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Too much of all the bad things, and none of the good I swear I deserve in life. I’m a decent person. I don’t lie or steal or cheat. I’m kind to strangers, and I always hold the door for others. I study hard and work harder. And when I get to medical school in the fall, I intend to bust my ass and make a mark, and when the time is right, save as many lives as I can.
These are the fundamental rules of life, are they not? Be good, and good will happen to you.
Except, that concept is flawed. Because my mom is good, and she’s dying. My dad is a deadbeat, and his life seems to flourish. I do the right thing in life, and I end up with a broken leg. And men like those who shot and murdered another in an alleyway this week, seem pretty satisfied with themselves, to be honest. They’re sending hunting parties out to clean up their mess, and not once have they shown remorse for their actions.
Do good, and life will be good back.
“What a crock of shit.” I peel my clothes off and toss them into a bundle of putrid stench in the middle of the luxurious shower cubicle. Then, casting a glance toward the already steaming mirror, I exhale a tired sigh and study the purple bruising that covers me from my rib cage to my knee on my right side.
That car got me good. Which is an ironic twist of fate, considering it was a car that destroyed my left side, too.
“Did you say something, Aurora?”
I look toward the closed bathroom door and double-check—visually—that the lock is in place. When I’m satisfied it is, I turn toward the shower and shuffle in until blistering hot water beats against my back, and my long locks, waterlogged, droop over my shoulder and hang limp. Water runs over my face and into my mouth, but I simply close my eyes and hope, somehow, the shower spray can wash away the shittiest week I’ve ever known.
“Aurora?”
“I didn’t say anything,” I respond, my voice bland and monotone. “I’m okay. In the shower.”
“Do you want me to bring you anything?” he presses. “You want a drink? Are you hungry?”
I’m starving. I always am. Especially now, with the last two days of stomach contents running out of my jeans and down the plug. But I simply grunt out “no” and half-doze under the purifying spray. I focus on the thud of water on my shoulders. The constant ‘shhhhhhhhhhhh’of liquid hitting the tiles. I indulge in the steam-filled room, knowing I’ll freeze again when I step out. And worse, I’ll smell puke again.
But those are all problems for later. For ten minutes from now when I get out of this shower and face reality once more.
“I’m just stepping out of the room for a couple minutes,” Drake calls out again. “Aurora? Aurora?” he repeats when I say nothing. “Did you hear me?”
I draw a deep breath so my chest lifts and water sluices across my body differently, then I exhale again and answer. “Yeah. I heard you.”
“I’ll just be in the hall. No one will get past me, and no one can come or go through the windows. You’re safe, okay? So just enjoy your shower, take your time, and I’ll be back in a bit.”
Yep. Heard you. And though I find it ironic that his presence both annoys me and brings me comfort, I know the moment he leaves. I feel the change of temperature in the air around me, even in the steamy bathroom. I don’t even know the man, but twice now, he’s been somewhere I was when I needed help, which means now there’s something in my soul that recognizes when he’s gone.
Goosebumps break out along my arms, and the steel rod nestled in my thigh feels like ice.
The ‘shhhhhhhhh’I enjoyed a moment ago now makes it feel like the walls are closing in. The steam I liked, now making it difficult to breathe. The water’s massage that brought me relaxation, now feels like fists pummeling my back.
What was heaven for me only moments ago, has turned to hell.
So I quickly lather shampoo in my hair and rinse it out almost immediately after, then I pump conditioner into my palm, press the glob to the back of my aching head, and run it through to the ends of my hair, leaving it to sit.
I wash quickly, scrubbing soap all over my body to rid myself of the smell of vomit, and while I’m doing that, I stomp on my clothes to beat the sick from the fibers so hopefully, when they dry, I can wear them again. When I’m done, I rinse my hair and smack the shower faucet off, so the suffocating rain stops with a clunk of the pipes in the wall.
I grab a rolled towel from the vanity and wrap it around my hair to catch the excess water, then I take a second and frown at the ebb and flow of a voice, mid-discussion, somewhere outside the bathroom. I hear only one voice—Drake’s—but he converses with someone else.
Which implies he’s on the phone.
I make fast work of drying off and collecting every drop of water from my body, knowing that when I step back into my room, the arctic breeze will find any I missed and turn them to ice.
Well, not literally. But it’ll feel that way anyway.
I select a robe from the back of the bathroom door and slip my arms through the sleeves, and with my hair still wrapped in the first towel, I tie a knot in the robe’s sash and make my way through the door in search of Drake’s voice.
I want to know who he’s talking to. I want to know what’s being said, and if any of it is about me.
I want to know that my mom is safe, because if those bad guys found out where I live, what’s stopping them from finding her, too?
What’s stopping them from hurting her, all to draw me out and hurt me?
