I get up and push my way toward her, delving deeper into the crowd, even though it’s causing my stomach to churn. The woman moves forward too, staying out of my reach, her blondehair disappearing from my view. Panicking, I shove people out of my way until I stumble out of the crowd. The blonde-haired woman is at the door, her back toward me. I run toward her as she yanks open the door and hurries outside. The door swings shut. A second later, I reach it, yank it open, and barrel outside. The overcast in the sky has grown thick enough that the parking lot is covered with shadows. I frantically glance left and right, but I can’t see her anywhere.
She couldn’t have gotten far—I was only a few seconds behind?—
A giggle echoes from my right.
A giggle that sends potent memories bursting through my mind like starlight in a sea of night.
“Clover,” I whisper as I powerwalk in the direction of where the giggling came from.
It happens again.
I quicken my pace, the gravel crunching underneath my boots as I jog toward the corner of the building. When I round it, though, I slam to a halt.
The sidewalk is empty.
I cautiously make my way up it, eyeing the building to my left. It’s a two-story apartment with a single door that leads to the inside. When I was in high school, I went to a party in one of the apartments on the second floor. It was right before Clover died. I can’t recall who held the party. I can’t remember much of anything during that time, not because of amnesia but because I spent a lot of time drunk and stoned.
I deliberate on what to do next. I’m aware that the woman I saw is likely not Clover, but whoever it is wants me to believe she is. It could be the same person who left the daisies at the hotel door. And who was standing in the field last night.
Sucking in a breath, I grasp the handle of the door and pull it open. The first detail I notice upon entering is the musty air.It yanks me back to memories of days filled with glass pipes, muggy smoke, and self-induced insomnia that went on for days.
I peer around at the small entrance and then at the narrow stairway in front of me that leads to the apartments. I start up it, the stairs creaking underneath my weight with every step I take. The higher I get, the colder the temperature becomes, as if the heating isn’t working up here. The orange carpet is stained and has holes in it, the wood walls are rotting, and the ceiling has water stains everywhere.
At the top of the stairway is a hallway lined with doors, and the floor is covered in fragments of paint that have peeled off from the walls. Music is booming loud enough that I know the door to one of the apartments has to be open.
Laughter cuts through the music, and then a guy and girl around eighteen or so stumble out of one of the apartments. They look trashed as hell. Or at least the girl does. She can barely walk, and the guy, who appears much more coherent, has his arm around and is forcefully guiding her toward where I’m standing.
“Come on, I know this place downstairs we can go,” he tells her with a shit-eat smirk as the girl mumbles incoherently, her eyelids lowering. “Don’t pass out on me yet.” She attempts to shove him away as he leans closer, but he merely laughs. “It’s okay. I’ll take care of you. Just come with me.” He gropes her before turning her around and steering her in my direction. When he spots me, his footsteps falter. “Who are you?”
I glance at the girl leaning against him, looking as though she’s barely grasping onto consciousness. I’ve seen this state before. I’ve felt it myself.
And no one saved me.
Helpless.
Drowning in a lake of moss wrapped around my ankles and arms, trying to drag me under.
No one ever saved me.
But maybe I can save her.
I’m terrified for sure. Scared shitless, to be exact. But I’m also angry, and that’s what I grasp onto.
“You drugged her,” I say, glancing at the guy.
“She drugged herself, dumbass,” he replies, adjusting her weight as her head bobs to the side. “She’s a fucking lightweight. Now move out of my way.”
My legs shake, but I stand firm. “No.”
His eyes narrow. “I can make you move.”
I cross my arms. “And I can dig my pepper spray out of my pocket.”
His mouth opens, then shuts it. “Bullshit.”
“Try me.” Music is drifting through the air along with chatter.
He observes me, trying to read me. Jason used to say I was an open book, that he could read with one glance. Jason lied a lot, though.
