Page 15 of Traces of Her

Nine

ROWENA

Six Months Later

“YOU ALMOST DONE?” Charlie asks as he walks into the room where I sit surrounded by baggies and capsules.

Pouring the rest of the heroin into one of the red and white capsules, I look up at him and nod. “That was the last one,” I say, tossing it into the jar full of others and peel off my gloves.

“Perfect,” he grins, grabbing the jar and the box full of bags of meth. “I got people comin’ soon to get some of this shit.”

I take my hint and nod while I stand up and stretch out my legs. Charlie doesn’t like me in his room when his drug deals go down. “Dinner’s on me tonight,” he says as I head out of the room, leaving the door unlocked behind me. Six months ago when I first met him, he was plagued with paranoia and his room was always locked down like a fortress. Now, it’s as if he completely threw away the key. He’s become too trusting and too comfortable.

If there are two things I’ve learned in life, it’s never get too comfortable and trust no one.

Charlie failed at both.

It’s only a matter of time before he fails me too.

I retreat to my bedroom, leaving the door slightly ajar and plop down onto my bed. The slight bounce of the mattress lifts my feet from the floor for a moment. I glance over at my alarm clock, noticing it’s only mid-afternoon. Charlie wouldn’t be done until the middle of the evening when we’d get dinner and then he’d continue late into the night afterward. On the nights when he does his dealing, I tend to spend that time alone in my room. Old habits die hard. It’s been an adjustment learning to live with the freedom I have now.

After my escape, the fire was all over the news. Janet and Phil’s bodies were both discovered and evidence determined it to be an arson and homicide case with the perpetrator still at large. They had no suspects and they never will. That case is so cold, it’s fucking frozen and they’ll never be able to solve it, not when it was done by the hands of a ghost.

I walk over to the vanity in my room and stand in front of the mirror. Pulling down the collar of my shirt, white spots of puckered skin cover my shoulder, trailing over my chest and down my back. I examine the exposed scars, slowly touching each one. I keep them to myself, keeping them locked away from others with their curious stares and eyes clouded with questions. The scars are mine and mine only, and the story they tell will never be told.

Pulling my shirt back into place I walk back to my bed and bury my face deep in the pillows. I let my breathing grow shallow, feeling my chest constrict as my oxygen supply slowly depletes and I breathe in the carbon dioxide. My instincts scream at me to move my face from the mattress and surrounding pillows. I push against them, testing my body, training my mind to fight my instincts.

They can’t control me.

Every move I make needs to be precise and calculated.

Instincts can’t be relied on for survival.

My chest burns and my mind slowly grows hazy. Rolling onto my back, I take a deep breath, sucking in the oxygen my body desperately craves. My body quickly bounces back, and I feel the strength in my mind growing. The higher mental and physical demands that I can overcome reassures my sense of survival.

That is what we’re doing here on Earth, right?

We’re not actually living, we’re just surviving.

Letting the numbness slowly take over my mind, I fall into a light dreamless sleep.

A few hours pass before I quickly wake up in a panic. I never sleep for more than an hour or so at once. I remain still, letting my eyes open and survey the room before getting up. My tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth and my chapped lips feel like they’re coated with dried glue. I quietly head down the hallway to the kitchen for a drink. The house is empty, with the faint sound of rap music playing behind Charlie’s closed door. A soft light from the yellow street lamp outside shines across the kitchen floor. I pull open the fridge door and examine the nearly empty shelves before grabbing a bottle of water.

I twist open the cap and drain half of the bottle before I leave the kitchen. The walk from the kitchen to my room is short, but the hallway feels like it’s stretching the farther I walk like I’m caught in a dream.

“What the fuck’s your deal?” My head jerks toward Charlie’s room at the sound of the muffled yell. The voice isn’t his, but it’s familiar. So familiar, I know exactly who it is.

Something hits the wall, crashing onto the floor. “I gave you your fuckin’ money, you old ass piece of shit!” Another crash sounds with more muffled voices. I can make out Charlie’s voice, but not his words. The only words I can make out is the yelling coming from the last person I want to hear. Jared, the piece of shit junkie I met the first night here and the one who keeps creeping around here for his next fix. He’s a fucking loose cannon and a ticking time bomb; the worst combination.

My feet are cemented in place, my back pressed up against the wall.

I should run and lock myself away in my room.

I should run as far away from this house as I can.

I should. I should. I should.

Fucking instincts always trying to tell me what I should do.

So, I do exactly what I shouldn’t do.

Pushing off the wall, I stride across the hall and let myself into the last place I should be, the room where I’m not welcomed.

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