Page 62 of Drag You Down
She’s a young woman, with pale skin and black hair pulled back into two braids. She’s wearing a short, tight shirt that barely covers her top, and her shorts don’t even go midway down her thighs.
Between her fingers is a cigarette.
“Disturb me?” The woman looks around. “I was just enjoying the view.” She points to a nearby railing. “Have you ever seen the city reflected on the river at night? It’s pretty neat.”
I shake my head, wiping at my eyes. I’m reluctant to stand beside her. What sins has she inflicted upon herself? Will she taint me by proxy?
Or am I already beyond salvation?
I go to her and peer out at the river, wrinkling my nose as the stench of cigarette smoke fills my nostrils. “It’s pretty,” I say.
And it is, though I can’t properly appreciate it as my mind drifts to Gabriel.
None of us are free from sin.
I judge and judge, but now I’m one who deserves all of this in turn.
“Do you have a phone?” I ask her.
She gives me a strange look. “Yeah.”
I hesitate, then venture. “Could I maybe use it? Just to make a quick call.”
“What happened to your phone?” she asks, her hand going to her pocket.
The question takes me aback. “My phone?” I repeat, only to remember that everyone I see carries one. “I lost it.”
“Lost it? Where?” she asks, her voice even more suspicious now.
I bite my lip. “I don’t have one,” I finally say. “And I’m lost.”
In so many ways, I’m lost, and I don’t know how I’m going to find my way home again.
Her expression softens. “You don’t have a phone at all? Damn. I can call 9-1-1? Although that’sifyou trust the cops. Last time I dealt with them, I got a nasty strip search.” She gives me a once over. “They probably won’t fondle you as much as they did me.”
I shiver, shaking my head quickly. “No!” I say. “No. No cops.”
Father Zachariah says they’re all corrupt.
“I only want to go home.” I feel like a small child all over again, desperate to go home but not sure what awaits me there.
What if Eve told Father Zachariah about what happened? She has to be worried by now. I would tell him if she went missing. I would be trying to help, even if it would be…
Misguided.
“Okay. What’s the number?” she asks. “I’ll call for you.”
I hesitate. I can understand her not wanting to hand a stranger her phone, and I can’t even imagine how disheveled and out of place I must look right now.
I think there’s still blood under my fingernails, too. I’d had to wash my hands in a hurry, and I hadn’t been able to scrub them completely clean.
Or am I imagining it?
I give her the number, and she enters it into her phone and presses the call button.
It rings, but no one answers. She lets it ring eight times before finally tapping at the button to end it.
My heart has already dropped into my stomach, and I realize I am well and truly lost with no way to get home that I know of.
