Page 11 of In Death's Hands
“Th-thank you.”
His mouth lifts slightly in a sad smile but he stays quiet. I’m surprised he doesn’t ask anything. Most people would prod until they got to my deep dark secret, not really caring either way but just needing to satisfy their fleeting curiosity. What he does instead is become a human anchor, holding my focus until there is nothing else. My muscles relax, the outside noise fades and time loses all meaning. At least until the driver not so gently indicates that we’ve arrived. He still looks at me though, as if waiting to be sure I’m all right. He only comes alive when I pull my wallet out and he quickly hands over what I think are two red bills, but I’m probably seeing things. No one would give a hundred quid for a twenty-pound ride. Right?
In no time we’re at my building’s door and things turn awkward. At least for me; the man doesn’t seem fazed by much. He’s looking at the names attached to the doorbells before recognition sparks when he sees mine at the bottom.
I open my mouth to thank him and say goodbye, but he cuts me off.
“I was asked to see you to your door, and unless I’m mistaken, this door also belongs to a dozen other beings. Do you not have a private space?”
While he looks intently at me, I’m trying to figure out his words. One of his brows jerks up in the same way mine is now, mirroring me. I find I don’t have the energy to say no. Without a word, I unlock the door and start the painful climb. Beside me, he observes everything closely. When I’m rested, I’ll think about what it all means. How his presence is not required yet incredibly welcomed. How immediately at ease I am around him, a stranger. He’s so imposing that he takes up more than half the space, but instead of feeling crowded I feel warm, protected. I don’t like it; it’s like my body has lowered its defences without asking me.
My head is buzzing by the time I see my door on the second-to-last floor, tiny beads of sweat rolling down my back. It seems redundant, but I do blame the concussion. It’ll be a few days before I’m back to normal. Whatever version of normal my life is, that is. Without stopping, I unlock my door and immediately feel better. Nothing beats being in your own cocoon.
When I turn to him, his eyes are jumping from item to item in my apartment, a frown on his brow. Well, that’s lovely, isn’t it? I guess I don’t have to wonder whether to invite him in or not. I know it’s not much, but it’s all mine. I pay a ridiculous amount to claim the very small living space. The kitchenette is in a corner by the window. There’s a door leading to a small bathroom, and the rest of the room is filled with my bed and an opened dresser showing too much mess for my comfort. And then there are books. On top of the dresser. On the bedside table. In piles on the floor.
It’s definitely not a penthouse, but then again, it’s not an empty townhouse full of foreign memories, and truthfully, that’s enough for me.
I clear my throat, calling his wandering gaze back to me.
“Thank you. Again. For everything.” He’s already shaking his head. “I mean it. You didn’t have to do all this. Thank you.” I look down at myself, and though I really don’t want to give him his clothes back, for a reason I’m sure my concussion is also to blame, I continue, “If you wait here a minute while I change, you can have these back.”
“Keep them.”
I nod and let silence take over the space. I want to say something else but nothing comes to mind. My chest tightens when I think of closing the door on him, but what else is there to do? Despite having slept in his bed last night, we don’t know each other. Life pushed us together forcefully for a mere moment, but it’s over now.
I’m so tired. From past experiences I know only sleep will make me feel better. Sleep and food, and I send a silent thanks to Isaiah for the care package Nathan gently deposits on the small table next to the door as he smiles sympathetically and says, “You need to rest. I’ll check up on you later.” And just like that, he turns around and goes down the spiral staircase.
Okay, then.
I slowly get undressed in my bathroom while eating a croissant that sends its buttery crumbs all over my floor. I can’t find it in me to care, though. There’s a slight ache in my wrist that is easily ignorable, and I figure I probably sprained it during my fall. I don’t even know what number to give this accident. I stopped counting a long time ago.
I don’t know what makes me so special that death seems to want to claim me so badly yet fails every time. For a while I thought I was simply unlucky. Then for a few years I firmly believed I had to have been a monster in a previous life, someone who at least committed genocide, to deserve my life. I also wondered if I’d been cursed and went as far as seeking a fortune teller. But when she told me that I am a beacon of hope and life and that fate will guide me to greatness, I laughed and let that theory go.
Now, I’m out of theories.
