Steady. Cold. Powerful.
“I told you she’s under my protection,” he says, calm as anything. “Did you think I won’t make good on that?”
The man on the ground groans and spits blood. Doesn’t get up.
The homeless man turns to me. His face softens as he sees me undoubtedly trembling.
“You good, Miss?”
I nod slowly. “I had it under control.”
He smiles. “I know. I watched you let him get close enough to feel brave. Smart move.”
I exhale a deep breath and take stock of our surroundings before turning a small smile on him. “Thank you.”
“You don’t gotta thank me,” he says, looking back toward the alley. “He’ll spread the word. No one touches you now. Not out here.”
“Why me?” I ask, because I need to know.
He shrugs. “Because you saw me. Didn’t look through me. That means something. Out here? That meanseverything.”
He walks away before I can say anything else, melting back into the dark like he belongs there.
I stand still for a long moment, pulse still hammering, hand still wrapped tight around the can of spray.
Then I shove it back in my pocket, straighten my spine, and keep walking.
Just another day in my life.
By the time I get home, my legs feel like static and my fingers won’t stop twitching.
I lock the door. Twice. Then drag my coat off and drop it in the corner like it betrayed me. My coffee cup is still clutched in one hand, cold and useless, and I don’t remember when I stopped drinking it.
I toss it into the sink and head straight to the bathroom.
The shower’s old with shitty water pressure, cracked tiles and stains in the porcelain… but it works. Most days that’s enough.
Tonight it isn’t.
I strip off my clothes like I’m peeling away a second skin. Everything feels too tight, too close, like it still holds the heat of that moment wrapped in all of my fear and fury and the control I couldn’t hold onto.
I turn the water on scalding.
Let it burn.
The steam rises fast, fogging the mirror, curling against my skin as I step under the spray. I brace my hands against the wall and close my eyes.
The sound is the same as it always was. Rushing, muffled. Almost like silence.
But just enough to cover my sobs and the tears that I can’t stop from falling.
I grab the soap and start to scrub.
Hard.
Fingertips over shoulders, collarbone, wrists. Over and over again, like maybe this time it’ll work. Maybe this time it’llactually come off—whatever it is I’ve been carrying since I was too young to understand what it meant to be dirty without ever touching a thing.
I used to do this as a kid.
