29: Girls Against God

                                    

                                          
Trigger warning: very graphic descriptions of injuries and medical procedures, this is basically just a long-ass chapter full of trauma medicine. If that is not your tea, I won't be offended. 
"Help, I'm still at the restaurant
Still sitting in a corner I haunt
Cross-legged in the dim light
They say, "What a sad sight"
I, I swear you could hear a hair pin drop
Right when I felt the moment stop
Glass shattered on the white cloth
Everybody moved on
I, I stayed there
Dust collected on my pinned-up hair
They expected me to find somewhere
Some perspective, but I sat and stared
Right where you left me
You left me no, oh, you left me no
You left me no choice but to stay here forever"
-Right Where You Left Me, Taylor Swift
Your manager had gotten past being mad at you for your short leave of absence, and was back to being a creep as per his usual. You had to dodge his haphazard attempts at flirting for the entire last two hours of your shift until he finally gave up and left you to close up alone. Jackass.
You locked up and reached into your bag, grabbing the switchblade that Ivan had given you and holding it out in front of you, your head on a swivel the entire walk home. Your last encounter with that creepy ass drunk on the walk home had left you on edge, and now that you knew there really would be no Ivan to come swoop in and save you, you were doubly paranoid.
The apartment was quiet, and you used the side of your ankle to push Meatball away from the front door as you walked in, prompting him to hiss angrily as you dropped your bag onto the kitchen table and shuffled into the kitchen, stifling a yawn and rolling out the tension in your shoulders. Meatball ran into Bob's room, tossing a hateful look over his shoulder at you.
You pulled open the fridge idly, staring into the almost-empty depths in some sort of vague hope that the food fairies had been by while you were at work and left something delicious in the fridge. Alas, it was not to be. 
You grabbed a slice of leftover pizza that was questionably edible anyway, taking a bite as you walked over to the couch, intending to read a couple more chapters of your book before bed. Bob was asleep in her room, and Monet was at a friend's house, so you didn't turn the TV on, not wanting to wake her, just sat with your legs curled under you, reaching for the book on the coffee table. 
The three of you were working your way through a biography of Henrietta Lacks, and it was absolutely fascinating. You were ready to get through another couple of chapters, and you sighed happily as you opened to where an old receipt was serving as a make-do bookmark, shoving the last of the pizza crust in your mouth and licking your fingers.
The buzzer went off. You scowled. Who the fuck was ringing the buzzer at this hour? You closed your book, annoyed at the interruption. It went off again, and then again, and again, repetitive and desperate-sounding, and your heart rate kicked up.
You didn't want Bob to wake, and you hurriedly slipped your feet back into your shoes, throwing open the door to your apartment and running down the steps. The buzzing stopped, and instead you could hear muffled, urgent thumping at the front door.
You had a brief moment to wonder if you should have brought your Taser or something. Shoving the thought away, you grabbed the front door, flipping the lock, and yanked it open.
The sight that awaited you was something you could never have imagined, even in your worst nightmares. You couldn't remember the last time you had seen someone so badly beaten unless it was at the hospital, lying on a stretcher in the trauma bay. 
They slumped forward, and your arms went out automatically, grunting a little under their weight. The scent hit you, then, under that perfume of blood and death, and you staggered, reeling, panic sinking its claws deep into your chest and making your heart rate kick up. Tom Ford and cigarettes.