Olivia
Monday, December 19th
rest despite the extra runs I’ve been getting on the treadmill lately. It’s the catch in my throat, the tears stinging my eyes, and my racing thoughts that make breathing so hard, not to mention the night air that’s getting colder by the second.
Sheer fear motivates me too.
But I run, speeding up whenever Elle urges me to.
She yanks me to an abrupt stop in front of a building. As I slam into her from the shift in momentum, I realize we’re at her building.
She fumbles with her keys as she removes them from my purse. She insisted that I hold them so that she could protect some of our money. She swipes a plastic card attached to the keys, then yanks the door open.
She shoves me inside and looks over her shoulder before following.
“They aren’t behind us,” she gasps. “We need to be quick, though. I can’t guarantee that they can’t get in.”
She moves toward the elevator and hits the up button repeatedly until the door gingerly slides open, revealing the small metal box. We step inside simultaneously. As the doors close, a feeling of safety hits, then gets snatched away as we lurch upward, and I have no way of predicting what’s on the other side.
I hold my breath as the box stops and the doors open. I let it out when there’s nobody waiting on the other side.
“Come on,” she says, her composure—and breath—back. “Get your things.”
She rushes me inside, then closes the door and engages all four locks.
The warmth of the room hits my wind-chilled skin, causing it to prick. The pins and needles progress as I move into the bedroom, opening the door to the small closet.
I stare inside, looking for answers.
Before I know what’s come over me, I’m back in the bedroom entry, then the tiny living space.
Elle’s taking a swig from her bourbon bottle.
“What the hell happened back there?” I demand.
She rolls her eyes.
“Don’t be so dramatic.” She puts the cap back on and shoves the bottle into the cupboard.
“You think I’m being dramatic?” I ask, my voice rising. “We were attacked. I was held at knifepoint.”
“And I handled it.”
She grabs nails from a drawer and sets them on her table. She props one up and aims the hammer, then pauses, looking at me.
“I thought…” I say, my voice cracking. “I thought that you were going to be raped, that they were going to skin us alive.”
My stomach curdles. I had thought that the other man would rape Elle while the cool metal blade was pressed against my throat. The man held me too tightly; I couldn’t escape, and I couldn’t help her.
“Skin us alive? Nah. Not with that knife,” she says too casually.
My body stiffens, tears rolling down my cheeks. She thinks this is a joke.
But her eyes are gentle, less intense than usual. “These men … they’re capable of anything, but I handled it. We do need to get moving, though.”
She begins hammering. “Elle,” I say sharply.
She peers up from her task, a large purple mark forming on her cheek. She pauses at the sight of me wringing my hands. I probably look pale. Sickly even. I think I might be sick.
“Who were they? How do you know them?” I ask, refusing to lose my courage.
“Sometimes,” she begins, her eyes apologetic, “our past catches up with us.”
“And the way you fought back? I’m guessing that wasn’t just luck.”
“Like I said, sometimes the past catches us. I was prepared.”
She slams a nail into the table, then another.
“Olivia,” she says without looking back at me. “You need to get your things. Now. Don’t make me leave without you.”
I head to the closet in the bedroom.
The linens swirl in my vision, twisting into the darkness of the cupboard. My stomach aches from hunger and exhaustion, anxiety, and something else.
I just stood up to Elle. I just survived a … whatever it was.
“We need to go,” Elle calls from the other room.
I pull myself out of my head, willing my body to move. I yank my bag from the shelf, and it drags a couple of sheets with it. They fall to the floor, along with a document.
I tuck the sheets back onto their shelf and grab the paper off the floor. There’s a photo folded inside. Curiosity gets the best of me, and I open the top flap. The letter is short.
If you’re reading this, welcome home.
~ L
I open the bottom flap, revealing the picture. I recognize a young Elle first. It’s easy to suspect that it’s her, despite the age. Her red hair gives her away, and her green eyes stare down at the photographer with an unmatched intensity. The young man next to her, with blond curls and beautiful blue eyes, is also familiar.
He’s too familiar.
It’s as if the wind gets knocked out of me.
No. It can’t be.
My breath finally comes back, rapidly, and I begin to hyperventilate.
“Olivia, let’s go!” Elle shouts, her footsteps approaching the door.
I fold the photo before she can see it and shove it into my back pocket.
“Coming,” I say, just as she reaches the bedroom doorframe.
It’s an out-of-body experience, running from an enemy that you didn’t realize existed, riding in a car with a driver who’s proving to be the same. An enemy. A stranger. A dangerous stranger.
I feel as though I’m floating above myself, watching through the sunroof as I sit in the passenger seat, silently wringing my hands in my lap. I pluck all the nail polish from my acrylics. I urge myself to speak, but since I have no voice, either in the form floating above my body, or in my actual body, I’m silent.
I’m so confused.
When we’re long out of the city, on the freeway headed for home, I once again connect with my body. The pain in my tense muscles is excruciating, making it impossible to relax.
Elle drives with one hand on the wheel, appearing as chill as ever, but I notice a carefully calculated alertness in her. She’s perfectly poised and ready to pounce at a moment’s notice.
She senses my eyes on her and glances over.
“I used to be mixed up with some bad people,” she says.
“That’s why you weren’t supposed to be in New York?”
“Yes,” she sighs.
I nod as if I understand, but I don’t know what I don’t know.
Is Elle on my side? There’s no clear line between good and bad. Maybe it’s all bad. Everyone. Elle included. And Camden … he somehow plays a role.
I stare into the night, watching headlights pass in the opposite direction. Time is slow and fast, or not present at all.
At one point, Elle turns off the freeway, though I don’t really process it. Not until she hands me a large cup of ice cream, and it triggers my senses back to work. Greasy hamburgers and fries saturate the air around me, and my stomach grumbles.
She pulls into a parking spot and fiddles with her phone before veering back out onto the road, then the freeway. I pick at the melting ice cream, thick with candy pieces, barely tasting the sweet comfort it’s meant to provide.
“I cancelled our dinner plans,” she announces.
What dinner plans? I mean to ask it out loud. But I don’t have the energy.
I scoop at the bottom of my paper cup for several bites before realizing that I’m out of ice cream. Holding it to my lap, I focus on the vibrations of the wheels against the pavement—much like the anxiety buzzing through my body.
My eyelids shut, and exhaustion keeps them closed. I’m vaguely aware of my consciousness drifting in and out. Time and space are lost. Emotions gone.
Numbness. It’s better here.
“Let’s go,” Elle says, startling me.
I open my eyes, trying to see through the blur of sleep. There are bright lights, a hotel.
“Where are we?” I ask.
“We can’t go home tonight.”
The familiar buzz of my nerves returns, but I still can’t muster the energy to comprehend, let alone ask. So, I take the simplest route. I get out of the car, and once again, follow Elle.