Page 81 of Breaking Isolde
I slam the door and lean against it, fighting for breath. My lungs burn, my eyes sting, but I won’t let myself cry. I can’t. If I start, I’ll never stop.
Instead, I go to the closet. I pull out my suitcase, the shitty Target one with the broken wheel, and set it on the bed. Then I start packing like a woman possessed.
Clothes first. Everything I can reach, every item I own that isn’t stamped with the Academy’s insignia. I don’t fold, I stuff. Jeans, hoodies, all the socks I can grab. T-shirts I’ve stolen from thelaundry room. The dress I wore to Casey’s funeral, wrinkled and black. It all goes in.
My hands are shaking so hard I can barely grip the zipper. It snags on the first try, so I yank it, harder, until the teeth tear through the fabric and the suitcase gapes open like a busted mouth.
FUCK.
That’s okay. This is okay. It’s fine. Keep moving.
Next: toiletries. I sweep them off the shelf, knocking half to the floor, and jam the rest into a plastic bag. Toothbrush, hairbrush, the little bottle of perfume I bought for myself last Christmas, hoping I’d have somewhere to wear it. I catch my reflection in the mirror above the sink and almost laugh.
I look rabid. Eyes huge, hair a wild halo, mouth set in a line that makes me look like my angry third grade teacher.
Feral.
I go to the desk, the mess of notebooks and pens and overdue assignments. I grab what matters: Casey’s framed photo. Next, my phone, and the charger with the kinked cable.
I’m almost done. All that’s left is the box under my bed. The one with the letters, the old key to our childhood home, the five twenties and a cheap necklace with Casey’s name etched on it. Idump the box upside down into the suitcase, then sit on the bed and try to zip it closed. The teeth refuse, so I wrap the entire thing with duct tape from my drawer. It looks like a hostage, and maybe it is.
My brain is running at a million miles an hour. I’m muttering under my breath, rehearsing my escape route. If I cut through the south woods, I can make it to the train station before dawn. I can hop the first Amtrak to the city and disappear, just like Casey always wanted to. Maybe I’ll dye my hair, maybe I’ll change my name.
Maybe I’ll die before they find me.
I don’t care. Anything is better than sitting still and waiting for them to destroy my life.
My baby.
I can’t believe I just thought that.
My baby.
It’s not even real yet. I’m not even sure I’d want it, even if it was. But the thought of the Board reaching their fat hands into my stomach and pulling it out is enough to make me retch. I double over, dry-heaving until my abs cramp, then sit back up and punch the pillow as hard as I can.
Something cracks in my knuckles. I welcome the pain.
The entire room stinks of adrenaline and panic. I’m about to throw up again when I hear the door creak.
I whip around, fists raised. “Who the fuck—?”
It’s Charlie.
She stands in the doorway, expression unreadable, arms crossed over her chest. Her hair is in two braids, neat as always. Her eyes are red, but not from crying.
She looks at the suitcase, then at me.
“Planning a trip?” she says.
“Oh, so now you wanna talk, huh? Thanks for all the help, CHARLOTTE, but I don’t really need your friendship now.”
Charlie walks in, shuts the door behind her, and leans against it. She takes in the chaos, the shredded suitcase, the mess on the bed. Her eyes land on Casey’s photo, then flick away.
“You know, if you run, they’ll just find you.”
“You have no idea what’s going on.”
She shrugs. “Don’t I? You think you’re the first girl they’ve fucked over?” She walks closer, every step slow and careful, like I’m a stray dog she’s trying to lure out from under a car. “You think you’re the first one to try and get away?”
