Page 10 of Stolen
No best friend.
Just a tiny studio apartment downwind of the old factories, and a sketchpad I don’t touch anymore because looking at it hurts too much.
“Hey, Jules,” my manager barks from the kitchen pass, “busboy called out. I need you to take on trash duty tonight.”
Of course he did.
“Sure,” I mutter, already grabbing the bag.
He wasn’t really asking. Theor elsewas implied.
I shoulder open the back door and step into the alley, the warm summer night wrapping around me like the sigh of something tired.
The city buzzes just beyond the fence.
I can hear it. Feel it.
But it doesn’t touch me. Not really.
I’m invisible here. And maybe I like it that way.
The bag splits as I hoist it toward the bin, bottles clinking loud enough to drown out my curse.
I yank the string tight and shove the mess down into the dumpster like it personally offended me.
Then I freeze.
There’s someone there.
I can feel them watching me from the shadows.
Just watching. But still. It creeps me the fuck out.
My heart jumps into my throat.
You’re being ridiculous, Jules.
I ignore it and bend to pick up what I’ve dropped.
The alley’s always been gross—hot, sticky, and stinking of rot and grease—but tonight it feels worse.
Heavy. Like the shadows aren’t the only things watching me.
I pause, the hairs on my neck standing up even though there’s no breeze.
It’s the strangest feeling.
Like I’m not alone.
Like somewhere someone out there is just waiting for the moment to jump out and say,“hey there, I’ve been looking for you.”
Of course, there is no someone out there just waiting to claim me. I mean, reality isn’t that kind or inventive.
I glance over my shoulder, unable to shake the feeling like someone is there.
Still nothing. Still no one.
Just the dim security light buzzing overhead and the usual city noise drifting in from the next street.
