Page 13 of Siege of Blood and Betrayal
Angling to keep my back toward the room, I ease the curtain of my hair away from my face and wince at the massive scrape on my cheek. It looks like someone took a cheese grater to my face.
Feels like it too.
A woman comes out of a stall behind me and her eyes bug wide as she looks me over. “Oh, sweetie, do you need me to call someone? A friend? The police?”
One by one, I pull hand towels out of the dispenser until I have a bunch I can wad up and run under the warm water. “I’m okay. It looks gnarly, but I need to clean up and regroup.”
She seems reluctant to go, but her jersey and the Blue Jay temporary tattoo on her cheek tells me she’s got somewhere to be. “You’re sure?”
My reflection in the mirror is a grim reminder of my night. The cheek wound is ugly, and the blood-soaked fabric of my shirt clings to my skin. “Absolutely. I’ve got a phone and a plan. I’m good. Enjoy your night.”
When she leaves, I lock myself inside the stall at the end. It’s the largest and houses the baby changing table on the side wall. Once I’m inside and I’ve secured the slide lock, I pull down the table and arrange my damp cloths.
Biting my bottom lip keeps me from crying out as I twist to slide my backpack off. The gash in my side hit nothing vital, but the sting is brutal and it’s oozing badly.
After setting my backpack on my makeshift countertop, I open the zipper and fish through the clothes I brought for my weekend with Da.
A rush of emotion threatens to suffocate me when I think about my father, so I slam the lid on my feelings, grab a clean T-shirt and focus on what I need to do.
This is going to suck.
My hands tremble as I dab the warm paper towel to my cheek and try to clean the wound. Dirt and asphalt debris are stuck in my flesh and when I pull the cloth back, it’s a bloody mess. Awesome.
This would be a ton easier in front of the mirror, but then I’d draw attention from more well-meaning bystanders, and I really need to get this done and get gone.
Turning on my phone, I open my camera and use it to see how I’m doing. It’s not perfect, but it’ll have to do.
Next, I lift my shirt, hissing as the fabric tugs at the cut on my hip. There’s nothing to be done about the blood on my pants, but I wipe my skin clean enough to examine the two sides of yawning flesh.
How can I piece this back together? The simple answer is, I can’t. No amount of butterfly strip adhesive will fix this mess—I need stitches.
Fuckety-fuck. Well, that isn’t in the cards for tonight.
I dig around in my backpack, pull out my emergency period pack, and select the maxi pad at the bottom. I’m a tampon girl myself, but it pays to be prepared for those WTF months, am I right?
Once I’m reasonably cleaned up, I pull on the fresh T-shirt, press the dry weave of the maxi against the wound on my hip, and then stick my shirt on top. It won’t be enough to hold it in place, but I slide my backpack over my shoulders and pull out the waist strap I never use.
When the buckle clicks at my navel, I cinch it as tightly as I can stand it, wincing as the pressure binds against my tender skin. That should be enough to hold the maxi over the gash for now.
With that sorted out, I take a moment to collect myself, and then grab my bloody shirt and the used paper towels into a gory ball.
On my way out, I catch my reflection in the mirror. I look marginally better, except for the haunting emptiness in my eyes that echoes the gaping hole aching in the center of my chest.
How am I supposed to live in this world without Da?
He was my foundation.
Stepping back into the bustling station, I scan the crowd and then make my way to the nearest exit. The golden arches of a McDonald’s catch my eye.Perfect. I need the internet, and it wouldn’t hurt to fuel myself for future fights.
I head inside, the warmth and the familiar smell of fried food grounding me back in the world. Grabbing a table by the side door, I order a Filet-O-Fish and a small Sprite and tap to have it delivered to the table. After scanning the QR code on my table, I pay and pull out my laptop.
Zane’s father had both of us chipped when we were kids as a precautionary measure. It was a secret shared only between Francesco and my father, and then, when I had an incident while in New York at school, Da used it to rescue me from some terrifying people.
Given that he’d just saved me from what I later learned was a sex trafficking ring, I could hardly be offended.
And now, given the situation, the wisdom in their foresight can’t be argued.
My fingers hover over the keyboard, a moment of realization hitting me. This is my life now. There will be no more living anonymously in Manhattan Valley.
