3. Jersey
JERSEY
"Shhh, Jersey girl," my father coos, wrapping an arm around my shoulders. "It's just a bad dream, you're safe."
Leaning against him, I bury my tear-stained face in his flannel. The gritty, artificial citrus scent of the mechanic's soap he always uses floods my senses and my heart rate starts to slow.
"But it felt so real," I say, my voice thin.
"I'm sure it did," his knuckles brush gently against my cheek. "The cruelest nightmares are those disguised as dreams."
I sniffle, brows furrowing as I glance up at him. "How do I tell the difference, then?"
"Because monsters aren't real," he chuckles, pressing his lips to my forehead. "Now get some sleep, my sweet girl."
"Okay," I whisper, yawning.
Snuggling down beneath the blankets, he tucks the quilt in around me before pushing to his feet.
But as he rises, something changes. His features distort, dark eyes replacing his green ones, his chestnut hair morphing to a peppered grey.
A scream rips from my throat as his flesh liquifies, steadily dripping to the floor.
My voice fades– no matter how hard I scream, the sound is gone. I try to move, try to run, but I can't.
A gunshot tears through the silence, cracking open Commander Martin's face. He stumbles forward, and I cower beneath his mangled figure as he reaches out. Blood mixes with the melting skin, trickling down onto my forehead.
Drip.
Drip.
Drip.
I swipe at my face, my head whipping back and forth as my eyes blink open. Years of leaks have discolored the plaster surrounding a crack that runs across the ceiling overhead, water beading along it before another drop lands beside me on the mattress in this vacated apartment.
My father was wrong.
Monsters are real, and Northbrooke is crawling with them.
As if on cue, my hand slides beneath the hem of my shirt, my fingers instinctively drifting to the scar on my belly. I trace the smooth ridges of healed skin absentmindedly as I stare up at the stained and crumbling ceiling tiles.
It's been a while since I've dreamed about my dad.
Every time I do, it's a bittersweet moment stolen from the past that makes me homesick for a place I can never return to.
But even with that somber tone when I wake, there's a sense of comfort in seeing him– hearing him– that keeps me pushing through.
My father was strong. He pushed back against The Registry when they started tearing through our neighborhood. It may have gotten him killed in the end, but he didn't go down without a fight, and neither will I.
The metal bed frame creaks beneath me as I shift onto my side, pain instantly shooting through my arm. I wince, rolling onto my back and lifting it. Fresh blood seeps through the makeshift bandage on my bicep. Peeling back the strip of fabric, I freeze when it catches.
Fuck, this is going to hurt like a real bitch...
I draw in a breath and rip it off.
My stomach drops, a muttered curse leaving my lips as rivulets of blood bead to the surface.
The gash is a few inches long, the skin around it red and angry.
The edges of the wound are raw, caked with dirt and dried blood.
I pin my bottom lip between my teeth, debating whether to peel it further.
Oh, what the hell. It’ll scar either way, so I let the intrusive thought win and dig my fingernail beneath the edge of a scab, gritting my teeth as it starts to lift.
The twinge of pain competes with the feeling of satisfaction as I pull it free.
It doesn't look infected, but I know it still should be cleaned and wrapped with something besides an old dog bandana.
I'm just lucky to have found anything to stem the bleeding.
It was snagged on a branch– probably by one of Commander Martin's dogs when they were exercising in the field beside the house.
It's not like he would've noticed the bandana going missing.
I seemed to be the only property he kept track of.
With a sigh, my arm drops onto the mattress. I should keep moving. Getting to the Fringe was as far as I'd planned. And now that I'm here, holed up in this rundown apartment, I realize I have no idea what’s next.
Staying in Northbrooke isn't an option; not with the Registry Enforcers after me. They mentioned appraisal, but… appraised for what? Reassignment? Another Auction? Absolutely the fuck not.
Of course, that was before I stabbed an enforcer in the neck and made a run for it. The other enforcer wasn't exactly trying to avoid hitting me when he was firing, so what'd stop them from shooting me dead in the street now?
I don't know what's worse– being some rich asshole’s plaything or public execution.
"Okay," I breathe, scraping together enough spite to force myself to move. "I'm getting the hell out of this place."
I ignore the throb in my arm as I push upright and swing my legs over the edge of the mattress. Dirt and grit crunch beneath the soles of my bare feet as I make my way through the apartment.
I know this wasn't our building– at least I don't think it was– but as my gaze sweeps over the layout of the space, a lump forms in my throat.
Surely I'd still recognize my own home… right? I refuse to believe that seven years of ownership can erase the fourteen years of memories that came before them.
"Ew, fuck!" I choke, stumbling back a step as a blur of grey fur scampers across the grungy tiles.
A fucking rat.
My nose wrinkles and I hurry down the hall, reaching for the switch as I turn into the bathroom. It’s a complete gamble if this place has electricity or not, but it’s not like I’ve got much to lose. Surprisingly, after a few metallic clicks, the bulbs above the sink hum to life.
The pipes groan as I twist on the faucet and murky water surges into the basin of the sink, sputtering a few times before running clear.
Well, mostly. I lean forward and cup my palm beneath the spray to take a drink, willingly ignoring how much it looks like pee.
Bleh. It's like licking a handful of coins.
The acrid taste lingers on my tongue, but I'm just thirsty enough to not care.
Three handfuls later, I swipe the back of my hand over my mouth and shift to rest my elbow on the counter.
