“Home sweet home,” I sigh.
I finally drum up enough energy to turn and click the lock on the door. Lazily, I throw my keys on the small table in the foyer, I watch them slide across the table and right off again, hitting the floor with a thump.
I grumble in protest and decide I’m not in the mood to pick them up. The great thing about having your own apartment is, no one gives a shit where your keys land but you. I slowly slip my aching feet out of my converse and drop my jacket and purse next to them. One thing about converse, they are cute for short distances, but walking the city blocks of Chicago, not so much. Raising my arms to stretch, I make my way into the kitchen.
My apartment isn’t anything fancy, just a one bedroom downtown. After losing Nik, I couldn’t stay in our old place. She was everywhere, and I couldn’t stand to lay in my own bed, hoping somehow, she was going to walk through the door. I needed a fresh start, so I’d donated almost everything and boxedup only our personal effects and left. I picked the new apartment mostly for the view. Being a corner unit, it has floor-to-ceiling windows that wrap around the outside walls, overlooking the downtown area and Lake Michigan. I’ve bought a few items here and there to start making it feel more like a home. My bookshelf is filled with a few trinkets, my skull collection, and all of my books. Pictures are scattered throughout the apartment. Mostly of my sister and Vix and me.
As I open the fridge, the protesting of my stomach makes its loud stance on the picket line, reminding me that it hasn’t been fed since this morning.
As I scan what’s inside, I settle on some leftovers from Lou Malnati’s. Fishing a bowl out of the cabinet above me, I toss the salad in and place a slice of pizza in the toaster oven. While I wait, I make my way to my bedroom to hang up my new clothes.
When Vix talked me into going to The Alley, I knew I was fucked. The budget I had for the month was tossed to the wind. This was our sanctuary, the best place to find anything industrial or punk fashion. I managed to get a deal on some hoodies, T-shirts, a harness, cute black pants and a new pair of Doc Martens.
My addiction to rings was satiated with three new ones. I walked over to my jewelry box and opened it. Nik’s necklace is front and center. I forgot I had put it in there after I’d received it back from the police in the bag of her belongings.
I skated my fingers across the necklace.
When Nik and I would go out, we were polar opposites. She dressed up in cute dresses and heels, her hair and makeup done just right. She looked like a goddess straight out of a vogue magazine.
I looked like her bouncer: black T-shirt, black pants and combat boots. That could be why I always felt like I didn’t belong in the places we hung out.
But fuck it, I knew who I was. I wasn’t about to change what worked for me for someone else, and that’s something Nik always said she admired about me. Plus, I knew the places she liked to venture out to. I’d never find someone who fit what I was looking for. Not that I didn’t have the occasional hook up here and there, but I never felt anyone was worth anything past that.
“I miss you, Nik,” I whisper, a tear escaping as a memory creeps in.
“Myssa, I think that guy is looking at you.” Nik grins and nudges my shoulder.
“Nik, uh, yeah, no. That boy is looking at you, not me.”
The guys huddled around the DJ booth are looking in our direction. I watch as he leans over to his friend, then smiles big at me. I immediately look down. Fuck, maybe she’s right. Nik giggles. “Oh yeah, that look was just for you.C’mon, let's go dance and give them something to really look at.”
I snicker at the thought. I’d protested going out to dance, but she wasn’t having it, and for the first time, she calls me out on it. “You know, it always amazes me, Myssa. I ask you to talk to any guy for me, and you go without hesitation.” She folds her arms. “But when it’s you,” she drags out the last part, pointing at me while holding her drink up, “you turn into this little frightened sheep.” She’s not wrong, though. I guess I’ve just got used to my role of always being what she needed, and I’ve put myself on the back burner. That night, I cave, and when Nine Inch Nails “Closer” comes on, she drags me onto the dance floor. Next thing I know, I’m dancing with the guy she’d pointed out. And she casually flits away to dance with some other girls. “Fucking Traitor,” I mouth to her.
She just chuckles and shrugs.
The toaster oven dings in the kitchen, bringing me back to reality. I pause to collect myself, trying to recall his name—Mike, Mark? Hmm, something with an M. I remember that night well, though; he was good with a lot of things, definitely one of those memorable one-night stands.
I pull a plate from the dishwasher. Opening the door to the oven, I pick up the pizza and immediately regret it. The sting of the burn on my fingers causes me to wince and drop the pizza on the plate.
“Ow fucker,” I mumble.
I walk over to the sink, still cursing at myself as I turn on the cool water, letting it soothe my fingers for a minute.
Feeling better, I turn to retrieve my small little feast and head to the living room, plopping down on the couch.
Grabbing the remote, I flick through the channels, trying to find something that’s decent to watch. TV hasn’t been a priority for me these days, and I mostly read or listen to music. But I stop instantly when I see my favorite brothers chasing a monster through the woods. I mean seriously, who can resist Sam and Dean?
Three episodes of Supernatural and belly full of pizza later, I reluctantly decided to head to my bedroom. Halting at my door, I stare at my bed, and my chest tightens as a chill trickles down my spine. Remembering my inability to help her all those months ago aggravates my mind that so loves playing these horrible cruel jokes on me.
Maybe this is what guilt does to your psyche? It makes you conjure up demons in your head so vividly that you think they’re real.
The torture awaiting me when I close my eyes is the same recurring dream. My pulse quickens as the memory of his voice is like ice in my veins. The screams and the shadows of someone being tortured, are too much to bear.
I’ve tried everything to escape them—taking prescription meds, melatonin, staying awake—but nothing works.
Powering through the fear and my thoughts, I make my way to the bathroom. My reflection in the mirror shows just how much the restless nights have taken their toll. I rub at the dark, sunken crescents under my eyes, closing my lids for a second while I yawn.
Slowly, I undress and turn the water on in the shower.
