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A groaning sound rumbles into my room, making my heart skip.
I follow the noise to the vent attached to my room. My eyes travel up the small protruding column that runs parallel from floor to ceiling through three stories of apartments. Movement crashes above me. I must have a new neighbor. The groaning is so loud, it makes me wonder how well they can hear me. Your nightmares.
My fingers brush against the tiny half-moon scars on my hand. They’re so faint now, they’re barely noticeable.
“Hide.”
Pulling my hair into a high ponytail, I dissect every inch of my face in the mirror, feeling the pit in my stomach open, jagged, raw. All I see is emptiness staring back at me through the hollow dark orbs of my eyes. Pale skin is a curse of living in a town that sees more rain than anything else.
I pull the lid from a lipstick that came free on the front of a magazine and swipe the light shade of pink across my lips. My teeth grind. I hate the way it feels on my skin. Oily, thick, fake. It’s not me.
Who are you?
Loneliness blooms in my chest. My hands move to rub away the ache.
“Lizzy, have you left yet?” Charlotte barks through the panel of my bedroom door. “No, I’m here,” I call back, scrubbing the lipstick off with a tissue before slipping into some jeans and a tee.
She’s still in last night’s outfit eating cereal from a coffee mug when I make it into the kitchen. “There are bowls in the dishwasher.” I frown, dragging my eyes up her body. Charlotte is all curves stuffed tightly into a small, little compact body. I envied her curves and the confidence they gave her. She gave zero shits about fitting in or what people thought of her. It didn’t work for me, though, no matter how hard I tried to make it. I could be in a room full of people and the nagging presence of guilt, of sorrow, would saturate me in its misery, making me shrink into myself.
It’s inescapable.
“I couldn’t be bothered to look for them. Needed food to try to soak up the alcohol.” She grins over the lip, shoveling another spoonful into her mouth. Milk drips from the corners and off her chin.
I study her more closely. Her makeup smeared under her eyes, giving her a smokey look most girls spend hours trying to perfect. Her hair is fused, the blonde locks tangled around her shoulders.
“Are you doing the walk of shame?” I raise a brow. Usually, she brings her conquests here. Safer that way, according to her. Not to me. I wouldn’t say I like it when she brings strangers here.
“I’m not ashamed. If you mean did I come straight from a guy’s apartment, then yes.” She grins. “Give me a second to put on a pair of panties and I’ll give you a ride to campus.”
“Do I want to know why you came home without them?”
“Men like to keep them. A badge of honor.” She taps my nose with her spoon on her way down the hall to her room.
“It’s not a badge of honor if half the town is wearing it,” I call out, wiping my nose with a paper towel.
She’s back in less than a minute, pulling a pair of black panties up her thighs as she walks, hopping on one leg.
“Don’t be bitter,” she quips. “You could be doing this walk too if you just came out once in a while.”
Ignoring that statement, I say, “We have time for you to change,” I gesture to her midriff showing from her shirt missing half its material. Her skirt barely reaches the lower part of her thighs.
“Nah. We don’t. Gaby said the bakery dude gets there early on Mondays.”
“His name is Paul,” I remind her, knowing full well she knows. “Why are you covering for Gaby anyway?” It’s not like her to volunteer for someone else’s shift.
“She’s taking my Friday shift. I have a date.” She winks, biting her lip seductively for effect. “He has a friend?”
“Pass,” I tell her, rolling my eyes.
Charlotte’s the complete opposite of me. She’s a party girl, whereas I’m a loner. Despite our differences, she’s also my best friend.
God knows how we ended up this way, but here we are.
Tilting her head to study me, she stops at the front door, blocking my exit. My hand flies up to my neck. “What?” I ask, paranoia gripping me.
“Nothing…I’ve just never seen you wear your hair up. It’s nice.”
Her words don’t offer comfort. They confirm what I already feel: it’s not me.
My hand brushes over my scalp, gripping the hairband and yanking it free, allowing my locks to fall loose around my face. My security blanket.“It’s fucking freezing,” Charlotte complains, blowing on her hands as soon as we settle in her piece of shit Nissan. The seats have holes and the air conditioning doesn’t work, but it’s dry and a ride.