Hissing through my teeth, I pluck fuzz and little bits of debris from the wound and start to rinse.
Cool water soothes the offended flesh as I rinse and rinse until there's hardly a trace of blood in the water that swirls the drain.
I flick my fingers, drops of water scattering as I turn off the tap.
It's not perfect, but it's clean and feels so much better already. Now, something to keep it that way…
Reaching for the mirrored door of the medicine cabinet, I flinch back with a squeal, hand slapping against my chest as an old toothbrush falls into the sink.
Fuck, I thought it was another rat. I blow out a breath, willing my heart to slow as my eyes scan over the contents.
A tube of hemorrhoid cream has oozed out on a roll of antacid tablets on one shelf, and a suspiciously sticky looking bottle of lube sits on another.
Gross.
Nothing even kind of useful right now.
The door clinks shut behind me as I head off to rummage through the kitchen. All I find in the cabinets are a few plates, some takeout menus, and a very expired tub of protein powder. I check the drawers, too, finding most of them empty– but one sticks on something inside as I tug on the handle.
“C’mon, open up,” I coax, wiggling and yanking until a pair of pliers springs free and clatters to the floor. Without them, the drawer glides the rest of the way open with ease.
I shuffle through a few appliance manuals and uncapped pens to find a plastic box beneath that looks promising. But it’s only full of keys– not helpful.
I'm about to give up when I pull out a tangle of cords and uncover a travel first-aid kit. Jackpot.
There's no antibiotic cream, and the alcohol wipes are dried out, but there's gauze. Only half a roll, but hey, I can work with that.
Bumping the drawer shut with a hip, I twist around, looking for a place to wrap my bicep.
The arm of a sofa juts out from behind an overturned bookshelf across the room.
Sidestepping a broken ceramic pot and the carcass of a house plant, there’s an uncovered spot practically begging me to sit.
I sink down on the cushion, tucking a leg beneath me.
The suede surface may look worn, but there’s still plenty of padding to mold around me.
God, how is this more comfortable than Commander Martin's overpriced furniture?
Not that I'll ever see any of it again.
My stomach drops at the realization, a strange sense of sadness washing over me. Commander Martin wasn't the nicest, but there are definitely worse men out there.
When I was at the infirmary having my jaw reset, another Asset was brought in.
Old bruises littered her arms and neck, a bloody cloth wrapped around her hand.
I overheard the nurses talking about her as I was leaving– apparently, she lost a fancy fork down the sink and her guardian made her retrieve it immediately, not even letting her turn the disposal off first.
I wasn’t delusional enough to think living like that was normal, but I hadn’t developed Stockholm Syndrome, either.
He bought me, for god’s sake, and he could be cruel.
But after losing my dad, Commander Martin was the only constant in my life.
There was never going to be peace for me inside those walls, no comfort to cling to, but it was all I had.
It was familiar. And sometimes, that’s as easy to latch onto as the feeling of being safe.
Tying off the gauze, the sleeve of my t-shirt falls back into place as I slouch over the arm of the sofa.
There’s a pang of sadness in my chest as I take in the room around me.
It’s in worse shape than the bedroom was.
I wonder if it's from the Enforcers ripping people from their homes or from the raiders that came after. Either way, I blame The Registry.
They taught us to work hard and save our money.
“You can have it all,” they said. A nice house in the suburbs with a white picket fence and a yard for your 2.
5 children and golden retriever to play in– the American dream.
But they didn’t teach us what to do when corporate greed took over and the basic cost of living became a luxury.
When they took over, they promised what they were doing was for the best. This place was going to be great, we’d see.
They even started an assistance program.
My father and countless others got fucked over by their supposed “economic relief” funds.
They hid the asinine interest rates deep in the terms. No one living in the Fringe could fully repay those loans in thirty days– so by design, when you defaulted, that's when they really turned a profit.
Repo men were contracted to collect, and people became assets for auction, stripped of their dignity and rights just so someone with too much money could own another person.
Desperate people needing to repay their own loans or just lowlifes looking to make a quick buck came next. Raiders would pick apart homes and have the stuff pawned within hours.
A sick feeling heats my throat. It doesn't matter if this was my building or not, it's all the same story. Another grotesque display of the moment someone's life was destroyed by The Registry's overpowered hands.
My jaw tightens as hot tears prick behind my eyes.
It's not fucking fair.
I have nothing, no one, no…
I shudder a breath, shaking my head. I've already mourned the life they stole from me. I even came to terms with the life I was sentenced to. That's all they’re getting from me, because I'm getting the hell out of Northbrooke.
Pushing to my feet, I snatch up a flowered duffle bag from beside the door and stalk down the hall.
The dresser is mostly empty, but there's still containers in the bedroom closet.
I pull off a lid and timidly sort through a pile, pinching and tossing each piece of clothing on the off chance the rat had friends.
I manage to find the basics– a pair of too-long jeans, an oversized hoodie, socks, and a pair of beat-up hiking boots that are only a half size too big.
I grab the letter opener from the nightstand, my thumb tracing over the ornate pattern as I turn it over in my hand.
The dried blood on the blade proves it's as good a weapon as any. I slide it into my hoodie pocket and unzip the bag. Shoving my clothes in first, I start scouring the apartment for anything left I can pawn. Whatever appears to have value goes into the duffle– and while it isn’t much, at least it’s a start.
Get some money, get out of Northbrooke.
Let’s just hope I don’t die trying.