He'd drilled that into me from the moment I was diagnosed at age seven. Every insulin shot, every doctor's appointment, every time my blood sugar dropped—they were all reminders that I was broken, a burden, unwanted.
I checked my glucose again: 95 mg/dL. Normal range at last. Relief washed through me, followed by bone-deep fatigue. I should eat something more substantial, but I didn't have the energy to get up again.
Instead, I curled around Mr. Snuggles, pulling my thin blanket over both of us. Sleep claimed me almost instantly, dragging me down into darkness where I didn't have to think about Walker's disappointment or my own failures.
I woke hours later to the insistent beeping of my alarm. My mouth felt like it was stuffed with cotton, and my head pounded in time with my heartbeat. I forced myself to sit up, knowing I had to check my blood sugar. My hands shook as I picked up the monitor then put it down again. I'd check it later. I had two hours before my shift started—just enough time to shower, change, and catch the bus to Sunny's.
The bathroom mirror revealed the full extent of the damage from last night. The bruise on my cheek had darkened to a deep purple, spreading across my jawline like watercolor. My jaw throbbed when I pressed my fingertips to it. I looked like I'd been in a bar fight.
"Great," I muttered to myself. "Just what I need for customer service."
The shower was lukewarm at best—the building's water heater was perpetually broken—but I stood under the spray anyway,letting it wash away the lingering scent of Walker's home. Of safety. Of what might have been if I wasn't such a mess.
I dressed in my work uniform: a polo shirt with the Sunny's logo and a pair of khaki pants that had seen better days. My manager would probably comment on my appearance, but there wasn't much I could do about it.
Before leaving, I packed my meter, and a few crackers into my purse, making sure Mr. Snuggles was tucked safely on my bed.
"I'll be back later," I told him, smoothing his worn fur. It was silly to talk to a stuffed animal, but he was the closest thing I had to family these days.
The walk to the bus stop felt longer than usual, each step reminding me of last night's attack. I kept my head down, avoiding eye contact with the men on the corner. They whistled anyway, calling out comments that made my skin crawl.
The bus was crowded with the evening rush, forcing me to stand pressed against other commuters. I gripped the handrail tightly, focusing on staying upright as the bus lurched through traffic. My bruised body protested every jolt and sway.
By the time I arrived at Sunny's, I was exhausted again. I paused outside the convenience store, gathering my strength before pushing through the door.
Marco's eyes widened when I walked in. "Holy shit, what happened to you?" He abandoned the cigarette cartons he was stacking, coming around the counter with his hands hovering near my shoulders without actually touching me.
"Just some trouble on the way home last night," I said, trying to sound casual. "I'm fine."
"You don't look fine." His gaze lingered on my bruised cheek with an intensity that made me shift uncomfortably. "Who did this to you?"
"I can still work," I insisted, slipping past him to stash my purse.
Marco's fingers twitched at his sides as he shook his head. "I don't know, Lottie. You look like you should be in bed, not working."
"I need the shift," I said firmly. "Please, Marco. I can't afford to lose the hours."
He studied me for a long moment, then sighed. "Fine. But you stay behind the counter tonight. No restocking, no heavy lifting."
Relief flooded through me. "Thank you."
"And Lottie?" His voice softened. "If you need help, you can ask. You know that, right?"
I nodded, not trusting myself to speak. Marco had always been kind to me, but kindness had strings attached and for some reason he made me feel uncomfortable. Everyone wanted something eventually. Marco spent another five minutes in his office then left for the evening.
The shift dragged on endlessly. Every movement sent pain shooting through my bruised body, and standing for hours made my feet throb. But I kept a smile plastered on my face, even when customers stared at my bruises or asked uncomfortable questions.
"Bar fight?" one regular asked with a smirk as he paid for his cigarettes.
"Something like that," I mumbled, handing him his change. By the time my shift ended at 10 PM, every muscle in my body was screaming. The fluorescent lights had intensified my headache.
The bus ride home was mercifully uneventful. I kept my head down, clutching my purse tightly against my chest. A teenage boy offered me his seat when he saw my bruised face, and I accepted with a grateful smile that pulled painfully at my cheek.
The walk from the bus stop to my apartment building seemed longer than usual. Every shadow made me flinch, every distant shout sent my heart racing. But I made it without incident, hurrying past the usual group of men on the corner who,thankfully, were too engrossed in their own conversation to notice me.
I climbed the three flights of stairs slowly, my legs trembling with fatigue by the time I reached my floor. The hallway smelled of cigarettes and something cooking—probably Mrs. Ramirez in 3C making her late-night meals again as her husband worked shifts.
When I reached my door, I fumbled with my keys, eager to collapse into bed. I slid the key into the lock, turned it, and pushed the door open.
