Page 17 of Werewolf Heart

Sara bursts out laughing, almost choking on her coffee. Rita smiles at her fondly.

“Hey,” her friend says, softer. “I’ll walk you to work afterward, alright?”

“Alright,” Sara smiles, appreciating her kindness. “I’d love that. Thank you.”

“No problem, babe.”

The rest of their morning isn’t as dramatic, three to four hours of seminars and stressing over their theses deadlines. They have a quick lunch at the campus cafeteria—a couple of overpriced stalled sandwiches with orange juice—then Rita tags along to Sara’s workplace. She works part-time at a small cafe, where they sell their own version of overpriced stalled sandwiches. Rita orders a coffee before Sara clocks in. They share comforting glances as Sara endures a long line of customers, each their own kind of annoying. Two hours go by in the meantime. She spots Rita getting up from her chair, so Sara takes the opportunity to clean her table as a pretence to say goodbye.

“You didn’t have to stay this long,” she tells her. “I’m sure you had other things to do.”

“Don’t do that,” Rita chastises. “I stayed because I wanted to. I read for a bit and enjoyed my coffee. I’m no martyr.”

“Alright, alright,” Sara chuckles.

“But I can stay longer if you’d like?”

She pats her on the shoulder. “Oh, no. Go live your life. I’m halfway through my shift anyway.”

“You’re sure you’ll be okay?”

“Yes, mum,” she chuckles. “I’ll text you when I get home.”

“You better.” Rita hugs her, a strong and warm touch. Sara returns the gesture; hoping she doesn’t come across as needy for comfort. “Estou a falar a sério. Não te esqueças, ok?5”

“Ok, ok. Eu não vou esquecer.” Sara kisses her cheek. “Vá trabalhar na sua tese!6”

Rita laughs. “Já sei, mãe!7”

As her friend leaves, the young woman is left with a sense of dread. She tries to brush it off, deciding to focus on work: clean tables, clean dishes, clean mind. Although her eyes keep glancing at the door, she thinks she does a good enough job. Her manager hasn’t snapped at her for being distracted; which he usually does.

Sara leaves her shift exhausted, clocking out in a hurry to get home. She walks to the tube station, all too aware of the goosebumps climbing up her arms. She tries to empty her mind with heavy metal music. It helps, for a bit. Then she has to exit the train and the old dread resurfaces. Her head keeps turning back, just to check who’s behind her. Her hands get so clammy, her Oyster card almost slips off. It gets worse the further she goes, as if every step she takes is being repeated, as if someone is being careful not to get too close—as if he’s following her.

Sara bolts up the stairs, not daring to look back. When she reaches the surface, she doesn’t stop running. Her feet rush through the streets, passing busy people too preoccupied with their own lives, they run and they dash and they don’t stop till she reaches her building’s entryway. The heavy door slams behind her. She doesn’t take the lift up the four floors, instead Sara pushes her body to walk up all those flights of stairs, running out of breath. Finally, she reaches her flat. Gets inside. Locks the door. Lets her body slide down to the floor, every single muscle exhausted.

Sara inhales, lips trembling. She just wants this day to be over. She just wants—

The buzzer goes off. She freezes. It doesn’t stop buzzing.

Buzz, buzz, buzz; like small stings to her skin.

Eventually, she finds the courage to stand on her own two feet. She looks into the small screen. Sara almost throws up at the sight of her ex-boyfriend, his finger on the buzzer, a scowl heavy on his face.

“Let me in,” he says through the intercom. “God, I just want to talk to you. Why did you run away like a maniac? Sara, let me in. I know you’re home! I saw you!”

She wants to scream. She wants to kill him. She wants to crawl into a hole and wait for him to be gone.

She forces herself to dial 999.

“Ambulance Service,” says a woman on the line. “Tell me exactly what’s happened?”

“M-My ex,” Sara begins, trying to steady her voice. “He followed me home and he seems angry… He’s done this before. He’s stalked me before.”

“Alright, is he in your home right now?”

“No, no,” she takes a deep breath. “He’s outside. I live in a flat. He’s outside the building but he f-followed me home and he won’t fucking leave, I know he won’t—”

“I understand. Can you tell me your name?”

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