Page 23 of Revenge of the Forgotten

Goodbye to the grungy apartment that would never feel like a home.

Goodbye to the life that never wanted her.

Goodbye to the person she’d once been.

Vega’s eyes shot up to the ticking clock on her wall.

10:36 a.m.

One last time she got out of the bed she used to share with Chase. She walked into the bathroom, which always felt damp no matter the time of year, and took a shower with the water on cold. The chill ran through her, waking her up, and ignited something that felt like a wildfire inside her chest.

Dripping wet, foregoing a towel, Vega moved throughout her apartment naked. She took in the peeling wallpaper, the chip on the bedroom nightstand, and the crack in the bedroom window that always allowed the frigid winter air to seep in. Under the bed was a worn backpack—the one that carried her through all of her ups and downs in life.

The bag was small, perfect for the few things she cared enough about to take. Vega rummaged through her dresser for a pair of underwear that didn’t have holes in them and maybe a bra where the wire didn’t dig into her side.

Vega found her favorite band T-shirt on the floor, wadded up and discarded close to the hamper. She brought the black shirt with a circle and the letter M written inside to her nose, taking a whiff. Thankfully, she hadn’t worn it in the rain or on a day when she might have needed a little extra deodorant.

Vega tied the excess fabric of the shirt into a knot at the front, her midriff showing above the leggings she’d chosen to travel in.

A toothbrush, toothpaste, and a hairbrush were all thrown into the bag haphazardly. She grabbed her wallet, passport, and birth certificate. The paper felt flimsy between her fingers.

The birth certificate read the name Arlet knew: Vega Caelum.

Chills ran down her spine. Vega shoved the documents in her bag.

Hopefully if I end up in a ditch somewhere, at least one of these will be found on me so they can identify my body.

Trafficking happened to people like her all the time, down on their luck, just trying to fit in or get by. Arlet didn’t seem like the type, but she’d seen plenty of Dateline episodes… It usually was the people you least expected.

Who would come to her funeral? Would Chase play the doting husband, riddled with sadness at the loss of his wife? Would Bobby come to give his condolences?

No one would miss you. The voice in her head was hard to ignore this morning.

Vega braided the strands of drying hair framing the front of her face in French braids, getting it out of her way like she always did. The rest of her hair fell down her back in loose waves.

Her gaze passed over the bedroom one last time. She slung her backpack over her shoulder and flicked the lights off.

Vega took a minute to sit down on the couch and glance at the memories scattered around the tiny apartment she was leaving behind—or at least what was left of them. Vega had destroyed most of the things that had once been a happy keepsake to her and Chase. The pictures from their wedding, their first date, and the day they moved to Chicago sat on the coffee table—Chase must have taken them out of their broken frames. Vega grabbed the picture of them from their first date and ran her finger over the image of herself. She still looked the exact same, hadn’t aged a day since the picture was taken.

Chills shivered down her spine at the realization that she had always looked the same, even during high school. Vega chalked it up to maturing faster than everyone else… but if Arlet was telling the truth, that wasn’t the case at all.

Vega pulled her phone out. Her finger hovered millimeters over the Call button by Chase’s name.

Was she really going to do this? Was she leaving her life behind to dash across the country to a portal that probably didn’t exist with some girl who might need to be seen by a mental health professional?

What do I have to lose?

The chances of her walking back into this apartment in a few days were still high—if she weren’t killed. But there was still the “what if” that kept her intrigued enough to push forward—intrigued enough to, at the very least, take a break from the reality she was currently living.

Vega got off the couch and shoved her phone into the pocket of her leggings. I can call Chase later. When she knew what to tell him…

What shoes did one wear when about to step through a magic portal into a new realm? Vega scanned the slim pickings the closet by the front door had to offer. The black, beat-down combat boots called to her like they always did. They had moved around with her for as long as she could remember. Vega didn’t know where they came from, only that she’d always had them.

They had taken her everywhere, so maybe they would finally take her home.

Vega gave one final goodbye to her dingy Chicago apartment after carving her initials into the center of the kitchen table.

Now every time Chase sat Jessica’s naked ass on her table, they’d remember who bought it: VC.

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