Page 6 of His To Erase
No horror-movie reveal.
Just silence.
The only thing I hear is the quiet sound of my own pulse trying to climb into my throat. I pause, taking a deep breath.Okay, maybe that was nothing and I was being paranoid.
I drop my keys onto the counter and exhale. The worst part about running from your past isn’t the running itself. It’s the way you never stop looking over your shoulder, waiting for the moment it finally catches up.
I take off my boots and let them crash against the wall, one bouncing off at an angle like even they’re tired of holding it together.
My jacket follows, sliding off my shoulders, it hits the floor with a damp thud. I should hang it up, but I don’t.
The air in here is stale—cold in that weird, bone-deep way that sticks around no matter how many times I mess with the heater. Like the apartment itself has just… given up.
The couch is older than my trauma, sagging like it’s seen some shit and decided it no longer has the strength to care. There’s a tear in the armrest that I keep pretending isn’t growing and like most things in my life, it came damaged and I took it anyway.
The kitchen’s more of a suggestion than a functional space. The fridge hums like it’s threatening to quit. It’s loud and a little too passive-aggressive. The cabinet holds a mismatched graveyard of mugs and takeout containers I swear I’ll recycle someday. There’s no art on the walls. No warm lights. No fake plants. No half-assed attempts to convince anyone—including myself—that this is a place someone lives in, not just crashes in between jobs.
Just the essentials. Just enough to survive another day.
The only exception is my books.
They’re everywhere. Piled on the floor. Stacked on chairs. Stuffed into the one rickety shelf I drug home after a thrift store haul. It holds all my leather-bound classics, poetry anthologies, and stories about monsters, villains, and happy endings.
It’s a far cry from the life I used to have.
Once upon a time, my apartment had matching furniture. A real couch. A full set of dishes. Shelves that weren’t collapsing under the weight of bad decisions and trauma bonding with paperback spines.
The place felt warm, and lived in. Safe.
I had space, a bathroom door that locked without a prayer, and a bed that didn’t scream in protest every time I turned over. I also didn’t used to fall asleep wondering if someone was watching me from across the street—or if the next knock on the door was going to unravel whatever sanity I had left.
But sure. I’m thriving.
I rub a hand over my face trying to shake it off. There’s no use romanticizing what’s already gone.
That life? That girl? She didn’t make it.
I make my way to the bathroom, flipping on the light, and I meet my reflection like I’m checking in with a stranger who owes me answers.
The mirror above the sink is cracked in the corner like a spiderweb of glass, spreading like a warning.
My dark eyes are rimmed with exhaustion, and my hair is falling out of the braid I threw together twenty minutes before my shift. This girl looks like she’s seen some shit.
I peel off my work clothes one layer at a time, swapping them for sweatpants and the oversized hoodie that knows all my secrets. This part’s all routine.
Change.
Eat.
Try to sleep.
Wake up.
Repeat.
It’s not a life, but it’s working for now. And sometimes, that’s all survival really is.
I head into the kitchen and yank open the fridge door. It groans like it hates me, and the bulb flickers revealing the depressing inventory of a woman with commitment issues and no interest in grocery shopping.
