Page 41 of The Ecstasy of Sin
I haven’t done enough. But I intend to remedy that, little lamb.
I sit there in shock, staring at my backpack, not sure what to do with what Dominic left for me. I’m also not sure how to respond to what he said, but I feel like I can’t do this. This is too much, especially considering the fact that he killed for me last night.
He killed for me.
ME
Please. Take it back. I’m thankful, but it’s too much.
DOMINIC
No.
A heavy sigh slips past my lips, and my skin practically itches with the instinctive need to thank him for everything he’s done, for everything he’s given me, even though it’s too much and I wish he would take it back.
ME
Thank you.
DOMINIC
You’re welcome.
A bell chimes, announcing that we need to leave the shelter for the day, and the women all start to move. The cleaning crew and volunteers will be here soon, so I need to get my morning routine done so I can get back to jobhunting.
I join the small group of women and children making their way toward the bathrooms, the noisy shuffling of our feet echoing across the shelter’s tiled floors.
***
I’m exhausted after another long day of job hunting, made worse by a last-minute interview that had me jogging across the city to get there in time.
I’ve pushed myself a little too hard the last few days, and that’s on top of nearly being strangled to death yesterday. My body aches all over, and my voice is hoarse from the bruising to my neck.
It was hard to hide the damage to my body during my interview, and the owner of the café made it clear that she wasn’t interested in hiring someone so troubled. I didn’t have it in me to explain what had happened, especially when I was sure it wouldn’t change her mind about me anyway.
By the time I left, I knew a migraine was coming. I couldn’t stop yawning, and my vision was doing strange things. Not quite an aura yet, but I could feel it coming.
Thanks to the stash of medication I still have, it didn’t completely destroy me when it finally hit. But a migraine is still a migraine. Within ten minutes, I lost my vision completely—everything replaced with prismatic static, nausea, and the familiar crawl of neurological chaos.
I know from experience that if I don’t find a place to rest, at least during the aura phase, my symptoms will get much worse.
So I wander into a quiet park and find a large brick building that looks like a public restroom, hoping to find a safe place to ride it out. With people coming and going all evening, the chances of being mugged are less than if I go somewhere more private.
Behind it stands a massive, old willow tree. Its heavy branches hang low like pale green curtains, shielding me from the bright, setting sun.
As I stand beneath it, I watch the distorted world my brain is painting across reality—a nauseating, shifting kaleidoscope of rainbow sparks and geometric patterns.
With a resigned sigh, I sink down at the base of the tree and lean against the thick trunk, closing my eyes.
It doesn’t take long for my battlefield of a brain to accept sleep, and I fall into a fitful slumber.
When I finally awaken, night has fallen. The air is sharp with the early autumn chill, and the wind finds its way beneath my clothes.
My headache is dull, but I’m still a little nauseous. I quickly grab my phone to check the clock. I can still make it to the shelter in time to secure a bed, but only if I leave right now.
I shift my weight, but before I can stand up, something moves in the shadows of the large building. It takes my eyes a moment to adjust, to focus in the darkness, but eventually I make out the shape of a person.
His large body is draped heavily in shadow, a hood obscuring his face. The exceptionally tall individual is leaning against the brick wall with his arms folded across his chest. Somehow, I know he is staring right at me.
