Page 1 of Out of the Dark

CHAPTER ONE

CLAIRE

I don’t belong here.

The thought circles through my mind as I navigate the dark, frigid streets, looking down at my phone just frequently enough to make sure I’m driving in the right direction. The phone is cheap, one that barely functions for anything other than calls, texts, and a somewhat usable GPS feature, but it’s all I have for now. Well, in addition to the equally junky van I’m driving and whatever I was able to fit in it before I left.

I don’t belong here.

Whether I mean this city, this neighborhood, or my general place in life, I’m not sure. It’s a gut feeling more than an intentional thought, forming a knot in my stomach that winds tighter and tighter as I’m reminded again of how different all of this is from my real life. Or rather, my old life—the one I left behind. But I can’t think about that right now, so I push the feeling away as best as I can. I’ll deal with it later.

I squint at the buildings lining the street, trying to make out the numbers in the dark. Deciding I’m close enough to be in the general vicinity of the apartment I need to find, I pull into an empty parking space on the street and grab the pizza bag from my passenger seat.

Delivering pizzas isn’t the most glamorous job, but I had to take whatever job I could get as quickly as possible after I ran away from home, so I’ll grin and bear it for now.

The winter air bites at my skin as soon as I open the car door, and I burrow further into my coat as I hurry down the sidewalk. Finally, I spot the correct building and pick up my pace, desperate to return to the warmth of my vehicle.

That familiar emptiness sinks into the pit of my stomach again as I wonder how long it’ll be before I can save up enough for my own apartment. The thought doesn’t last long, though; it’s too cold to focus on anything except the numbness seeping into my skin.

When I step into the apartment building, I’m comforted by the warmer air that surrounds me while at the same time assaulted by a pungent smell that I only recently learned is marijuana, courtesy of my coworkers who smoke it outside the back door of the pizza parlor at any given opportunity.

I find unit 12B, knock on the door, and listen as heavy footsteps approach before the door creaks open. The man smiles—because nobody’s ever unhappy to see the pizza delivery person—and thanks me as I hand him the two boxes from my bag. When the door closes, I linger in the hallway for a few minutes longer, soaking up as much heat as I can before making my way back out into the freezing Chicago wind.

The silence of my car is a painful reminder of how alone I am here, but turning on the radio only makes me feel worse since it inundates me with Christmas music or commercialsemphasizing how it’s "the time of the year to cherish your loved ones." All of it just makes the ache in my chest deepen. This year, the holiday season will be bleak, cold, and lonely.

Icouldgo back home if I wanted to. They’d welcome me back with open arms, especially if I played into their excuses about the temptation of sin, saying that I left because of that temptation rather than telling them the true reason: I wanted freedom from a life of subservience.

But no, I can’t go back, even if returning would mean safety and warmth and security—all things I’m missing here. That’s not my home anymore, I’m not the woman they want me to be, and I can’t pretend to be that person anymore. If I were to go home, I’d be walking back into an arranged marriage to a man twice my age, a job where I lead Sunday School prayers to a God I’m not sure I believe in, and a lifetime of walking on eggshells to make sure I don’t do or say the wrong thing.

They say their love is unconditional, but every word of affection always seemed to have an unspoken asterisk attached to it, noting terms and conditions reliant on obedience.

No matter how tempting a warm bed and a full stomach might be, the freedom from constant chastisement and judgment is worth any obstacles that might come my way.

I just need to get through the winter, save up some money, and find a place to live. Once I do that, I can figure my life out from there.

The bell above the door chimes as I step back into the pizza shop, a small, cramped space filled with the scents of greasy pizza and greasier men. The warmth of the ovens envelops me as I make my way to the back, melting away the biting cold I’ve been fighting all night.

"Hey, Claire!" one ofmy coworkers, Nate, calls out from behind the counter. He’s tall and lanky, always leaning on something as if standing upright is too much effort. He flicks a flour-dusted hand toward me in a wave. "How’d it go out there? Big tips?"

"Not really," I reply, pulling off my coat and hanging it on the rack near the back door. My voice sounds flat, but I feign a smile anyway. When you’ve spent your entire adult life faking contentment, it’s easy to put on a convincing smile.

"Figures," Nate says with a smirk, elbowing Randy, who’s mindlessly fidgeting with a handful of change from the tip jar. "At least you have the option of getting more tips. Just wear something low-cut."

Randy snorts, looking up from the register with a slimy grin that makes me wish I had stayed out in the cold. "Yeah, maybe you oughta try that. I bet you’d rake it in if you got some clothes that actually fit and showed some skin." His gaze falls to my chest, and even though I’m wearing a loose turtleneck sweater, the way his eyes seem to undress me makes my stomach churn.

I freeze, unsure of how to respond before I decide that ignoring them is the best option. I busy myself with folding pizza boxes near the counter. I’m fully aware that I’m an outcast here and have limited knowledge of social norms outside of the community I was raised in, so maybe I’m just missing the joke here, but I can’t imagine any woman would laugh along with them like they seem to be expecting me to.

"Man, leave her alone," Nate says, but his tone is more amused than serious, like this is all just part of the nightly routine.

"She knows I’m joking." He turns his attention back toward me, and I cringe internally. "Don’t you, Claire?"

I flash another fake smile, cursing myself for my fawning response to stressful situations but not daring to meet his eyes. "Sure."

It’s not worth the confrontation. At least, that’s what I tell myself as my fingers work mechanically, folding the boxes into neat stacks. I wish I was more confrontational, especially now that I’m on my own in a big city, but my response to stress is an unfortunate learned behavior—smile, calm everyone down, deflect the negativity as much as possible, and deal with the guilt or anxiety later.

"Man, I’m just saying," Randy adds. "You’d clean up out there if you really tried. Some dude would probably invite you inside right after giving you a twenty." He waggles his eyebrows to emphasize the point and walks over to me.

I focus on the boxes and pretend their conversation doesn’t exist, but my silence only seems to spur him on.

---