But secondly, there’s that voice in my head that is whining. It’s the part of me that wants me to crawl back under the comforter and wait for Teo to get home. I want to let myself be comforted by his embrace and pretend that everything is fine, actually.
It’s a dangerous thought process to let myself indulge in.
Especially when I seem to have so much trouble exercising any semblance of restraint when I’m around him.
Even now, the insanity of my thoughts during sex fills me with dread. How easy it was for me to give up and relinquish control. Relinquish mylife.
Maybe I am going crazy.
But the cold air bites at my bare arms, and that whiney little voice is pushed to the back of my mind.
The streets are quiet at first. I try to stick to the main roads in the hope of calling a taxi, but none appear.
The darkness descends quickly, as if every step I take away from the bunker beckons to the night. With it, the chill begins to seep into my bones.
I move faster, forcing my legs to move toward a sprint.
Then I see it, headlights in the distance. A car, someone coming this way, and I almost stick my arm out to hail it.
But I canhearthe engine, even though it must be fifteen blocks away, and it’s speeding right toward me.
No. The bunker.
I only have a split second to weigh the risks before I throw myself into the bush beside me and get as close as I can to the ground.
“Fuck!” I hiss as something sharp scrapes against my arm on the way down.
In the dimming light, I can just about make out a thickening, dark line scratched across my forearm. My fingertips darken as I touch it—definitely bleeding, then.
I have no water, no supplies. But right now, I have a bigger problem.
I count the seconds as the engine gets louder and louder before sailing past me at break-neck speeds. Far too fast for me to catch the driver but I know, inherently, who is behind the wheel.
I avoid the main roads after that.
My arm stings as I dart between residential yards, sporadically changing directions until I reach a cluster of closed storefronts and lit-up bars. Checking over my shoulder, I beeline to the fullest, hoping to lose myself in the crowd.
But there are very few patrons when I enter. Most of them look at me as I enter, as if my mere presence offends them. Still, the relief of being inside is instantaneous, and I stretch out my frozen fingers a few times to try to warm them up.
That’s when I finally notice that I’m dripping blood.
I curse under my breath as I push into the bathroom. The cut is far deeper than I would like it to be, and the blood has begun to congeal on top in a way that doesn’t look particularly healthy.
After a few minutes of running it under the tap to make sure there aren’t any lingering pieces of foliage within it, my entire arm has taken on a pinkish hue.
It’s ugly and noticeable, so I do my best to hide my arm as I finally leave the bathroom to approach the bar. There are a few other men sitting at it, seemingly fixated on the football game playing on the screen behind it.
“E-excuse me? Could I borrow your phone?”
The bartender looks me over lazily before gesturing to the corner. A decrepit-looking payphone hangs on the wall, demanding a dollar to be used.
Right. Money.
I stretch out my fingers again and straighten up. I might look half frozen, but I did shower yesterday. I’ve worked with less.
“Hey,” I say sweetly as I tap the shoulder of the guy at the bar. “You wouldn’t be able to lend a girl a dollar, would you?”
Then he turns around.
