Page 11 of Deviant

Bristol.It’s never been one of my favourite cities. No offense to the place, it’s just too hilly for my liking.

But then, London was hardly the dream, was it? I lived in a cramped, dingy space that took most of my salary to pay for and grew mould in the winter. Work was the only reason I stayed, work was what got me out of bed, what kept me awake, what drove me.

And now work is gone.

Everything I busted my arse for, all those years at university, all the subsequent years grafting away after, all of it counts for nothing now.

I have nothing to show for any of it. In a few years’ time no one will even remember there was a journalist called ‘Ana Edwards.’ My name will be forgotten. Everything I did, my entire legacy will fade to nothing.

I let out a low breath, burying the wave of emotion that hits me. It is what it is, isn’t it? These are the cards I’ve been dealt. I can’t dwell on them too deeply right now, I can’t allow myself to become despondent and depressed, because then I’ll become that mess of a person who can’t function, who can’t think, and then I’ll be caught.

Besides, I still have one card left to play.

One last fuck you before this all ends.

With my head down, I make my way to the bus station. It’s a risk being here, but I have to take it. I’ve crossed enough distance as I can by bike and by foot. I need to go further, I need to get to Wales, get to a place where I can disappear.

I clamber onto the bus, handing over the money with my head as concealed as I can make it. All I can feel is the surveillance cameras, the CCTV, as if every single one is focused directly right on me.

I take a seat near the back, but not too far. I need to be able to escape—but there’s only one door, if they do stop us, I don’t stand a chance. Gulping back the bile, I try not to think about that fact.

When it pulls away, the relief I feel is palpable. It feels like I’m one step closer to victory.

I lean my head against the cold glass, letting that relief sink in. The seat isn’t exactly plush, but it feels like luxury compared to the hard ground floor I’ve been sleeping on.

My bag is beside me, pressed against me, and I keep the strap wrapped around my arm.

Out the window, the streets start to whirl past, houses begin to blur. I could almost cry with relief as we start to pick up speed because it feels like I’ve made it. It feels like freedom is just around the corner. I just have to hold my nerve a little longer.

It’sevening when we arrive. I rub my eyes, more than aware that I drifted off and that my tiredness could well have put me in danger. As furtively as I can, I cast my eyes around, trying to gauge if anyone is here, if anyone on this bus is watching me.

But they all seem blissfully disinterested. Instead, they’re all jostling and shoving to be the first off.

I hold back, not wanting to be swept up in a crowd and then miss the sign of attack if it does come. When I make my way down the narrow aisle, my legs protest after so many hours of little movement.

Each step down sends a jolt of burning through my muscles. I wouldn’t say I was unfit before, but I was hardly a gymaholic, and days of non-stop cycling has been more than a shock to the system.

I take a step, then another, putting distance between me and the bus, and as I try to get my bearings, I let out a small low breath. By now, they must have gotten into my apartment. They must know I’m MIA, but surely, they wouldn’t realise that I’m here? There’s nothing to link me to this place, nothing to suggest this is where I would go.

And yet I can feel those hairs on the back of my neck standing on end. I can feel my heartbeat picking up.

I hoist the bag on my shoulder and start walking. I don’t dare look back. I need to get on, to disappear and not stand around like a bloody idiot.

One street turns into another. I pick up pace, striding as fast as I can without attracting attention, but it’s not long before I realise my suspicions aren’t unfounded.

I’m not being paranoid.

I really am being followed.

I really am in trouble.

A fist slams into my stomach making me double over. This could of course be a coincidence, just some nasty shits that I unluckily ran into, only, I catch a glimpse of the gold ring as the arsehole removes his hand and that confirms what I already know.

Theyhavefound me.

Someone grabs my bag, tossing it away and out of my reach before I can stop them. Stupidly, I freeze, letting my eyes focus on where it lands and a blow to the head is the punishment I pay for it.

I swing my leg around, slamming my boot into one of their faces. Bet they didn’t see that coming, did they?

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