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“I … did, and now I moved back,” I say with a stupid laugh. “I was wondering if you still kept my apartment intact, like I left it?”
“Ah … yeah. No one seemed interested in the apartment. They all said it was too much work,” he says, opening the door a little farther.
“Could I possibly rent it from you again?” When his brows furrow, I add, “I promise, I’ll pay back whatever I still had due with you. I’m a little tight on cash right now, but I’m working on it, and I’ll get it to you as quickly as I can.”
He raises his hand. “It’s fine. Some guy already paid it off for you.”
I frown. Could it have been Noah?
“But I do want an advance for next month in case you bail on me again,” he says. “I’ll give you three weeks.”
“Got it,” I say. “I’ll do my best.”
He throws us a mistrustful glare before turning away and fiddling in a closet somewhere next to the door. He fishes out a key. “Here you go.”
I snatch the key, saying, “Thank you!”
Then I spin on my heels and walk in the opposite direction up a flight of stairs while Emmy quickly follows.
There’s my door, my apartment, straight ahead.
I blow out a breath and march toward it with the key in my hand. But the closer I get, the more my hand begins to shake. With every step comes more tremors until my entire body shivers too. Even though I’m right in front of my door, I can’t bring myself to stick the key into the lock.
All I can do is stare at the wood and imagine the world of pain that lies beyond.
I can’t face it all alone.
It’s as if I’ve been holding my breath all this time, walking this way in a trance, as though something otherworldly pulled me back to my old life. But standing here now makes me question my sanity, my reality … my life.
I place a hand on the wall and lean into it as the tears begin to fall. They pour out of me as my face scrunches into an impossible, visceral emotion.
I’ve come all this way … only to break down right in front of the goal.
The cry that emanates from my body isn’t one I recognize, but I feel it in my bones. It’s a cry of suffering, a cry of immense injustice, and a cry for the person I once was … who is now gone forever.
Trauma does something to the mind. It changes people from within. It molds us to become a newer version of ourselves, so like a lizard shedding its tail, I’ve been reborn. But not in a way I ever expected, and it terrifies me to the point of being frozen to the ground.
Suddenly, two warm hands wrap around my waist, covering me with love and acceptance.
Frizzled hair tickles my skin, and lips draw closer to my ear. “It’s okay. It’s gonna be okay. I’m here.”
Emmy.
I forgot she was here.
She’s kneeled on the floor right beside me, and she pulls me into her embrace and places my head against her chest while softly shushing me as I cry out all the tears I need to shed.
“You’re not alone. You’re going to be fine,” she whispers, patting my back. “You can handle this. You’ve been through much worse. You’re a warrior Natalie.”
She’s more than I thought she could be.
I lift my head and wipe away the tears. “See? You can do it.”
I nod and brush aside what’s left of my agony, letting it slide off my shoulders.
It feels good to know someone’s here, and that I’m not alone in this, even if it is … Emmy. Maybe we don’t choose who we need the most. They just happen to be there when the time is right.
Sighing, I lean back, and say, “I’m okay, I think.”
“You sure?” She raises a brow.
“Yeah,” I say. “I have to be.” I get up and pat myself down. “I can’t waste time on falling apart.”
After taking a long, deep breath, I stuff the key into the lock and open the door to my home.
It’s dry and dusty inside, but everything’s still the same as the way I left it, even my furniture and stuff.
“Wow …” Emmy mutters, walking around. “Is this … your house?”
“Yup,” I reply. “Before I was taken.”
She gives me an awkward smile. “It’s lovely.” She looks at the television and cocks her head. “What’s that?”
I grab the remote and turn it on. She immediately jumps back. “Natalie! There are moving people inside that thing!” She grabs the television and starts inspecting it up close, checking the back to see where the little people are.
I laugh. “No, they’re not really here. It’s a transmission.”
“A what?” she asks.
“They send signals from far away to this box, and then I get this image,” I say. “It’s called a television. It has shows and news and stuff like that.”
