Chapter 3
Penelope Miles
I wake sweaty and disoriented as my phone vibrates in my fist. My ears, face, and nipple piercings throb from tossing and turning through my nightmares all night long.
I sit up and pull my shirt down, brushing my knuckles against the charm on my belly button ring, and cover my stomach as I survey the damage.
My thrashing knocked over the unopened water bottle I keep on the floor beside my beanbag, and the rug I use to delineate my sleeping space from the rest of my room sits completely askew with the corners flipped at odd angles, but the soundproofing panels remain on the walls, my headphones lie on the floor safely out of kicking reach, and my workstation shows no signs of being affected.
At some point, I half woke, took off my headphones and bra, and tossed them onto the floor, but the rest of my clothes still hug my body.
My fear-sweat-soaked body.
With a grimace, I rise and check my ear and facial piercings before unzipping my bean bag cover, tossing it into the hamper, fixing my rug, and stripping.
With all the dirties in the hamper, I tidy the rest of the things before locking myself in my tiny bathroom and showering.
The routine doesn’t wash away the memories, but I take enough comfort in the familiarity to face my naked, dripping reflection in the full-length mirror on the back of the door.
Part of me still refuses to recognize the scarred and pierced woman staring back at me, but her curves and natural beauty assure me I’m no longer the young, lost, and abused girl of my youth. I survived. I’m here.
Not everyone does. Not everyone stays.
My chest tightens at my bare ring finger.
Demons aren’t paranormal beings; they’re self-centered, cruel human beings.
I take a deep breath and focus on the expansion of my chest in the mirror.
My nipple piercings—simple silver bars with a ball on each end—and the three dermal piercings along my sternum gleam in the light.
I lift my arms and prop my hands on top of my head before twisting and studying the scars covering my body.
Cigarette burns, whip marks, gouges from rings, and a few thin white lines from blades pepper my torso and upper thighs.
My bullies usually avoided my face and extremities, but a thick, jagged scar circles my right wrist. With my watch on the counter, the ugly bracelet of once torn flesh stands as a stark reminder of the worst days of my life.
I sigh and drop my arms to my sides.
After the chaos of yesterday, the vague soreness from my last piercing isn’t enough. It’s only been a month, but the incessant itching from my burn scars and the upheaval from my reunion with Sebastian make me feel too out of control.
I turn away from the mirror without checking the new addition.
Nestled underneath my first labia piercing, I barely felt it beyond the initial burn of the needle going through flesh.
My hands shook from adrenaline, but I was a tad disappointed when the soreness faded about a week later.
It healed without issue and is pretty from an aesthetic standpoint, but not painful enough to mask the horror in my heart.
I pat dry with a towel and brush my hair before wrapping my towel around my head and opening the door to my room. After dressing in clean clothes, I check my messages and subconsciously fiddle with my lip ring as I consider replying to my roommate’s apologies.
He only sent me three short texts even though I know he worried all night long and probably wrote and deleted dozens of others. I commend him for his self-control and decide to save my response for when I speak to him face-to-face.
I back out of the chat and pause at the unexpected name beside the next notification. With trepidation shortening my breaths, I tap on the chat box beside Hilary’s contact information.
Sorry I was late yesterday. See you this afternoon?
Puzzled by her words but slightly panicked when my phone confirms she opened our chat and saw the message received icon, I type out a quick response and hit send.
Of course!
I exit the app and turn off my screen.
After a deep breath, I turn to the bathroom, but stop mid-step when my phone buzzes with jarring intensity.
Half a second later, my computer plays an ugly sound.
I dart across the room, push my rolling chair out of the way, and dive onto my computer.
In less than three seconds, I open my email inbox and the specialized tracking program I designed.
The email reads the same as the last eight. Someone wants me dead.
I’d ignore it like all the others, since no one who sends me death threats through my secret accounts knows my actual information, but this came from within a five mile radius of my apartment.
In some ways, the distance seems scarily close, but with the population of New York City being so dense, there are too many possibilities to panic.
I use the virus I snuck into my automatic email response and root around behind the scenes for a few minutes before my phone alarm rings. I close everything out and pull a soda out of my mini fridge to celebrate.
