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Do I tell her about the foster father who stole my virginity when I was fifteen? About the year-long tailspin I fell into after that? About the desperate urge to end the pain and confusion, the constant hunger for some sense of safety?
Or maybe about how I got shot outside a nightclub two and a half years ago, and now the man whose life I saved is stalking me with the help of his two friends?
Yeah. I’ll tell her all that.
And then watch her run for the fucking hills.
Or worse, watch her expression morph into one of horror and discomfort.
When people don’t know anything about me, they can’t make judgements about me. They don’t label me and regard me with either disgust or pity.
If I don’t tell them the awful shit in my past, then they just fill in the blanks for themselves, and considering most—though not all—of my scars are on the inside, most people assume I’ve had a pretty normal life. A life more similar to theirs.
And that’s just easier. For everyone.
After lunch, I compromise by digging out my phone and playing some music from the small speakers. It fills the silence without us having to talk. And maybe we do like the same kinds of music, because I catch the girl’s head nodding along in time to the beat.
I log my hours at the end of the day so I’ll get paid by the temp agency, then give the front desk guy a nod as I slip out of the building.
My brain feels fuzzy from staring at papers all day, and I’m tired from lack of sleep. I don’t have to work at Duke’s tonight, so maybe I’ll stream something stupid on my laptop and pass out while I watch it.
When the bus drops me off near my apartment, I can’t keep my gaze from darting around the street, looking for any sign of someone watching me. I don’t see anyone, and my skin doesn’t prickle the way it often does when I’m sure there are eyes on me.
Good. Maybe Marcus and his friends took a fucking day off.
I keep my head up and my body alert as I walk the few blocks to my apartment building. This neighborhood isn’t the worst, but it’s not the kind of place to walk around looking like an easy target either.
As I near the building, I dig my key out of my pocket. I quickly unlock the door and pull it open one-handed with practiced ease, then head up the steps to my apartment unit.
Inside, I toss my keys on the coffee table as usual and shrug off the blazer I put on this morning, leaving just the tank top underneath. I tug off my prosthesis too, rolling the protective sleeve off my arm and letting out a sigh of relief. I’m about to sink onto the couch when something catches my eye.
What the fuck…?
A worn metallic decal sits on the coffee table right next to where my keys landed.
My brows draw together, and my heart picks up in my chest as I lean over and pick it up.
It’s cheap brass, flimsy and a little dented.
3B.
It’s the decal from apartment 3B, one floor above mine. The apartment Natalie lives in.
What the fuck is it doing on my coffee table?
My stomach twists, a wave of unknown dread washing over me. I don’t know what this means or how it got here, but the sight of it makes my pulse race.
I stuff my keys back into my pocket, then grab the metal decal, hurrying to my door. I take the stairs to the third floor quickly, striding down the hall toward Natalie’s apartment.
The spot where the decal used to be is glaringly apparent. The wood is a lighter color, dark paint forming the exact outline of where the letter and number used to be.
The door sits ajar, hanging open a few inches.
My entire body floods with adrenaline, and I push the door open wider, still clutching the decal in my hand. What the fuck?
The lock is broken. It looks like it was forcibly broken, which explains why the door won’t even stay shut now.
And the apartment is empty.