I am not simply unlucky. No one has as many close calls as I do and simply calls themselves unlucky. I was abandoned as a baby, then, twenty years ago, when I was finally chosen, my adoptive parents died in an accident that stole dozens of lives. I’ve survived three other car crashes, a fall through a frozen lake that gave me severe hypothermia during a shitty field trip, a flower pot that just happened to fall on my head, a lightning strike that burned a tree right as I was passing by, and many,manyother once-in-a-lifetime occurrences.
The therapist that was appointed to me by the state after the people who had just adopted me passed said I was a survivor. Most days I do feel like one. I figured, since I seem to have more chances of being offed by something random than anybody else, I should enjoy life to the fullest. I know, I know, you only live once and all that shit. Most people saying that just want to have it tattooed on their butt and think of themselves as great thinkers of our world. Revolutionaries that are better than everyone else worried about their mortgages. But when you almost die as many times as I have, you kinda see the world differently, and though I wouldn’t use that saying if you paid me, I do tend to believe and live by its principle. Most days.
Today is not that day. Today I just want to bury myself under every blanket I own and watch Netflix.
As I’m about to do just that, something catches my attention in the mirror. And it isnotthe fact that I look like the life has been sucked out of me. I frown and step closer to my reflection. There. Depending on how I face the weak lighting above the mirror, I see what made me pause. Between my breasts is the strangest thing. It could be a star-shaped scar if it didn’t glow red. I put my hand on it and suck in a sharp breath. It feels warm.
Like a word you repeat until it loses all meaning, I stare at that bright spot on my chest until I’m convinced I’m making things up. Say it with me this time: I blame the concussion.
Hours later, my plan to sleep until the end of the world is rudely interrupted by heavy knocks on my door. Frowning, I fight my way out of my clingy blanket. It’s only once I’m swinging the door open that I realise I’m only wearing knickers and an oversized T-shirt. Okay, fine, it’s Nathan’s shirt. But it was there, and big, and smelled of him. It doesn’t mean anything. It doesn’t.
Before I can yell at whoever’s decided to wake me, something solid connects with my face. My ears start ringing and something warm gathers at my lips. Blood. Shock contracts my lungs and I’m gasping, choking on nothing, trying to force air down my throat. My eyes can’t focus and I feel my brain working overtime, trying to make sense of what’s happening.
Before any answer can form, another blow lands on my stomach, effectively blocking any air that was slowly working its way back into my system. I fall to the ground, or maybe I’m pushed. I can’t really tell. And through the ringing pain in my head, I hear angry voices. I’m too far gone to understand what’sbeing said, but cold, undiluted fear spreads through my limbs.What is happening?
I hear shuffling. I think someone else has entered my flat. I am shaking all over and trying to figure out if I should play dead or call out for help. If they’re here to rob me I don’t care, but maybe they’ll try to hurt me. From what I hear, fear slowly sharpening my senses, there are now two guys in my flat. They could do anything to me before anyone ever knew something was wrong. I swallow the sob and push it all the way back down. Deep where those men will never hear it. I will not give them the satisfaction.
“Is that her?” one asks, sending alarm bells ringing in my head. What could they want with me? I squeeze my eyes shut before activating the mean-bitch switch. I am not weak. I refuse to lie down and let things happen to me again. Ignoring the furious shakes raking my body, I slowly untangle my arms from where they protectively wrapped themselves around my middle and put my hands to the ground. Out of the corner of my eye, I see them looking at a picture, offering me precious seconds to study their frames. One is taller than the other, but both are wide and big enough to knock me out without much effort.
There is no way I can fight these guys. I’ve taken self-defence classes over the years—with everything that’s happened to me, I’d have been crazy not to—but the number-one lesson they teach is to get out of a bad situation by any means necessary and run like hell.
A scary part of me wants to make them pay for the terror coursing through me, for the tears I cannot stop flowing down my cheeks. From the nightmares that are sure to plague me should I survive. The rage is harder to swallow than ever before when I have two people to blame right here, instead of simply blaming whatever poor luck or curse I may have. Harnessingthat rage, I pull myself up onto my knees while they are distracted, arguing about whether or not I’m the “her” they’re after. I squeeze my eyes shut once, twice, but the ground is still unsteady under my legs. The ringing is overtaking everything once more as blood rushes out of my head. I force a deep breath into my lungs, but blinding pain threatens to take me down once more. I ignore it and try to move away.
