"Who are you?" I demand.
The boy in front of me replies, "That's not how this works, love."
I freeze.
That phrase.
That voice.
It can't be.
I look up but he's just a cloaked silhouette. The rustling stops when boys surrounding us step from their h...
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Tuesday
I sit up in bed holding my hurting sides, glancing at the time. 5:13am. I cautiously get out of bed, lifting my shirt and seeing the angry bruises looking worse than yesterday. I'm careful to put on pants. Without brushing my teeth or hair I race, best I can, from the apartment to the newspaper stand down the street. I snatch at one running away before being shouted at to pay for it. I sprint all the way back to the complex, shaking anxiously while I ride the elevator up. I run back to my apartment when the elevator doors part and I don't stop until I've locked my bedroom door behind me.
My entire torso shouts angrily at me for running but I ignore the pain and I rip at the paper, searching for anything on recent murders again. I look for a name, his face, a story but find nothing. I spend hours reading through it over and over. Nothing. Mother didn't ever walk into my room, even when she got home that evening. I longed all day to go back to sleep. I felt guilty. Every breath felt like a sin. I took a man's life and here I lay in bed all day long. Exhausted I stay in bed, guilt depriving me of sleep. The dreams I've had the passed two days have me wishing I could back. Those dreams are my only peace from the uninterrupted pain and the heavy burden of guilt. The bruises on my neck are clearing up a little bit and my black eye is just beginning to recover. But the thick layer of purple and green still taint my torso. I grow frustrated unable to find anything about the man and I give up rereading the paper.
Mother is shouting at me from behind my closed door.
"Jane! Be back late!" Then the front door slams shut.
How did she know we're here?
I shrug getting up. I now have the apartment to myself for the rest of the night. I'm a nervous wreck. I miss sleep. I miss that feeling of flying. I need to go back to that place that replaced my nightmares. That place that gave me peace and faith for the short time I was there. But mostly I can't get the bloody images and guilt of taking life to leave me alone. The dream is a distraction from the man with his brains on the cement. But the distraction only worked so well, I know if I can just fall asleep again and dream then all the stress and nerves that are wrecking my insides will be gone. The only problem is that anxiety made it impossible to calm down enough to fall asleep.
So I tiptoe out of my room quietly. I use the bathroom for the first time today and find myself something to eat. I take my time eating, enjoying the quiet apartment. When I finish, I wash my dishes and walk around the apartment turning off all the lights and lock the door, with all the windows. I head back to my room and lay down to sleep, but like the night before, and all day, sleep is absent. I get out of bed again, leaving only my lamp on, and I peek my head down the hallway with an idea. The risky part.
I silently run into Mother's room. I haven't been in here since we got the place, but I know where they are. My target is her nightstand drawer. I don't know if it's trust issues, or I'm just extra cautious but I'm too frightened to be loud or turn on the lights. I feel for her nightstand in the dark and pull open the drawer once I find it. I slide my hand inside and feel everything slowly, searching for the little white bottle.
