Page 4 of Brutal Savior

“Are they any good?”

Suzy pulls a face. “Not my thing, but you never know, you might like them. Anyway, it’s cold, and I've got a coat in the locker room. You can give it back later.”

Again, I have to fight the urge to refuse her kind offer. Why the hell is she being so nice? We’re not even real friends. But I'll be fighting off weirdos on the bus in my club outfit, and the hoodie does look warm.

I accept it with a smile that feels false on my face. “Thanks. Really. I'll drop it back tomorrow. When do you get off?”

“I'm on a twelve shift today, then I'll be sleeping most of tomorrow. Just hang it on my doorknob.”

“Will do.”

She gives an awkward little wave and hurries off. I pull on the hoodie, feeling like a thief. No perfume clings to it, thank fuck. That would have been weird.

I stand to leave, and my head swims. How long since I ate? I’ve had nothing since the fries yesterday afternoon. I'll have towait till I get home, though, and I've got one more stop to make before I catch the bus.

The long-term care unit is as quiet as ever. These patients don't get many visitors. In most cities, they're shipped out to nursing homes or rehab facilities, but we've got a special section of the hospital dedicated to no-hopers.

Well, notnohope. That would be too easy. Instead, there's always the tiniest sliver of possibility that this time, things will be different. That Marlowe will open her eyes and demand to know what the fuck is going on.

The nurse on the desk recognizes me from when I used to be a frequent visitor. I can't remember her name. She waves me through, but before I step into the quiet ward, I check, “No one else is with her?”

She shakes her head. “No. Your mom and dad were here yesterday, for a bit.”

Marlowe’s mom and dad. Not mine. I don't correct her, though, as I head in to visit my foster sister.

Marlowe’s eyes are closed, as always, and her chest rises and falls as if she's just asleep. Has she gotten skinnier? Hard to say. Something is different, though. I stare until it clicks. They’ve cut her hair again. It’s sharp to her chin, and the highlights are growing out. She’d hate it.

I hate it, too. It makes it harder to picture her as she was. It’s only been six months, but it feels like an eternity.

I sit with her and launch into an account of the night just gone. Maybe she'll come out of her coma just to tell me how goddamn stupid I am. I finish the story and pause, waiting for a response. It doesn’t come, of course, and all at once, I can’t stand being here a single second longer. I’d rather be anywhere.

My mind strays to the half bottle of vodka in the door of my fridge, next to the expired milk. Maybe, when I get home, I’lldrink the rest of it and erase Marlowe’s face from my mind for a few blissful hours.

I give her cold hand a squeeze, mutter a goodbye that comes out garbled through my thick throat, and race out without a word for the nurse.

Screw this fucking place.

I walk to the bus stop. The mid-morning light stabs my eyes and confuses my senses. Even though my brain knows it's almost lunchtime, part of me was still expecting it to be dark.

The street is busy even though it’s Sunday, mostly miserable people who stare at their phones or down at the ground with grim expressions. No one comes to the hospital for fun. Two nurses chat together over steaming coffees from a cart at the side of the road. God, I’d kill for a coffee.

I sit as close to the front of the bus as I can, head leaning against the glass. The vibrations soothe me into a peaceful state.

Please, no one sit next to me.

They don’t, and I have to fight not to fall asleep as the bus lumbers toward my part of town. I can’t stop yawning as it finally pulls in. Almost home.

I shove my hands in the front pocket of the hoodie and walk the short distance to my building. I got lucky with this apartment, even though it’s dingy and in a rough area. I have a housemate, but he works away for weeks at a time, only returning for short bursts. The rent is cheap, and it’s not too noisy except on the weekend when I’m usually out anyway.

It’s also lucky we keep a key in a lockbox at the front door, or I’d have been screwed.

The elevator is out of order—it has been for months—so I head for the stairwell. There’s no one around, which isn’t unusual for this time on a Sunday. Most people will still be sleeping it off. Something gives me pause, though, and I stop before opening the door. A prickle at the back of my neck.

It’s really quiet. Usually, music comes from somewhere. A couple arguing, a kid screaming, a TV on too loud. But the whole place is silent. And Eric, the homeless guy who hangs out at the front, isn’t there either. What the hell?

I shake my head. Stupid. I’m just tired, on a comedown, and getting paranoid.

As I push open the door to the stairwell, a thick hand wraps around my mouth.

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