And me watching from above, I see myself in her. Not in sucking cock, but in that hollow stare that looked past the motion and into the memories that weren’t kind enough to stay buried. I knew that kind of grief. I lived it when I lost Elina. She used to laugh at my jokes before I even finished them, left her toothbrush in the sink like she was always coming back. Then she left more than just silence. Now I’m watching someone else break the same way I did.
Quietly. Entirely.
I don’t ask. I don’t have to. Pain recognises its own kind.
‘Stella?’ I move without thinking, like my heart had already decided. I tuck my cock inside my boxer briefs and pull up my trousers.
‘I’m sorry,’ she sobs. I carefully lean down and wrap my arms around her. For a moment, her sobs quiet as she rests her cheek against mine. She pulls back just enough to meet my eyes – hers glassy and red-rimmed like something long-buried had clawed its way to the surface and wasn’t backing down. ‘My father...’ she begins, and that alone made the air go still. ‘He used to tell me smiling would hurt more than crying. Told me girls only smiled when they were asking for it. Men always smiled when they wanted it.’ Her voice didn’t break. It hardened. ‘The makeup would hide the puffiness. Black lipstick ‘cause he said red meant shame.’
I feel her body tense as she recalls. ‘I ran away. Left him with a bleeding face and no answers. It wasn’t premeditated, and no accident either.’
I watched him bleed, I watched him die,
And on that day, I did not cry.
His smile cracked, his breath drew thin,
And still I saw his wicked grin,’she mumbles through sobs.
Then her voice softened – cracked. ‘I miss my mum. She died. I think her spirit broke before her body. She used to braid my hair in silence, like she was stitching together the only good parts of herself. Oh God, Sal,’ her breath hitched. ‘I can still feel her fingers in my hair. Sometimes I wake up and I smell her perfume and I think – just for a second – that she’s back. That I’m not alone.’
I don’t speak. I’m anchored because Stella isn’t looking for absolution, she’s handing me her ghosts, one by one, and trusting I don’t flinch.
‘What will become of me, Sal, if I stay here in your grave of truths?’
‘You will become Stella Anderson, the woman I lo-’
‘I’m wet,’ she states. I crouch beside her, brushing a hair from her face.
‘I- I had hoped I’d have that effect on you.’
‘NO! I’m really wet,’ she repeats, her voice flat. I look around, my eyes darting from the rising water to the hatch, then to the corners where water is swallowing the floor inch by inch.
‘We need to move!’ Water surges behind us as we ascend the steps. The Rabbit Warren no longer a refuge, but a tomb filling with water. Water surges in, relentless and rising fast. It’s already at my ankles. I hurl myself at the hatch, shoulder screaming, but the pressure from outside holds it shut like a clenched fist. The wood hatch groans. ‘Boss,’ I hiss into the earpiece. ‘Come on.’ Static.
I laugh. It’s a stupid, half-cackle. Because of course the line goes dead the moment I need him. The moment I’m stuck down here like a goddamn rabbit with a gang of psychos playing fox hunt topside. And now I’m being flushed out like vermin. I press my back against the wall, chest heaving. The air is thick, mud, mould, maybe something metallic like blood. It could be mine. It could be Stella’s. And just like that she’s there – Elina. Not in some poetic, ghostly way. No. She’s here like a punch to my ribs. That last breath. The memory of her fingers slipping through mine when she was already halfway gone.
‘It’s not your fault, Salvador,’she had said.
The scent hits me first. Whiskey, smoke. Her perfume. And just like that I’m back at Whitechapel. Back in that blues bar with cracked leather booths.
WHITECHAPEL, LONDON
The saxophone moaned like a dying confession, each note dragging its proverbial foot inside the ‘60s inspired jazz blues club situated behind a forgotten street. The kind of place where the walls sweat bourbon and the saxophone cries. The room was hers. People swayed like reeds in a river, fingers clicking, the crowd echoing the lyrics.
Elina was on stage, bathed in the amber light of a spotlight as she grabs the mic. Her voice was low and aching as she sang Nina Simone’s “Sinnerman.” God, she was always so electric under the spotlight – red silk clinging to her body, dark tousled hair falling past her shoulders. That voice…smoky and broken. It made the whole room lean in, like they were afraid to miss the sound of a heart unravelling. I was at the bar, nursing my third whiskey, watching her like a man watches his last sunrise – knowing it’s beautiful. Then the door slammed open. Reggie fucking Thompson. That big bastard. He walked in with a grin carved with bad intentions, like he already knew how the night would end. And maybe he did. MaybeIdid. Because that was the last time my darling Elina ever sang. The last time I heard the saxophone cry.
Behind Reggie – guns. Men. Destruction.
‘Down!’ someone shouted. The first shot cracked the silence like a whip. The room turned into chaos – bodies ducked, chairs crashed. The second shot found her. Elina staggered mid-note. Eyes wide. Hand held against her stomach. Dark crimson rivulets bloomed across that silk like a blossoming rose and she looked at me. I ran, sliding across the floor, arm around her before she hit the floor.
‘Stay with me,’ I whispered. ‘Please, Elina.’
She smiled.
‘It’s not your fault, Salvador,’ she said.
I blink, and she’s gone. The music fades. The bar disappears, and all that’s left is the sound of water, and my own ragged breathing. ‘Elina...’ I whisper. Some nights I still hear her ask,“Oh, Sinnerman, where you gonna run to?”And I lie awake wondering if Reggie ever found a place to hide from what he did. Because I never could.
