Looking from side to side, I jump down before anyone can grab me.
Shrieks sound from all around me, and people run over, reaching out their hands. I smile and walk the track, the wind blowing my hair all around, covering my face. They don’t realize I like playing with fire.
“Miss, are you all right? Let me help you up.”
“Oh my god, if she going to kill herself?” someone whispers. I’m not, but they don’t know that. They don’t know anything. I wipe my sweaty palms on my baggy jeans.
“Someone call emergency services,” a shrill voice urges.
The sound of a tube car arriving makes me break out into a cold sweat. The hissing, clanging sound. I stare down the tunnel, seeing the headlights getting closer by the second. My heart thumps against my chest, and the feeling exhilarates me. It’s like a drug—I know it’s bad for me, but it brings me comfort. This time, I control the narrative. I get to say when it’s enough.
The horn whistles, and I walk over to the ledge, hopping up and jogging away as the train whirls by, the screech clamorous and piercing.
I don’t look back at the people whispering behind me. I don’t offer an explanation, because the truth is, I don’t have an explanation. I don’t owe anyone an apology. Why should I apologize for my actions when no one apologized for making me this way? I survived on adrenaline—the steady dripping of cortisol—for nearly three fucking years. On days like today, I crave it like a drug. The heart-pounding, thrilling,terrifyingfeeling of not knowing if you’ll live to see another day. I hate it. Ineedit.
When I exit the station, the rain has stopped, and the sun is starting to poke through the clouds. I pull my hood off. My steps become lighter and lighter the longer I walk.
Sometimes it feels good to bleed off the darkness.
I round the corner of Nottingham Street, where my flat is located, and bump into the person I’ve been pretending not to know.
The person I wish would go away.
“Evelyn,” he says, straightening and peeling himself from the wall he was leaning against.
Is he waiting for me? If he is, it shouldn’t surprise me.
“Hi,” I squeak, shoving past him and striding to the black gate of my building.
“Evelyn,” he repeats, taking a step closer.
I open the gate and let myself in, walking down the long hallway before getting to my door—a massive door made of solid oak. Unlocking the three locks I had installed, one of them being a commercial-grade deadbolt, I step instead and proceed to lock up.
Click, swipe, push.
I take the wedge that Lily bought me—something that’s supposed to prevent a door from being broken into when locks fail—and shove it under the small crack. I breathe in deeply, leaning against the solid wood. My phone vibrates, and I see a text from Lily.
How are you???
I ball my left fist in annoyance. I know she’s concerned—and I love her for it—but sometimes, it’s like she’s a parent rather than a friend. It’s like she forgets that she had two years to recover fromthat night, that one night… for her. While she ran—and I am glad she did—I was put back in the van, taken to God knows where. She’s had time to heal. She fell in love.She has her life back with only one night to remember.
I had to live the nightmare for twoyears. Alone.Raped.Bereft.Beaten.Hopeless.Defeated.
I saunter over to the window and look outside. I’m on the second story facing the street, and when I look down, I see Benedict pacing the sidewalk in front of the gate. Like he cares.
Like he really fucking cares.
* * *
When I leave my apartment a couple of hours later, I’m startled to find Benedict leaning against the brick and typing something on his phone. His eyebrows are furrowed in concentration, and he’s scrupulously typing away with his thumbs, too distracted to see me.
Or, perhaps, not expecting to see me.
His black hair is slicked back haphazardly, and I realize with a start that he’s shivering slightly, and his clothes are damp. He’s wearing a red, crew neck sweater and dark jeans—no jacket.
I move right past him, but he’s quick. In a split second, he notices me, and the creases in his forehead become more pronounced. He reaches out and grips my arm.
Gently. So, so gently.
