Page 18 of A Forbidden Arrangement
The opening is right there. A breath away. Safety, if I can just slip through. I throw myself forward, but the ground tilts under me, a sudden drop. My hand shoots out for balance, palm scraping brick, skin splitting. The gap seals off, throwing me into darkness, caging me in.
God, please. Not this. Not now.
My nails bite into brick, clawing to get out, but I can’t feel the pain. Ice lances up my spine, and a raw, shuddering gasp rips up my throat when I hear the familiar voice.
“Iwillfind you.”
A grip clamps around my wrist, iron strong, yanking me down.
I jolt awake, a strangled noise tearing from my throat.
Sheets coil around my legs, damp with sweat. My chest heaves, lungs clawing for air that refuses to fill them.
The steady hum of the laundromat below seeps through the floor, a low vibration that steadies my pulse.
It was a dream.Justa dream.
The room slowly stops spinning, and my fingers loosen one by one. Red crescents carve into my palms, joining the scratches that never seem to heal.
The clock glares. 4:13 a.m. Too early. Always too early.
The neighbor’s alarm rings through the wall, and I sag with relief at the familiar noise.
I peel myself out of bed, sheets still twisted from the night, and plant my feet on the floorboards. They groan under the weight, soft in spots where the wood’s worn thin.
I scoop the laundry into the basket waiting on the floor. A couple of pairs of jeans. A short stack of diner blouses. Socks that never match, no matter how I fold them.
The paint flakes against my arm as I squeeze past the wall to the door. Everything I own piles into a single load.
The air downstairs carries the faint bite of detergent, a clean scent that settles in my chest. Fluorescent lights hum above, throwing a soft sheen across the tile. My socks slide as I cross to the row of machines, and the slip tugs at my lips. I stuff my clothes inside, coins clinking into the slot, and the washer kicks to life with a shudder.
The sound is low and constant, water rushing in, the rhythm soothing as it echoes through the floor.
When the cycle finishes, I carry the basket back upstairs, light already spilling through the blinds. The room glows in pale gold, every corner touched with warmth. I press the coffee maker button and shake out yesterday’s uniform. I smooth it across the drying rack with both hands, careful not to tug at the seams. My fingertips linger along the edges, tracing them flat until the blouse hangs neat and straight.
A quick shower later, I slip into the uniform, blouse tucked tight into the waistband of the skirt. I pin the name tag in place and face the cracked mirror above the sink. I’ll need to touch up my roots soon.
“Sarah.”
The letters glare back at me, borrowed and hollow. A name that isn’t mine, printed onto plastic so I can pretend to be someone else. Someone stronger.
Before I leave, I crouch at the window to check on my little buddy. The plant tilts sideways on the sill, and I tighten the string that holds it against the stick I rigged for support. When I first found it, half its leaves were brittle, the dirt cracked white.
I pour from a chipped mug, slow and careful. The soil drinks it down in seconds.
“You’re still hanging on,” I murmur, brushing a fingertip across the edge of a leaf. It dips under the touch, then bounces back upright, stubborn in its own fragile way.
It isn’t pretty. Thin stems. Curling edges. But it’s alive. Stronger than it was.
A little better each day.
Just like me.
The air outside bites cool against my skin, damp with the faint smell of rain. Shopkeepers heave up metal shutters, the town coming to life.
A sleek black car slides into view, and my stomach knots. The hum of its engine fills my ears until it turns the other way. I exhale, forcing the tension from my chest, and almost laugh at myself. There’s no way they could find me here. I’ve changed my name, switched phones, and buried the old one in a drawer.
I force my stride steady. Count to ten with every exhale. By six, my shoulders ease. By ten, my heartbeat returns to normal.
