Page 11 of Velvet Thorns
Smudge. Shade. Sketch. Repeat.
When the pain in my wrist finally overpowers the need to keep going, I drop the pencil and set my sketchbook on the empty seat beside me—my not-so-subtle way of warding off anyone who might think about sitting next to me. I reach into my bag for a water bottle and let myself just sit. Music fills my ears, and my eyes follow the endless parade of strangers drifting past. So many people are living lives I’ll never know about, and just for a second, I wonder if anyone else here is catching a flight to set fire to the life they swore they’d never return to. Probably not. People like that don’t usually book round-trip tickets. They end up in handcuffs or headlines, not sitting at Gate 25 with hate in their hearts and a mask tucked in their bag.
A short while later, my flight gets called. I move quickly, grabbing my things and weaving through the crowd, heading straight for the VIP lounge—the kind of luxury that used to intimidate the hell out of me. When they finally call first-class boarding, I step onto the plane and settle into my seat, and for the first time all day, something tight in my chest finally loosens.
I’m obviously flying up front, because if I’m heading into the devil's playground, I’m doing it with legroom and decent alcohol. Up here, it’s different. The air is clean. The lighting is soft. The seat actually reclines. No one’s elbow is in my ribs, and no one’s perfume is choking me out.
This is what money buys you—privacy, silence, and comfort. Here, I can finally stretch out, close my eyes, and pretend for a few hours, at least, that everything is under control.
Two hours later, we touch down. I wait what feels like an eternity for the car I booked to show up, my patience wearing thinner with every minute that ticks by while I stand here like an idiot atthe curb. By the time the black sedan finally rolls up, I’m about two seconds away from saying “Fuck it,” and walking. I slide into the back seat, the leather cold against my thighs, and finally, I can breathe.
“West Springs Hotel,” I say, my voice calm, though the coil in my gut tightens. “I know I noted it in the booking, but just in case?—”
“I was told, miss,” the driver rumbles from the front, barely glancing at me.
“Right.” I clear my throat, trying to ignore how everything inside me is screaming to turn around and get back on the next flight out. “I haven’t been back here in a long time. Is it far?”
“About fifteen minutes on a good day,” he says, easing away from the curb.
“Thanks.”
I lean back, watching the city blur past the window, my eyes scanning the streets like I might randomly catch a glimpse of someone I used to know.
But it won’t be my parents.
Both of them overdosed a few years ago—probably slumped over that same stained couch or curled up on the kitchen floor, chasing one last high in a place that breathed nightmares and stank of piss.
They were dead before I could even decide whether or not I wanted to forgive them. Before I could stand in front of them and force them to hear what they did to me.
I didn’t forgive them then, and I still don’t now. Some things are unforgivable, and a childhood spent dodging needles is one of them.
Good fucking riddance.
“Are you here on vacation?” the driver asks, and honestly, small talk with a stranger is the last thing I need right now.
“Kinda,” I mutter, unlocking my phone without looking up, hoping he’ll take the hint. “School reunion.”
“You don’t sound that excited about it.” He chuckles, and for a second, guilt pricks at me for wishing he’d stop talking to me.
“Kids in school were mean,” I say flatly, my eyes still on my screen. “I doubt adulthood’s made them any better.”
That shuts him up, thank God. The last thing I need is to start pulling at that thread and unraveling in the back of a stranger's car. Silence settles over us, and we pull up to the hotel a few minutes later. The driver steps out, grabs my bags, and places them carefully on the curb. Before I can move, a hotel porter jogs over to claim them. The driver slides back behind the wheel, and I slip a fifty over the console.
“Here, thanks,” I murmur, and he reaches back to take the bill from my hand.
“Thank you. I hope your reunion goes well.”
“Yeah,” I say, pushing the door open. “Me too.”
I step out, trailing the man with my bags, and before I know it, I’m back in luxury, throwing myself onto the obscenely expensive penthouse bed. I’m not sorry for the money I’m burning. The last time I was in this town, my mom was shooting up in a filthy trailer while I scrounged for food that didn’t have mold growing on it. So yeah, I’ll take the overpriced linens.
Room service and a long, scalding bubble bath later, I’m wrapped in the softest white robe while some trashy reality TV show buzzes in the background, but I’m not watching it. My mind’s somewhere else entirely.
Get out of my head, Phoenix.
I wander to my bags, reaching in for my sketchbook—searching, but not finding.
Panic burns through my chest, and I tear through my luggage like a woman possessed, clothes flying everywhere, while toiletriesscatter across the floor. My hands shake as I check every pocket, every compartment, and every fucking zipper.
