Maybe I did. But so did she.
Each option before me plays out like a double-edged sword, drawing blood with every slice.
Rosa was right, but I never answered her question.
What will you do?
If Giselle chooses her badge, will I be able to let go?
39
GISELLE
It’s justafter midnight and I’m awake because I’m always awake. Even in dreams, I’m listening for his footsteps, those three blasts on the door that tells me he’s come back for me.
Even in my sleep, I’m smelling for roses.
But there’s never anything. He’s done with me.
Tonight, I finally ventured out for a sandwich from the bodega, feeling like a stranger even though I’ve lived on this block for years. Now, the climb back upstairs exhausts me.
For the past three days, I’ve tried to distract myself from my guilt and regret and the soul-deep loneliness of being left behind by deep-cleaning my apartment, filling the hours with podcasts and Ajax.
Spoiler alert: there’s no podcast that cures addiction to a serial killer’s dick.
I bleached the countertops, took apart the coffee machine, organized the fridge. The truth is, this place has never felt like home, and making it all tidy and new won’t help. I still try.
Now, my hands are cracked, my nails bleach-white, and there’s nothing left to sterilize but the inside of my own skull.
I don’t think that’ll ever be clean again.
When I try to think of myself two months ago, before all this started, all I see is rage. All-consuming, fiery, making me feel like my nerves were stretched to their limit and about to snap.
Did it all really start that moment in Russo’s office when I learned about MacDougal?
I remember the feeling that washed through me in that moment: relief, pleasure, vindication.
I’ve been chasing that high ever since. And, I guess, this is what withdrawals feel like.
They fucking suck.
At the landing, I take a deep breath and wonder if I’ll be able to sleep now.
And, if I do sleep, if I’ll dream in blue.
But as I approach my door, all the hair on my body stands up.
What the fuck?
He’s here.
He’s here!
I know it the way I know a storm is coming. I smell his spiced musk on the air, and feel his heat through the door. The moment I do, my nerves alight with want and need.
If he wanted to, he could take me right here in the stairwell, for the whole fucking world to see.
But is that what he wants? Is that why he’s here? To take me back?
