back to search for him, wobbling with the shift of my balance.
The sound of his steps grows closer, but I can’t place them above the sound of my panting.
He’s close, but I’m almost free. The sun’s heat intensifies through the sparser brim of the crop—the last few yards.
I part my arms into the open, assaulted by the low setting sun, kissing the horizon and snatching my sights.
He flanks me, bowling me into his arms, and I scream as he tosses me into the air.
“I got you now, baby girl!” he cries in his deep Southern accent.
It’s only a memory, but just the sound of his voice offers the comfort of a reunion.
And for as much as I can taste the sweat on my lips, feel the itch of barley against my skin, I can sense his love radiating into my bones like a long, unopened message in a bottle.
The meaning is all the same, no matter the passing of time or distance travelled.
And as he spins me around, I giggle and shriek, while the sound of his laugh is like that of an old song—the lyrics, the cadence, the tone strumming my soul.
In the same breath, the memory feels like only yesterday, while the drag of years that have passed since I saw him last has skulked with each painful hour.
But I love this time. Back when I still called him Dada, but everyone else called him Roscoe.
Back when he had blond curls peeking beneath his baseball cap, shadowing his blue eyes and crooked nose.
Back when he always wore a warm smile, revealing his infamous gap tooth.
I’m sure he was a cowboy in another life, as he definitely fancied himself as one.
He plants me on my feet, and I wipe my sweaty brow with my forearm while my short auburn curls bounce back on my forehead.
“How’d you find me, Dada?”
“How did I find you? Well, I could smell you, of course!” He scrunches his face in mock disgust while ruffling my hair. “I reckon Malcolm will have supper about ready, so we’d best go get cleaned up. You know how he gets.”
He places his fists on his hips, and I mirror his movements, giving my best imitation of his accent. “He gonna pitch a hissy fit, Dada?”
He erupts with a deep laugh while putting me in a headlock, tousling my cropped hair as I playfully throw punches into his arm. He drops to his knee to tie my shoelace. “Uh-oh. You got a flat tyre there.”
I wait patiently until he pulls the laces tight. With his head bowed low, I swipe the hat from his head and plant it on my own. I sprint off, giggling, and he jokingly shouts while pretending not to catch up on the race back to the farmhouse.
There is always a price to be paid for reminiscing, and as the memory progresses—like they all do—I’ve been lured in with the good, only to be spat out with the bad.
There’s the wooden shriek of a chair against the floorboards.
There’s the ceramic clatter of a mug clunking to the floor.
But it’s the crashing noises and growls of men that slam my eyes open.
I remember the fear of the white net curtain, and how it blew with the night’s breeze, ghostly.
My fathers would usually close the window before every bedtime, but tonight they had forgotten.
I’m paralysed beneath the chilling moonlight, a shiver crawling over my skin, sending me rigid against the mattress, when the smash of glass bolts me upright.
My breath has seized as I listen to the grunting and tumbling, covers clenched beneath my whitening knuckles.
There’s shouting now, dashing footsteps towards the hallway.
With the first thud of a boot against the stair, I leap from the bed and slide beneath it with my covers still clenched as the drumming of steps continues.
“Stay hidden,” they would say. “Don’t let them find you. ”
The footsteps race across the landing—towards me. They’re coming for me.
The handle of my bedroom door slams down and opens with a flinching bang into the wall. I press my eyes tight, not daring to look.
“Lee! Lee! Everlee!” Roscoe pants, sounding panicked.
I gasp at his voice, and he drops to the floor to find me beneath the bed. My already frantic nerves heighten at the sight of his bloodied nose and a deep cut oozing a garland of blood across his cheek.
He sighs in relief, but urgently pleads with an outstretched palm. “Quick, baby girl! We’ve got to go! We’ve got to go now!”
I break the surface of consciousness with an almighty pull for breath.
The sheets I clutched in childhood have been replaced with my boot knife, and I am no longer with my father.
I had forgotten myself, and as I steady my racing chest, my mind deduces—this is not the farmhouse.
This is not my room above Jimmy’s Diner.
This is my new apartment in the city—and it’s a far cry from home.
The audible buzz seems to heighten in confirmation, amping up its constant current of electricity, humming from the lively streets in a persistent white noise.
With an exhausted sigh, I’m tired before the day has even begun, and I look at my double-edged blade, tracing my fingers over the ribbed handle before sliding from beneath the bed and purposefully placing it on the desk.
It’s not that I am ruled by fear, but I have a more realistic expectation of genuine threats.
A single lock secures my bedroom door—one I could easily barge my boot through with a swift kick, and this is a place that people like Donnie and God knows who else have a key to.
It’s stupid not to recognise the dangers, and as long as I don’t know this place, or these people, I’ll continue to sleep beneath the bed with my knife for comfort.
After Donnie dropped me off, I spent the evening cleaning and organising my room while the other women I’ll be sharing the apartment with were at work.
One got in after midnight, and then another two at around four this morning.
The rooms are small by design, so it would be uncomfortable to fit anyone else in, but the cameras watching the apartment are enough to deter me from entertaining any thoughts of company.
While I was at Jimmy’s, I had fun with a few local guys—but that was the Wilds, where the majority take pride in defying government rules while not being policed.
Either way, I wouldn’t like to test the loyalty of city dwellers, and my single bed is barely big enough for me as it is.
Three-legged weathered drawers rest on a brick, while a rusting mirror is pinned above a stainless-steel desk, which looks like it’s been polished with steel wool.
Luckily, I brought little, so it will make do for my essentials.
No trinkets or photos of my family, by choice rather than obligation.
The smell of damp lingers, making the room all the colder for it, encouraging the bubbling, curling paint in the corners.
There was a draft whistling through the rotting wooden window frame, which is now packed with bathroom tissue.
Beyond the single pane of glass, crystallising trains of frost grow on the vertical iron grills that protect my window from the outside.
The sun has yet to rise, but I’ve had enough sleep, flicking the light on to see myself staring back in the mirror.
I brush my fingers through my long auburn hair, trying to calm my unruly curls, and lean a little closer.
My reflection reveals bloodshot forks reaching my forest-green irises, while summer’s freckles fade on my fair skin.
The yellow hue of the light from the single bare bulb does me no favours, but luckily, my face feels more fatigued than it appears.
With an exasperated sigh, I grab my bathroom kit to prepare.
I feel a little closer to human when I slink from the communal bathroom to find a young woman before me.
She lackadaisically leans against the wall, holding a toothbrush with her arms crossed.
The whites of her eyes emphasise her teasing smile against her dark skin, with long raspberry passion twists reaching well below her shoulders.
“New girl’s an early bird! I like it! The name’s Sasha,” she says.
It’s been a while since I’ve heard a New York accent, talking a little louder than I would dare to at this hour.
“Hey, I’m Lee,” I whisper. “I heard you come in last night, but thought I’d not bother you after work.”
“Ha, yeah. You wouldn’t have gotten a word out of me last night. I work over at The Starlight bar, so we’ll be doing similar hours. You landed The Riverside gig, huh?” she says with a fist tap on my shoulder.
“Yeah. I’m looking forward to it. Saw it yesterday at lunchtime, and it was already busier than my last place.”
“Oh, so you’re not a complete newbie?” I cringe at her volume, worrying she’ll wake the other girls. “Ohhhh. Don’t worry about noise. Armageddon wouldn’t wake them. Now, go put on a pot of coffee. We’re going to get to know each other.” And she scoots past me to seize the bathroom.