Page 10 of Wings
I took the stairs. No elevators for me, no thank you! Elevators were small metal boxes with no escape route, with buttons that might not work when you needed them to. I counted each step to the forth floor. Forty-eight steps total.
My apartment door had three locks—deadbolt, chain, and a bar lock I'd installed myself despite the lease violations.
The apartment itself was a study in sterile minimalism. White walls I wasn't allowed to paint. Beige carpet that showed every stain. A couch from IKEA that looked like it belonged in a therapist's waiting room. No photos on the walls, no personal touches that might tell a story about who lived here.
The only color came from my scrubs hanging in the bedroom closet—ceil blue and hunter green and burgundy, a rainbow of professional camouflage. The windowsill held my single mark of personality: a collection of tiny cacti in mismatched pots. Plants that thrived on neglect, that could survive without constant care.
Like me.
I moved through my checking ritual with practiced efficiency. Windows first—all locked, blinds drawn at the exact angle that let in light but blocked sight lines from the building across the street. I'd measured it once with a protractor, finding the precise degree of privacy.
Closet next. Sliding doors that I opened fast, like ripping off a bandage. Empty except for clothes and the neat line of shoesI never wore. No monsters hiding behind winter coats. No ex-boyfriends crouched in corners.
Under the bed took more courage. I had to get on my knees, lift the dust ruffle I'd chosen specifically because it didn't quite touch the floor. The lockbox sat where I'd left it, unopened for three years now. Inside were documents I might need someday—birth certificate, passport, the restraining order that had expired but still felt important to keep.
Only after checking everything twice could I shower. The bathroom door locked from the inside, a modification I'd paid for myself. The water ran hot enough to fog the mirror before I stepped in, before I had to see myself again.
I stripped mechanically, leaving clothes in a pile that I'd deal with later. The water hit my skin and I gasped. It was so hot I could only just take it—just the way I liked it.
The scar on my hip caught the water in weird ways, channels and ridges that hadn't been there before that night. Eight inches of raised tissue that started just below my ribs and curved toward my pelvis like a question mark.
I'd stopped looking at it directly years ago. Stopped tracing its edges in the mirror, stopped trying to massage vitamin E oil into the stubborn tissue. Some things didn't heal no matter how much you rubbed them with good intentions.
When I was done, I toweled off quickly, efficiently, wrapping my hair in a towel turban that Mom had taught me when I was seven and my hair was long enough to sit on.
My pajama drawer held sensible things—old t-shirts, flannel pants, the kind of sleepwear appropriate for a grown woman living alone. But in the back, wrapped in tissue paper like a guilty secret, lived the soft things. Pale yellow pajamas covered in tiny ducks. A sleep shirt with clouds and rainbows. Fuzzy socks with grip dots on the bottom.
Tonight called for the ducks. I pulled them on, the fabric soft from too many washes, the elastic worn but still functional. They made me look younger, smaller, like someone who needed protecting. Maybe that was the point.
The kitchen was as sparse as the rest of the apartment. White cabinets, white counters, stainless steel sink that showed water spots if you breathed near it. I filled the kettle, the sound of water echoing in the empty space. While it heated, I reached for my favorite mug—the only one that wasn't part of a matched set.
Cream ceramic with a chip on the handle that fit my thumb perfectly. A tiny painted elephant on the side, trunk raised for luck. Chamomile tea because caffeine would keep me awake and I needed to sleep before tomorrow night's shift. I added honey because little Ki liked sweet things and I was too tired to fight her tonight. The steam rose like prayers or wishes or just the exhalation of exhausted women everywhere.
I was so tired, I should have probably gone straight to bed.
But I didn’t.
I needed comfort.
The trunk under my bed called to me like a siren song. I told myself I was just checking it was still there, the same lie I told every time I pulled it out. Just making sure everything was safe. Just organizing. Just, just, just.
I tugged it out and pulled it open. This trunk was full of the most precious things in my life, all wrapped in my baby blanket.
The blanket still smelled faintly of lavender fabric softener, though I hadn't washed it in years. Too afraid it would fall apart, lose whatever magic lived in its worn cotton fibers. Inside, my collection waited like patient friends. Three coloring books, their spines uncracked. My stuffie, a golden monkey called Mr. Butterscotch. A zippered pouch with colored pencils. The 64-pack of crayons I'd bought in a moment of reckless indulgence.
I pulled out the princess one first. Not because I particularly cared about princesses, but because the gardens called to me. Intricate designs of roses and vines, castle walls covered in climbing flowers, dragons that looked more friend than foe sleeping among the petals. The kind of controlled chaos I could manage, where staying inside the lines was a choice rather than a compulsion.
My fingers traced the cover, glossy and perfect. Inside, every page waited blank and full of possibility. Not like the rest of my life, where every choice had already been made by circumstances beyond my control.
The crayon box opened with a soft crack of plastic. That smell hit me immediately—waxy and chemical and absolutely perfect. Sixty-four colors arranged in rainbow order, each one with its point intact. I'd never used them, saving them for some future moment when I deserved them. When I was better. When I was healed. When I was someone else.
Not tonight.
I hoped that some day, though, I might get the chance to use them.
Chapter 3
Wings
