Page 45 of Unholy Saint

I used the restroom, flushed, then walked to the sink.

I turned on the tap and washed my hands slowly. The water ran over my fingers. I watched it disappear down the drain. Then I looked up.

And froze.

The woman in the mirror looked like a stranger.

I stared at her. Her hair was tangled from hours on buses. Her skin was pale beneath the fluorescent lights. There was swelling around her mouth, a bruise darkening along her jaw, and fingerprints faintly visible against the skin of her neck.

I touched my lip. Pain flared beneath my fingertips. I pulled my hand away. For a moment, I simply stared. This wasn't me. I didn't look like myself.

How had my entire life disappeared in what felt like the space of a single breath?

A few days ago, I had known where I was going. I had known what tomorrow would look like. I had a home. A routine. People I knew.

I had believed my life was mine.

Now I was hiding in a motorway diner in the middle of Italy with bruises around my throat and a man sitting outside who had become the only reason I wasn't completely alone in the world.

I gripped the edge of the sink. My breathing changed. One breath. Then another. Too fast. I looked back at the mirror.

The bruises on my neck seemed darker. I remembered hands around my throat.

The fear. The running. And blood. Everything I'd been forcing down since I had stumbled into that church came rushing back at once.

My knees weakened and I sank to the floor. I tried to breathe but couldn’t.

A sob tore out of me before I could stop it. I pressed both hands over my mouth.

No. No, I couldn't do this. I couldn’t fall apart like this. Not here and not now. But my body didn't answer.

I curled into myself on the cold tile floor, pulling my knees toward my chest as the tears came harder.

I don't know how long I stayed there before I heard the door open.

“Adriana?”

I couldn't answer.