Page 109 of Lost Girl

Because I’ll never be that girl again; gullible, naive, and oblivious.

So how am I going to get in there, you ask? The planter. Since moving in here almost five years ago, there was a planter at the end of the hall situated before the large window that overlooked the back of the property. My door was just feet away from it, so it made sense to leave my spare tucked into the soil rather than somewhere typical like under the mat.

I’m banking on it still being there and the locks untouched.

It’s now or never.

With one last glance over my shoulder, I say a little prayer and rush up the steps of the building, keeping my head low as I amble inside to the elevator bank. My thumb smashes the up arrow, I wait no more than thirty seconds for the reflective doors to slide open, and then I’m on my way up to the third floor, gripping that steel railing for dear life. Unlike yesterday, I allow my eyes to meet that of my reflection.

The girl staring back at me… She’s so visibly broken, nothing but a haunting sadness in her eyes, that I can’t look at her for long, dropping my gaze to the thin carpet beneath my feet.

You did that. You put that sadness there.

I know I did, which only makes it harder to see. I never should have come back here. My reason for leaving doesn’t even feel like a valid, logical reason anymore. It was nothing more than a product of consuming fear and an unclear, tired mind. But I had an out, the opportunity to leave with Tinksley was there and, in hindsight, I can see how she was waiting for me to come to my senses, but I didn’t...so she left, leaving me to deal with the consequences of my senseless actions on my own and come to realize what a grand mistake I’d made when it was too late.

“You can always come back, you know.”Tinksley’s offer dangles right before me, but the telltale ding of the elevator brings me back to the here and now as the doors slide open. With a heavy heart, I make my way out and peer down both sides of the corridor. There isn’t a soul in sight, thankfully. My steps come quietly, but I move quickly, ambling to the end of the hall where that planter still sits.

Another peek over my shoulder, and I’m bounding up to it, shoving my hand into the soil like my life depends on it. I don’t feel anything other than the cool dirt, though, even as I rotate the pot and anxiously dig through different spots in search of it.

Why isn’t it here? Why the hell isn’t it in here? Did someone find it? No, there’s no way. I’ve had that key in here for years without incident. Why would someone just randomly stick their hand in here? Unless someone knew?

C’mon, c’mon!

Clumps of dirt spill over onto the floor as I dig deeper still, my nails scraping the bottom of the pot. I’m about to give up, right there on the verge of saying screw it and simply walking away, when life tosses me a bone and Ifinallyfeel it. I know I don’t need to do this, that what this city believes about me should be closure in and of itself, but I throw my head back and sigh in relief, pulling the key free.

Now let’s hope said key works with the locks.

I waste absolutely no time shuffling to the door, not five feet away. The yellow sign still hangs on its surface, but I don’t dare look at it, keeping my eyes on the prize. Aligning the key with the top lock, I inhale a steadying breath and hope for the best as I shove it in. Much to my surprise, the damn thing glides like butter. Not a kink as I turn it, either, the latch releasing as smoothly as it always has.

Yes. Yes, yes, yes!

Spirits renewed, I move onto the bottom lock, flipping the key upside down to shove it back in...until I’m startled by the lift’s bell dinging down the hall.

“Fuck!” I hiss, hands shaking at the possibility of being caught, my gaze hopping nervously between the lock and the lift bank.

From my peripheral, I catch someone stepping out into the corridor, but the key finally slides in, and I crank the knob, rushing my way inside. Closing the door as quietly as possible, I throw the locks in place and spin around, deflating against the worn wood as I suck in heaps of air, my mind racing in circles.

God, what the hell am I really doing? Breaking into my flat like this? What if I wouldn’t have gotten that key in? What if I would’ve gotten caught?

There’s no time for this. Just do what you need to do and be done with it.

It’s right then as my eyes scan the small, dainty living room in uncertainty that I truly realize I’ve made it in here.

That I’m home.

It’s dark as hell, but from what the moon illuminates, it’s obvious everything still looks the same, only dustier. Unloved. Forgotten. The furniture, picture frames, my bookcase, it’s all here. Feels like I’ve gone back in time like it’s just another day, and I’ve just gotten in from a long shift at the hospital. I would’ve set my purse down on the small table beside the door and kicked off my trainers. Would’ve gone straight into the kitchen and served myself a glass of wine, downing the first one in a long gulp. And those final weeks when Peter was here? I would’ve jumped into bed with him and gotten lost in the sheets before taking a walk through the park.

My skin crawls just thinking about it, but I force myself to thrust those thoughts aside and focus on the task at hand. I don’t have time for this. Although, if I’m being honest, I’m not quite sure what all I’m hoping to find, other than saying goodbye to this place on my own terms. Regardless, I keep it moving.

From the front door, I tread carefully through the living area, gently hopping past the floorboards that squeak into the kitchen. My table is still here, browned, shriveled rose petals covering the top, wilted stems hanging over my Nana’s vase.

Another sign of a life that is no more.

Given the lack of a smell, I’m assuming the fridge has been cleaned out...but then I smell it, a unique stench, and it’s not coming from the kitchen. It’s coming from the bedroom just a few feet away.

Doesn’t take a rocket scientist to discern what exactly that smell is.

Every drop of blood in my veins runs ice-cold, and yet despite knowing what it is, my legs carry me toward the bedroom of their own accord.

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