Page 8 of Push My Buttons
It’s the sliver of hope that maybe they don’t.
Chapter 3
Wren
BythetimeIget back to my apartment from the café, my legs feel like overcooked noodles and my back has filed a formal complaint in triplicate. The soles of my shoes slap against the pavement in a slow, exhausted rhythm, the city's muggy breath clinging to my clothes like a second, sticky skin. The walk from the bus stop is only six blocks, but tonight it may as well be a goddamn marathon. Every crack in the sidewalk feels like a trap, every traffic light a personal affront.
I drag myself up the final flight of stairs, my knees creaking with each rise like rusted hinges. My arms hang limp at my sides, keys dangling from one hand, the metal chiming with a tired little jingle that sounds more like a warning than a welcome. I pause outside my door, the hallway dim and silent, save for the buzz of a flickering light overhead. I listen. Just to be sure.
The lock clicks open beneath my fingers. I slide inside, shut the door quietly behind me, then bolt it, latch the chain, and twist the deadbolt with a familiar snap. I double check it—always. Habit. Survival.
Inside, the air is still and faintly cool. The curtains are drawn, softening the harshness of the city glow outside. My sanctuary. My bunker. This place is small—claustrophobic to some—but it's mine. The walls are thin enough that I can hear Mrs. Castro two doors down yelling at her cat in Spanish, but there's comfort in that, too. Normalcy, in its loudest form.
Still, I sweep the apartment like clockwork. Bathroom door open, check. Bedroom closet closed, check. Windows latched, curtains untouched, shadow angles familiar. I even crouch low and glance under the bed—because dignity means nothing when paranoia curls against your spine like a predator.
The text from last night won’t stop playing on repeat. Creepy doesn’t cover it. The words weren’t overt. Just a single line. But the weight behind them? Heavy. Familiar.
This place is supposed to be safe. And yet.
I toss my bag onto the couch, peel off my stained hoodie, and head to the kitchen. I microwave leftover noodles until they turn into a gluey mess and crack open the last of the flat grape soda. It’s a sad excuse for a meal, but I eat it anyway, standing in the dim light and letting the fluorescent hum lull me into a numb kind of stillness.
When the food’s gone, I rinse the plate and pour a generous amount of bourbon into a chipped glass. No ice. No mixer. Just a straight line of heat that scratches at my throat and settles in my chest like fire.
I wander to the living room window and peer through a narrow slit in the curtains. Outside, the alley is empty. No figures lingering in the shadows. No movement. No reason to worry.
Except I do.
The bourbon helps a little. But the ache under my skin doesn’t ease.
I head to the bathroom and turn on the shower. Steam quickly fogs the mirror, curling around the edges like smoke. The water stings when it hits my skin, but I don’t flinch. I scrub harder than necessary, fingers aching by the time I’ve rinsed the soap away. The grime, the sweat, the weight of eyes I imagined or maybe didn’t—all of it runs down the drain.
But the memories come anyway.
My brother used to be the best part of my world. Tall and quiet and funny in a dry way. He made me feel safe once. He made me laugh until I cried, gave me rides to school, taught me how to lie to Mom when I broke the rules. We were close once—even if he and his best friend used to tease me constantly.
And then one day, he stopped coming home with stories and started leaving behind carnage.
He decided that morality was optional. That restraint was a chain he didn’t need. He started leaving behind scenes full of blood and fire, horror so grotesque that even the news blurred the footage.
The worst part?
He forgot we were still there. He forgotme.
I remember the first time the media swarmed our front lawn. Microphones shoved in our faces. Neighbors whispering. My name dragged into headlines because blood shares blood. Because DNA doesn’t lie. Because someone had to explain why a monster wore my brother’s face.
People stared. People judged. People stopped talking to me altogether. Even the ones who used to call me sweet, or funny, or bright.
We still had to live with what he left behind. Friends stopped calling. Employers googled. The media made it their job to exhume every secret they could find and drag it into the light.
So I ran. I burned my past behind me, changed everything from the way I dressed to the way I walked. I picked a coastwhere no one knew my name and built walls so high even I could barely see over them.
But the scars don’t care about ZIP codes.
I turn off the water and towel off slowly. My skin pink and raw, but clean. I get into soft cotton shorts and an oversized tee with a faded graphic on the front. Then I pull on a worn oversized hoodie over the top with frayed cuffs. No bra. Just something comforting. Familiar. The kind of clothes that don’t demand attention or shape or performance.
Just fabric. Just softness. Just me.
My bare feet pad across the worn floorboards to the corner of the room where my gaming setup lives—clean, minimalist, just enough power to run what I need without drawing attention. A pair of noise-cancelling headphones rests on the stand, waiting like a silent invitation.
