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Not that I was sleeping, not that I haven’t slept in days, and who knows how much longer I’ll go without sleep, but I wanted to at least have the chance to try.
Something shatters on the floor and she swears. Loudly. And the smell of cheap perfume fills the air. Then, while leaving the hair dryer still blowing, she flips on the light switch.
That’s the last straw.
I reach for whatever is on top of my clothing pile and tug it over my head. I emerge from my makeshift bed fort and shove my feet into my ankle boots, tuck my phone into my bra, and storm out of the dorm to the sound of another girl yelling, “If you don’t turn off that hair dryer by the time I count to three, I’m going to strangle you with the cord and dangle your body over the balcony as a warning to other noisy nincompoops!”
Seriously.
The thought does make me giggle, though. Pretty sure it was Peeta who yelled at the noisemaker. And she is more likely to follow through with that threat than most women I’ve met during my backpacking travels. Over the last month, we’ve become good friends and allies in this place. She’s here for a “good time, not a long time,” as she regularly reminds me. And that good time requires some good sleep a few times a week.
As soon as I step out onto the sidewalk, I realize the article of clothing I managed to pull on is my candy striper uniform. It makes me wish I’d thought to grab a jacket or at least a cardigan as well. The cold February air washes over me, clinging to my skin like a wet T-shirt.
I do a little dance, trying to move the cold off me, but soon it makes more sense just to walk.
Not like I haven’t done much else but walk today.
Walked off the mood.
Walked off the memories.
Walked off the confusion, the unknown, the what-ifs and what-nows.
Walked until my feet were sore and aching in my boots, and I pulled them off and kept walking until I left the bottom layers of my feet on the cobblestones of Shad Thames.
But here I am, walking again.
Maybe I’ll find the answers to the questions I’m too scared to ask myself.
There’s a shout ahead, and I look up to see a drunken lout hanging out of his car, his tongue sticking out as he holds his fingers up in a V against his lips, making a lewd gesture.
“You wish!” I yell, and the car comes to a screeching stop.
“Get in then!” he yells, and the guy in the back seat throws the car door open.
I couldn’t get in if I wanted to; it looks like there are ten guys crammed into the car.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I know better than to check it. A message at two a.m. is always going to be from the same person, saying the same thing. And today of all days, if I read those same words again, my phone is going to end up at the bottom of a well. And I don’t know of any wells around here.
So, I just keep walking.
Wishing I could drown everything out.
Almost ten years of walking strange streets at nighttime and expecting someone to be following me has trained my senses to always be on alert, but sometimes I just want to exist in ignorant bliss.
Two blocks, then three, five, ten fall behind me.
The blisters burst on my feet and I ignore them.
Or I’m numb to them, I’m not sure.
Around me, the clubs and bars start to close up for the night.
Crowds disperse, leaving only drunken stragglers.
Lines of black cabs thin to the occasional car.
Laughter and shouts give way to whispers and fights between couples, new and old, stumbling home.
