Chapter 5
CHAPTER FIVE
EBONY
ONE WEEK LATER
I’ve spent the weekend finishing up my entry assessments and talking my social worker off a ledge.
Caroline had been assured that due to my circumstances, a nice way of saying I don’t play well with others and will cut a bitch for invading my space—a warranted assumption with detailed reports to back it up—that I would have my own apartment.
The university was advised that I might ‘flourish with less issues’ if I had my own room away from the other students. I assured Caroline that I was happy enough where I was and that I haven’t thought about stabbing Megan once, not even when she ate my last breakfast bar.
I call that progress.
I swipe the paintbrush across my wall, the imperfect wash of black paint the last addition to my latest masterpiece.
Stepping back, I wipe the sweat from my forehead with the back of my hand.
My heart thuds heavy in my chest, a spark of sadness filling my gut as the sigh of relief falls from my lips.
The simple design is so much more than just harsh lines and darkness; the memories conjured that I have tried so hard to forget are heavy in every stroke of the drying paint.
I have been sketching the design on my bedroom wall for the past week between classes.
Second guessing every decision as the idea refused to be ignored.
I hate how calming it feels to have this snippet of my past so openly on show like this—even if it is in the privacy of my dorm room.
This black paint interpretation of what is missing in my life shouldn’t have a place here, but it does, and pushing back at what my body needs to feel settled will only lead to more unnecessary suffering.
The bird with the impressive wingspan, the compass with the pin settled due north, the butterfly mid flutter, all of the images pulled together with the dagger blade speared down the centre with the Gemini birth sign engraved into the handle.
It’s simple and open for interpretation to those who don’t know the significance of each piece.
A knock at my door has me spinning around as I move across the polished wooden floor on bare feet, stowing the brush in a jam jar of cloudy grey water on my dresser and wiping my paint-splattered hands over the arse of my cut-off denim shorts.
I step aside, silently welcoming Megan in as she struggles under the weight of the cardboard box she’s carrying. Dumping it on my bed and shaking out her arms, she inspects her palms for callouses.
“I found these in the basement; I thought you could use them,” she cheerily comments as she shoos me forward to open the box.
“You found these?” I chuckle, pulling out the brand-new plastic-wrapped deep purple bedsheets.
“Found—yes,” Megan says decidedly, sticking with her barefaced lie.
“You didn’t have to do this,” I assure her, ready to demand she take everything back but keeping my mouth firmly shut so I don’t offend her.
“I didn’t do anything. People leave things behind. These were gathering dust,”
“In the locked utility basement?”
“Yes.” She fumbles for more of an explanation but gives up when I quirk a brow at her.
Rummaging around, I pull out a detailed invoice. “This receipt with your name on it begs to differ.”
“How did that get in there?” she squeaks, ripping it from my fingers, scrunching it up, and tossing it in the bin under my vanity table.
“Thank you,” I say softly, pulling her in for a hug she’s not expecting.
I’ve come to enjoy the satedness that comes with hugging someone, my aversion to touch less of an issue now in the short time that I’ve known this girl.
It takes her a second to realise what I’m doing as I’ve never initiated a hug before.
She falls into the embrace, wrapping her arms around my back and squeezing me to her.
I wriggle as panic fills me, and she lets me loose.
I said it was getting easier, not that I was any good at it. Lowering your defences and letting people in was a good way to get a knife thrust in your back before I came here. Baby steps.
I pull away and run my paint-stained fingers over the cardboard box. My chest warming at her gesture.
“Nice to see you’re making this place your own,” Megan points out, running her manicured fingers over the wall, careful not to touch the drying paint.
The painting is a cruel reminder of everything I’ve lost, but it also proves to settle the ache inside me a little. I try to push aside the sadness that creeps into the forefront of my mind, my heart constricting painfully.
They left me that day and haven’t tried to seek me out since.
Even after everything, I meant nothing to them, and although I realised quickly the sting of that truth, even after six years, it still burns like a white-hot poker slowly inching its way through my chest. Every passing day another torturous twist of the iron rod.
They didn’t know who I was without them, and moving on with my life just acted as a reminder that I may never again feel whole like I had, as I play the actress in my new role of someone not completely fucked in the head.
“Ebony. EBONY.” Her panicked voice feels far away, as though she’s yelling at me through a long dark tunnel.
The light flooding the room feels too bright as my chest tightens.
Megan scrambles around, flustered as my eyes grow heavy, upending the box she brought in here and searching through the pile.
The painting is the only thing filling my blurred vision now as I fall to my knees.
Seconds feel like minutes as Megan holds the paper bag over my mouth and nose. My head stuffy, my eyes heavy.
“Breathe,” she orders, and that tightness in my chest loosens with every deep inhale, the rattling of a receipt flying around inside.
I can’t remember the last time I had a panic attack; maybe it’s coming back to this town, starting fresh or the memory of them—whatever it is, I need to get a grip.
Sure I’m not going to pass out, I pull the bag from my face.
“Thanks,” I say dryly, embarrassment colouring my cheeks as I sway, collapsing back onto my bed.
“You good?” her concern weighs heavy between her brows as she pushes my hair back over my shoulder and rubs soothing circles into my back. “You’re no good to me dead, you know.” She laughs uneasily as though she’s said something she shouldn’t have.
I pull the receipt free, and a wide genuine smile breaks across my face. “The mountain man 3000, huh?” I cock a brow as I hold it up. “Ribbed for your pleasure; interesting find,” I tease.
She snatches it back and flattens it out. “It’s tax deductible.” She snorts, folding the receipt and sliding it into her back pocket.
It was on my third morning here that I found out Megan’s side hustle as an online cam girl. I saw sides of my roommate I never thought I would, let’s put it that way.
“I don’t think that’s how taxes work,” I chuckle, my lungs still working overtime to regulate my air supply.
“Even adult entertainers deserve a rebate; nipple clamps and butt plugs don’t grow on trees, you know.”
“Who knew the visual of a sex aid tree would calm me down?”
“Consider me your therapist, Ebs. Want to share?” She jabs playfully, but I can tell the sentiment is genuine.
The fact is I do want to share, desperately.
But I know I won’t—the less she knows, the better.
Pulling people into my web of fuckery only proves to destroy their lives, and my friendship with Megan, with all her quirks and brashness, is the closest thing to normal I’ve had since the boys were with me. I’m not ready to give her up.
“Dinners on me tonight. I’m thinking beers and pizza,” I say hoarsely as she makes her way to my door. My throat sore as I grind out the words.
“Sounds perfect.” She claps her hands together. “No more getting lost in bad thoughts, okay?” she adds, waiting for my nod of agreement before leaving and closing the door behind her.
I rest my forehead up against the wood. I can hear Megan’s soft voice humming along to whatever tune is playing out from the radio in the kitchen.
I turn, sliding down the door, reaching over for my cold mocha latte.
Sipping it, I ponder whether my blast of expression on the wall was a good idea; everything I’ve tried so hard to get past weighing so monumentally heavy on my tortured soul.
Forget about them, Ebony. They forgot about you.