The hallway is longer than I remember. Dimmer too, like the lights are flickering out of life. Not another creature stirs, not even a mouse, which is probably a good thing considering this place reeks with the stench of bleach.
It’s also taking me forever to walk down. It’s like it’s growing with each step forward, lengthening. I just want to leave, and the only way to do that is to make it to the end.
Only when a dark figure appears in the door frame, do I stop. It’s just us two, but I can’t make them out. It looks like a man; his filled-out form tells me that. All the women I know have curves, but I could be wrong. Still, gut instinct tells me to strongly consider the idea of the person being male. It doesn’t remind me of Devon or Owen, though, so I don’t move toward them. Something about the way they’re just standing there makes me nervous. The dark figure steps forward and draws up what I assume is their arm, pointing it in my direction.
They step forward beneath a dim light to give me some view of them. It isn’t their face I notice, though. Or their body. Or clothes. Or anything else on them. No, it’s the muzzle of the gun pointed right at me.
I open my mouth to scream, but the gunshot ringing out makes a sound instead. My head jerks back and hits the ground with a thunk. I didn’t feel myself falling, and I don’t remember even tripping. The slam of my head is all I feel. I’m pretty convinced it’s split open because ringing in my ears tells me so. I want to believe that anyway, but the fact I’m staring up at a flickering light tells me that it might not be entirely so. Or maybe I did hit my head and have just yet to go unconscious.
Screaming replaces the ringing in my ears. Panicked voices swirl around me. Cries, my name shouted, screamed, pleaded with. Shadows fall over me and momentarily block the flickering light. Hands press against me, but I only feel the slight pressure of fingers on me. I don’t move. I don’t blink. I don’t think I can. I feel like I’m floating in a pool and just relaxing. The light above me is so easy to imagine is the sun as well. I can easily pretend I’m in our backyard pool, enjoying a lazy sunny afternoon.
My mom’s voice penetrates the calm, but I can’t make out what she’s saying. It’s like water has clogged my ears. I want to say something, to acknowledge her, but I can’t get my lips to move. The light just grows brighter.
Then it hits.
The pain is everywhere. Not an inch of my body is free of it. It’s like a bolt of lightning striking me. The scream leaves my lips, and the light snaps away, shadows falling over me, as a fuzzy face appears. I can’t tell who it is, but the pressing of their fingers hurts.
It fades. I go numb, and my body goes lax. I blink, and my vision pixelates. My mom screams, and my dad shouts; both plead. I can barely make out their words, but they sound desperate. I just want to sleep.
I blink and it begins again – a vicious cycle.
* * *
I bolt upright,gasping for breath, clawing at my chest. The thick blanket I was covered with slides from my body, dropping to the ground with a gentle thud. My head is spinning from suddenly sitting up. My hand flies to my stomach, pressing against the area that a bullet had once punctuated. Now and again, I feel its phantom touch. These days, it’s more adamant than it used to be. I think it’s just because before, being high or drunk made it impossible to feel anything. Sober, I can feel it all and think about it on repeat.
I hate the constant reminder of what happened. My brain has a lot of room to run over the memory these days, though. I haven’t brought it up with my therapist, not yet. I don’t know how to, but maybe I should. I know I won’t just get over it. I need help.
Later though.
Right now, I need to remember where the hell I am because I’ve woken up on a mud-brown couch that is extremely comfortable and not in my apartment. The light is peeking through slightly open curtains, which tells me the sun is up, but the sliver of it hasn’t touched me just yet.
I look around. In front of the couch is a rectangle coffee table with a few magazines and a couple of remotes on the surface. A big-screen TV is turned off. There’s a kitchen right to the side, a small dinette room, and a little foyer all adjacent. It isn’t a very big apartment, unlike the one I live in. There are three doors on the back wall. I assume one leads to a bathroom, and I suspect the other two are bedrooms, but all are closed, so I’m not entirely sure about that.
This place isn’t my apartment, but it’s so comforting at the same time. I don’t feel afraid here.
I rub my eyes and throw my legs over the couch, pulling myself to my feet. An area rug greets them, saving me from the bitter cold of the wooden floor. I stretch my arms over my head and yawn, dragging my fingers through my knotted hair. I’m not home so, I know I’m not brushing my hair anytime soon.
The flush of a toilet turns my head in time for the middle door on the back wall to open. Colton steps out, clad just in his briefs. He’s lean, muscular, with abs lining his stomach, and puffs of hair covering his chest. I have to clamp my teeth tightly together to keep my mouth from dropping open and drooling at the sight of him.
When he spots me, he gives me a sloppy smile, his eyes still sleepy.
“Morning, sleepy head,” he greets.
My eyes fall to the bulge in the front of his briefs and back up to his eyes. “Morning,” I croak.
I shuffle forward and slip behind him into the bathroom, closing the door, so I can take my morning piss in private. I remember now. I remember arriving here after dusk. I didn’t say anything when I had arrived, and Colton hadn’t pressed. He’d just turned on some movies and watched them with me while we munched on some goodies from his cupboards. I remember his grandpa also lives here. He’d only popped in once on his way into the apartment and to his room after winking at Colton.
I must have fallen asleep at some point during one of the movies. The blanket on me was a sweet thing I assume Colton had given me. I feel grateful he didn’t ask me anything. I don’t even know what I would say if he were to bring it up at all. How can I explain any of this?
I shake my head as I get done with the toilet and flush. I wash my hands and then splash my face with cold water, gasping as it drenches me but does the job of waking me up. Drying myself off as best as possible with a hand towel, I enter back into the living room.
“Coffee?” Colton asks, holding up a mug for me to see. “Do you take cream or sugar?”
The mug has The Simpson’s on it and catches my eye instantly. “Cream, please.”
He nods and goes to the refrigerator in the corner of the little square kitchen. I stay on the side of the living room as it doesn’t look like there is much room in the kitchen. He moves about, making the pot and our mugs.
“Thank you,” I finally say while he pours creamer into the Simpson mug. “For letting me stay and also, not really pressing me.”