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A low rumbling starts, and we wait. Every three minutes and twenty-four seconds a train screeches past our apartment, sending anything which isn’t bolted down crashing to the floor. It’s the reason we can’t have nice things—besides the fact we can’t afford them. We’ve lived together for almost a year, and it’s become second nature to build pauses into our conversations as we wait for the shaking and the screeching to stop.
As the noise fades, Billie takes a hit of weed and leans against the peeling door frame of her bedroom. “Wanna talk about it?”
I pause, considering it, then shake my head. Billie is nice enough, but she’s always higher than a kite and has enough problems of her own. Talking of Billie’s problems, the main one appears over her shoulder.
“Holy shit, Dahlia, you look like you’ve been hit by a bus,” Hendrix, Billie’s boyfriend slurs, tugging the joint out of her hand and sucking on it like it’s an oxygen tube. My eyes flick between the both of them. If I’d never heard their ridiculously loud sex marathons through the thin plasterboard walls, then I’d guess they were siblings. Both have straggly blonde hair and always seem to be wearing oversized plaid shirts and beanie hats. Just before I’d left for the Van der Boors yacht two weeks ago, Billie had sworn her and Hendrix were finally over. For good this time. She said she’dfinallyrealized he was just using her for her internship at a local indie record label. Which, I have no doubt that he is. He thinks when they finally promote her to a junior producer, then she can sign his shitty rock band and he’ll be one step closer to selling out venues all over the world. That’s not the reason I think they should split up, though. It’s more to do with all the brain cells she’s killing by smoking his weed, and all of the purple bruises I can see up the sleeve of her shirt and up the leg of her denim cut-offs, a result of when he smokes something a little stronger. She catches me staring and rearranges her clothes, flashing me an apologetic smile.
“That’s exactly what happened,” I deadpan. “Got hit by a bus coming out of the airport.”
Billie has the mental capacity to gasp at least, but Hendrix lets out a lazy chuckle. “Supposed to get on the bus, Dahlia. Not under it.”
When he disappears into the bedroom again, joint in hand, Billie pulls the door shut behind her and guides me into our tiny kitchen. “I know, I know,” she says in a hushed voice, “I was supposed to dump him. But he apologized and said he’ll start paying rent. You know, ‘cause he’s here all the time.”
“Great,” I groan, leaning against the sink and staring out the window. The low rumbling starts again, and we wait, making awkward eye contact with the blurry faces of passengers as another train whizzes past.
“Anyway,” Billie says, slamming her hand against the counter once it dies down. “Do you need to go to the hospital?”
“No insurance.”
“Want me to look at your cuts? That one above your eye is extra-nasty.”
I sigh. “No, I’m good.”
Her brows knit into concern. “You weren’t hit by a bus, were you?”
We lock eyes.
“What happened on the yacht, Dahlia?” she whispers, taking her time to look at every cut, bruise, and swollen lump decorating my face. “Did you even get on a yacht? Because it was the first I’d ever heard of you being a trained yacht stewardess. You were working at the diner downtown then all of a sudden you quit and were packing your bags and pocketing your passport, talking about this sudden work opportunity.”
I offer her a tiny smile. “You know what I’m going to say.”
“I know, I know. Ask you no secrets and you’ll tell me no lies.”
Hendrix’s groany, moany voice floats through the hallway and into the kitchen. “Biiii-lie. Biii-lie. Come backkkk…”
Billie rolls her bloodshot eyes and there’s that apologetic grin again. “That’s my name. Better go before he wears it out.” I try not to flinch in pain as she gives me a one-armed hug, the stench of weed drifting up my nostrils. “Glad you’re all right, huh?”
I manage a nod as she stumbles from the kitchen. A few moments later, blaring rock music rattles the doorknobs and vibrates through the walls.
I groan.Welcome home.
Although, I’m nowhere near as mad about the sudden assault on my ears as I usually would be. There was a good moment back there, in Johannesburg, when I thought I wasn’t going to see Billie, or her fuck-up boyfriend, ever again.
Walking into my tiny box bedroom, breathing in the cocktail of fresh bedsheets and damp mold creeping along the corners of the ceiling, it truly hits home—I was really fucking close to dying. In fact, Iwouldprobably be dead by now, if it wasn’t for the gorgeous, dark panther that skulked into my Oriental cage, before spraying bullets and whisking me to safety on his private jet.
It almost doesn’t feel real, and if I couldn’t smell his oaky bodywash clinging to my body and his sweater, or if the intensity of his gaze wasn’t burned into my retinas, I’d say I’d dreamt it. I’d expect to wake up any moment, still in that penthouse, still chained to the radiator. Still hissing and biting and kicking any wandering hand that comes near my naked body.
I didn’t even get his name.
My body feels heavier and weaker than ever, and I know I need food, water, and a good night’s sleep. First though, I need to brave the extent of my injuries. Like ripping off a Band-Aid, I just have to get it done and over with. So I make my way into the bathroom and stare at my reflection in the cracked, rusting mirror above the sink.
My breath hitches in my throat, and I have to steady myself.
I’m no stranger to a beating, but these are the worst injuries I’ve ever had. Pulling up my sweater reveals my bruised rib cage, a nasty cut across my left breast, from where that asshole sliced me open with a pocketknife because I wouldn’t open my mouth to suck his cock. After examining every inch of my skin, rolling every joint and flexing every muscle, I conclude that miraculously, nothing’s broken. Everything is just very bruised, swollen, and once the adrenaline wears off, I’m going to be in a hell of a lot of pain.
I lean my palms against the sink and stare at my reflection. I don’t recognize the face looking back at me, and not just because of the injuries.
Girl, get it together.
