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With that in mind, I make a quiet exit. I’ll call Carlos later, I decide, after his shift ends, and break the news to him when he doesn’t have the opportunity to fuck over his own life like I’ve been fucking over mine.
I feel Ms. Lindsay’s glare on my stomach as I start my march of shame. Betty and Agatha have been keeping their distance, but even they offer me half-sympathetic glances as I leave.
Maybe it wasn’t Betty and Agatha who finally fucked me, I think. I give Ms. Lindsay’s cold eyes one last look-over, there’s a bitterness in them that makes me think that the older woman might just be angry that I can actually have a child.
I sigh. There’s no fight in me right now. If Ms. Lindsay could be having this kid instead of me, I’d be all for it, but she doesn’t seem like the type who’d let herself get as wild as I did, if even just for a night. Hell, I wasn’t that type, until I let myself feel free for those few hours. Now I’m going to have to pay for it for the rest of my life, both figuratively and literally.
At least the weather’s picked up.
I trudge home under a setting sun, surrounded by freshly bloomed flowers and cherry blossoms. This part of town is so clean-cut it almost makes me sick. I wonder if the people who live here know what everyone else in the city is going through?
Birds chirp and squirrels play in the branches. I feel the heavy weight of a cruel irony press down on my forehead. The cold winds of the winter would better match my current mood, but of course, I can’t ever have two things go my way at once.
The subway ride back to my apartment is long and tedious. The train car I’m in loses power half-way through, and I’m stuck in a tunnel with no reception and nothing to think about but my uncertain future for almost an hour. People with actual jobs and spouses complain loudly about just wanting to get home from their jobs and back to their spouses. It takes all of my strength not to break down and cry because I have neither anymore.
At least you still have the dream of becoming a nurse, I tell myself, before even that hope is corrupted. I won’t have that dream much longer if I can’t find another job soon. Can I even risk going hunting for work while I’m still having morning sickness? If I’m lucky enough to get a job to throw up at, I’m sure I won’t have it for long once I do.
There’s very little I want to do less than burn through my savings. I currently have the most money I’ve ever had in my bank account at one time, yet I feel just as hopeless as ever.
When the train starts again, I barely notice. I’m so lost in my thoughts that I trudge back to my apartment like a zombie. Even the tears that I’d been fighting back seem to evaporate. If I didn’t know any better, I might think I was completely empty. But I’m carrying the weight of two lives now—and it’s somehow only making me weaker.
My resolve is almost completely gone when I finally kick open my dark, dingy apartment door and flick on the lights. If I’d had any fight left in me, I might have screamed at the scene I’m greeted by.
“Hello, Nia Jones.”
The hissing voice is strangely familiar, as is the greasy face on the man sitting on my living room couch. My front door is closed behind me by a hulking mass. My floorboards creak as two mean-looking giants step forward from their place on either side of the door. Their broad, burly shoulders brush by mine, but it’s not them that make me start to shiver. It’s the cold, reptilian eyes of the slim, slimy man sitting on my couch.
The skin on his face is taut and shiny. His greasy black hair is slicked back, revealing the entirety of his sadistic, thin-lipped smirk. His pointy nose is nearly twitching with cold-blooded excitement.
“... Who are you?” I manage to ask. My voice sounds frail and broken. I’m surprised I even got the words out, my throat is so suddenly dry.
That only makes the greaseball smile all the more. He tilts his head to the side and his dark green irises dart back and forth over the whites of his eyes. “You don’t recognize me?”
I shake my head. The truth is, the stranger looks oddly familiar, but I can’t quite seem to put my finger on why. It doesn’t really matter, anyway. All I need to know is that he’s broken into my apartment with two muscle-bound goons, and it’s not because he’s throwing me a surprise party.
“... What are you doing here?” I ask. My voice is still raspy, but to my surprise, my tone is stronger than expected. It’s funny, I’m so worn out that I can barely even register the danger I’m in. On a better night, I might have enough energy to be terrified, but right now, I just feel dead. If this guy came to kill me, he’s too late.
The greaseball looks disappointed that I don’t seem to know who he is. He pouts and looks to his two goons before remembering something. Slowly, he digs into his front pocket and pulls something out.
I lose my breath when I see what it is.
Ronan’s silver bracelet.
I suddenly remember where I’ve seen this greaseball before. He’s the absolute asshole who got into a shootout with Ronan that night the two of us walked home together.
I look over at his two new goons; I wonder if they know what happened to their predecessors?
“Where’d you get this?” the greaseball asks, twirling the shimmering bracelet between his slimy fingers.
I hesitate. My fading heart has come back to life with a vengeance. The beating organ threatens to burn up inside my chest; I no longer feel like I’m already dead—now, I’m just alive enough to be afraid of what might come next.
The greaseball doesn’t like my silence. He pushes himself up off my couch and limps towards me. I watch in horror as he approaches. The far side of his face is covered in a gnarly burn mark—I don’t remember that from our first encounter, though it was dark out. I take a step back, but before I can take another, the greaseball’s giant goons have made their way behind me. I freeze on my feet, trapped. Slowly, I start to shake, suddenly wishing I felt lifeless again.
The greaseball swings the bracelet in front of my face. My racing heart aches and my gut clenches at all the memories and emotions that the piece of jewelry dredges up. I thought I’d finally gotten rid of it, but now it’s back with a vengeance. “I’m only going to ask you one more time,” he says, the sadistic playfulness draining from his voice.
I can feel the two giant goons behind me step forward. I’m completely trapped. I struggle to respond, not just because I’m afraid, but because I’m not sure how to
describe who gave it to me. A friend? An enemy? A ghost? A flame? The spark that lit up the most exciting night of my life? A bad memory that I’ve been trying to forget?