Step one complete. I have full access to the bastard’s laptop, but too much activity while he’s on right now will alert him, so I’ll jump back in later tonight and play around.
I twist open my soda bottle and enjoy the sting as I chug half the contents. With a small win under my belt, I return to the bathroom and finish the rest of my soda as I towel dry and brush my hair again.
I hang my towel and tidy the bathroom before sitting in my desk chair.
After putting on socks and eating a granola bar from my snack cabinet to counteract the caffeine in the soda, I toss the wrapper in the trash can and roll my chair into its place.
I shrug into my coat and slip my phone into my pocket before slipping my purse onto my shoulder and facing the door.
After a deep breath and counting to three, I remove the towel from under my door, roll and return it to its shelf, and unlock my door.
Peter sits at the table with a cup of coffee in front of him, but no steam rises from the mug.
“I’ll never bring him here again. I’m so sorry. He told me he was gay, not bi. I swear I’ll vet the next one better. I—”
“Peter, stop. You couldn’t’ve known. It’s not your fault, but I forgive you. And yes, be pickier next time,” I interrupt.
His tremulous smile breaks my heart. I shake my head and say, “Don’t aim those puppy-dog eyes at me. You’ll find the right guy, just maybe not in the places you’ve been looking. But really, I’m fine. We’re fine.”
A lie followed by the truth. I haven’t been fine in fifteen years, but it would take a lot worse to erode my relationship with Peter.
“I’d be lost without you, Pen,” he says.
“I know. The world would be a sad, sad place without Pen and Peter,” I deflect.
He nods so emphatically a snort-laugh escapes me. His relieved smile erases the tension in my shoulders.
“Where are you headed this morning? Another random certification class?” he asks.
I roll my eyes.
“The same one as last week, and it’s your fault I started them at all,” I remind him.
He leans back and places his hand over his sternum in mock offense.
“Me? My fault? Well, thank you. How many rando certs and licenses have you collected now and how have you not finished this one yet? Don’t you always complete the courses faster and better than everyone else?”
I roll my eyes and snatch his mug off the table before he can react. Cold coffee sloshes onto my hand, ruining my attempt to gloat, but I tug my sleeve away from the mess and take a sip before smirking at my roommate.
“Of course I finish faster and better than anyone else. I’m a pariah, remember?”
Peter is the only person in the world I can joke around like this with. He’s the only one who understands using humor to mask my pain.
He reaches for his coffee. I scamper across the kitchen—almost slipping in my spill—and snag a paper towel off the roll before wiping and placing the mug in the microwave.
“What’s this weekend morning’s class about again?” he asks.
I open my mouth to respond, but he cuts me off.
“The short answer, not the technical term. I haven’t had my coffee yet,” he grumbles.
I chuckle and start the microwave.
“Stuff required to become a tattoo artist,” I answer.
“Ah, I remember now. Thank you,” he says with a nod toward the microwave.
I wash my hands and use another paper towel to dry them.
“You aren’t planning to tattoo anyone else, right? Only yourself? Do you even need a license for that?”
I shake my head.
“No, but better safe than sick,” I say.
He nods.
“Hey, on that note, are the scars on your back itching real bad again? Do you need me to apply ointment?” he asks.
I shrug and toss the paper towels in the trash.
“They’re the same as always. Maybe tomorrow; I’m fine today. I’ll be late if I don’t leave now, so bye,” I say with a tiny wave and a short jaunt to the door.
I exit into the hall and lock the door behind me.
Even though I never plan to practice on another person and am horrible at drawing, I make the trek to the tattoo and piercing parlor for my apprenticeship.
Learning the ins and outs of the shop is interesting and fun and allows me a real-world experience I wouldn’t otherwise have.
I also manage a quick visit with my piercing artist. She approves my next piercing, but we decide to wait until following weekend so I don’t shorten her lunch break.
The moment I leave the tattoo parlor, apprehension coils through me as I realize the wedding rehearsal time draws nearer. I check my watch but shove my hands in my coat pocket and tuck my purse between my arm and my side as I weave through the crowded sidewalk.