Page 6

Sometimes I contemplated letting them consume me just so I didn’t have to try anymore.

Trying was so exhausting.

I looked down at my arms, turning them over and letting my gaze drift across the soft skin marred with my pain.

I was tired. It would be the easy road, to let those shadows crawl from the oil-fields of my being, sticky and cloaked in black, dripping with hate and rage and agony. It would be easy to embrace them, to give in and let that brutal darkness finally swallow me whole.

The bleak reality that stretched before me was worse than any cage. Even if I got Thorne’s money, I’d be doing the same thing in another town.

Freedom? There was no such thing. We were all prisoners in some form, and sometimes the shape it took was one you drew yourself.

TWO

The root of all suffering is attachment.

I read that on a bathroom wall somewhere once, about a year after I’d left Philly. It was scrawled in sharp, scratchy letters underneath layers of grime and surrounded by people proclaiming they’d been there, a few initials, and other words that were much cruder.

But it stuck with me. Had imprinted itself on my young mind, embedded itself in my worn, hardened heart.

Attachment to things, places, people. Moments, memories, regrets. All it ever brought was suffering. I never let myself get too attached to anything—not that Marion was any kind of special place I felt tied to, but still.

I was finally getting out of here, but I really hoped that the shitty morning I’d had wasn’t an indicator of how the rest of the day would go.

I overslept because the little bedside clock’s alarm stopped working, and when I rushed out the door, I saw three daffodils sitting on the concrete near the railing, lined up in a neat row. They were pretty, and I loved flowers, but I didn’t have time for weird shit like that, so I’d kicked them aside. Nobody would be leaving me flowers, a kid had probably just dropped them on the way to their room.

I missed the bus because I’d overslept, and it was pouring down rain, to top it all off. I didn’t have an umbrella, so I was drenched and uncomfortable, my clothes sticking to me and my beat-up shoes squelching with every step. By the time I dragged myself into the Army Surplus store, I was itching to get into that office and work on getting the safe open.

As I pushed through the doors, all that pent up, buzzing, angry energy from my shitty morning multiplied and exploded, destroying any hope I had to get into the back office.

Tom was here.

Tom was here, and he shouldn’t fucking be here.

But lo-and-fucking-behold, there he was, standing behind the counter with a smug smile as he counted the money in the register. Jay, my co-worker and a spineless lemming, was standing beside him. The stupid hat he liked to wear was turned backwards today, like he thought it made him look cool. It made him look like he was trying too hard, and for what, even? For Tom? God, he was pathetic.

I was fucking livid. The only thing I’d been looking forward to was not having to deal with Tom, so I couldn’t stop myself from gritting out, “What are you doing here?”

“You’re late, Margot,” Tom told me, using the fake name I’d given them and obviously relishing in the fact that I’d messed up in some way. His satisfied smile crept higher on his pockmarked cheeks, his dull brown eyes lighting up in a way I’d seen too often when he looked at me.

His gaze raked down my body, lingering at the parts where my clothes were clinging a little too tightly. It was an effort to not try and cover myself with my hands, to not let him know just how much he made me feel truly filthy.

“Yeah, well, my alarm didn’t go off and I missed my bus.” My shoes sloshed on the floor as I moved to the boxes piled up on the cart near the hunting outfits. I wasn’t good enough for client interface, so I ended up doing inventory and stocking shit. It suited me just fine and was easy work, but today I didn’t feel like doing any of it. I didn’t want to be here anymore, and I wanted Tom to be here even less.

“I think my dad’s gonna have something to say about you being late,” Tom said.

“Let him say it, then,” I muttered, not caring anymore. The only thing I needed, right fucking now, was for Tom to disappear so I could follow through with my plan. “Seriously, why are you even here? I thought it was your day off.”

“We had a big shipment come early, figured I’d give you guys a hand. So quit being rude and get to work. You might not even have a job, you keep acting like a bitch.”

My fingers curled into tight fists and my arms were shaking so intensely he could probably see it. I kept my back to him, though, because if I looked him in the eyes right now, I’d claw them from his head. I was barely hanging on, barely able to keep my feet in place, as his words drifted like a stray ember and settled into the gunpowder of my mind, sparking a volatile explosion of fury.

I wanted to walk right out that door and never come back. I wanted to scream, to release the emotions that he brought to the surface so easily. I took a long, deep breath, slipped the boxcutter from my pocket, and slid it along the packing tape of the first box, imagining it was Tom’s face. That barely helped at all, but focusing on the work was enough of a distraction that after a while, I could pretend he wasn’t even there.

A few hours passed, and my anger settled itself a bit—especially because it really did seem like Tom had enough work to do that he didn’t have time to harass me, so I worked and I waited.

He always went out for lunch and took a long, long break. Sometimes hours. Sometimes he never even came back. If I was lucky, today would be one of those days he just didn’t feel like returning.

I jumped when a hand cupped my ass, whipping around and ready to strike out, but Tom danced away laughing before I could shove him off me. He held his hands up like he hadn’t done a single thing wrong and said, “Did you feel that draft, too? Must be a window open somewhere.”