Page 7 of His To Erase
There’s half a carton of milk, a takeout container that might be from last week—or last month, honestly, it’s a gamble—and a half-eaten roll of cookie dough I’ve been pretending is breakfast.
I slam the door shut and reach for the mac and cheese in the cabinet instead. The blue box kind. The one that doesn’t ask questions or require emotional investment.
Filling a pot with water, I set it on the stove and crank the burner until the gas hisses and finally catches with a flickering flame that looks just as exhausted as I feel.
Minimal effort. Minimal thinking. It’s all I have the energy for tonight.
As I wait for the water to boil, I lean against the counter and cross my arms like that’s going to keep the thoughts in.
I’m all auto pilot right now. I stir the noodles, drain them, then dump in the powdered cheese and the splash of milk that may or may not be flirting with its expiration date. It mixes into a color that shouldn't exist in nature as the smell hits the air.
I take a bite straight from the pot, and naturally it’s too hot, and burns my tongue, but I barely flinch.
My mind drifts—uninvited, like it always does when things get quiet. And I let it. Because fighting it takes more energy than I have tonight.
It’s almost been a year since I got here.
Long enough that the nightmares have changed shape, and long enough that the bruises have faded.
It’s been almost as long since I found Frank bleeding out in that alley, slumped against a wall like he had all the time in the world. Five months since I hesitated when I should have just called for help and walked away.
I didn’t even plan on going down the alley.
Sarah, my just as unhinged best friend was the one who was supposed to take out the trash before she left—basic end-of-shiftprotocol. But does she ever actually finish a shift without getting distracted by something shiny or flirty?
Of course not.
She bailed early—again—probably climbed onto the back of some guy’s motorcycle while I got stuck doing her closing duties. Best friend of the year. Truly.
So there I was, grumbling to myself, dragging out the trash and mentally writing her obituary—when I saw him.
At first, I thought he was just another drunk guy slumped against the wall, breathing through whatever bad decisions landed him there.
I was going to leave him. I swear I was. But then I saw the blood and heard the gasp.
“Help.”
Just that. Barely a whisper. But it landed like a punch. And now I can’t shake him.
Sighing, I toss the spoon into the sink with more force than necessary, and drag myself to the couch, sinking into the worn cushions like they might swallow me whole if I ask nicely.
I grab my phone out of habit—not because I want to be online, but because the silence is louder without the glow of distraction.
I swipe the screen, scrolling through meaningless updates, vacation photos, engagement announcements, and baby bumps. There’s an occasional post from someone I used to know—people who have no idea where I am. People who think I just disappeared.
Which, to be fair, I did.
I left everything behind. Burned the trail, and slammed the door, locking it from the other side.
But no matter how far I run, no matter how many nights I spend staring at this same cracked ceiling in a city where no one says my name—it never feels far enough.
I open the message thread with the lunatic I call my best friend.
Me: In case you’re wondering, I’m still alive.
I made boxed mac and cheese and only cried a little.
I’m calling it a win. You’d be proud.
