There isn’t much to the place, not much she can feign has caught her interest, so now she’s looking at me and I’m back to wanting to claw my way out of my body.
“Why didn’t you want to go home?” I ask.
“I didn’t want to bring what happened to me to a place I’ve always felt safe in. Plus, my parents would’ve asked too many questions.”
“You don’t think they’ll be worried? Does anyone know where you are?” I blink, hoping I haven’t scared her.
“Careful, Abel. You sound like a potential murderer.”
You have no fucking idea, lady.
I lean back against the sink and let her lead.
“I grew up here. All my high school friends are still here. They’ll probably think I’m with one of them.” She shrugs and it’s a little tense, like she knows her plan isn’t completely foolproof.
But I have neighbors who’d hear her scream, if anything.
“And how did you end up here?” I take the cowardly way of asking how the fuck she ended up alone with those assholes in a cemetery.
“I trusted the wrong people, I guess. I’m hoping I left that nasty habit with the dead.”
This is where I don’t reassure her. I can’t. My past prevents me from it.
Instead, I head toward my bedroom to grab her some clean clothes.
I don’t know how long she’ll be here but at the very least, she can clean herself up.
4
Abelia
I don’t want to tell him the truth.
I don’t want to admit I’d been stupid and that I likely fell into the pattern of stupidity, ending up at his apartment.
Aren’t doctors supposed to be smart?
This man—Adam or Abel?—hadn’t been here when I left for college. And when I finally decided to come back to visit, it seemed everyone knew about the creepy guy who rarely speaks. The one who rides a bike everywhere and looks like he could play the villain in your favorite movie.
Maybe it’s the eyebrows that can’t help but furrow when he speaks. Or the carelessness of his muddy brown hair.
But those eyes, they’re the brightest things I’ve seen in a while.
I’m rummaging through his medicine cabinet, the stack of clean clothes he handed me sitting on the counter before me.
But I’m too focused on the anti-psychotic drugs staring back at me.
There are pills for anxiety, even a mood stabilizer. I think back on my pharmaceutical course, which doesn’t give me nearly enough information. But I’d know these medications anywhere.
And this is where I’ve chosen to go after nearly being raped.
I close the door to the medicine cabinet and stare back at my reflection in the mirror. That mild-mannered man on the other side of the door is capable of violence. I saw it.
But it was aimed at my attackers.
Besides, his neighbor saw me. If I go missing, they’ll recognize me.
There’s something in his eyes. Something close to death that stares back at me.
“I worry the skeletons in your closet are more alive than you are, Abel,” I whisper, pressing my fingers to my lips.
A knock at the bathroom door startles me.
“You okay in there?” he calls.
“Yes,” I answer as I scramble to get dressed, ignoring the soreness of my knees.
When I open the bathroom door, he’s so close to the door that I have to step back.
“Sorry,” he mumbles as he turns and walks away.
I don’t want to go home. I don’t want the questions and the pretending that I’m perfect and everything is okay.
“Can I stay here?” I ask him.
His back tenses for a moment. “You can have the bed. I’ll sleep out here on the floor.”
5
Abel
I’m fucked.
I wish I could call Dr. Brown and ask him what the fuck I’m supposed to do here. Kick her out? Pray I don’t have any nightmares?
I haven’t been alone in the company of a woman in too long. And when I was, I wasn’t really alone.
Rose had been here.
Every step of the way, since I met her, Rose had been here.
And now I don’t know what to do.
It isn’t like I can find love with someone else.
To love is to invite your demons into the living world and pray they play well with others. My demons have sharp bloody teeth, and they look for soft flesh to bite into.
Abelia is all supple alabaster skin and I’m terrified for her.
“I’m not tired yet,” she tells me, and then sits at the kitchen table. My gray sweatpants on her are rolled up so they don’t drag on the floor when she walks. And she sits with her feet tucked under her, like she’s at home.
What the fuck is this?
“I kinda am…” I trail off, staring at her. “But I can stay up for a little.”
Because I like playing with fire and you’re the first thing to warm me in such a long time.
“Can we share secrets?” she asks, and I wonder what the fuck she’s seen in my bathroom. “You look like you have a lot of them.”
“Do you always badger people this way?” For a moment, her feelings are off the table. My pulse hammers as I wonder where the hell this conversation is going.
“I’m a seeker of knowledge.” She looks so calm it’s unnerving. She reminds me of Dr. Brown in this way.
“Because it’s power,” I tell her.
“Because you make me curious,” she confesses, and it angers me.
“I’m nobody. Ask anyone in this fucking town.” I gesture toward my front door, toward my neighbors who wonder about me and poke their heads out of their doors when they hear me coming or going.
“Everybody is somebody,” she reasons.
“Yeah? And who are you?” My rebuttal is met with silence. But only for a moment, of course.
“I’m a pretender. And I get the feeling that you are, too.”
Fuck, her response is a good one.
“A secret for a secret?” she asks.
I nod, unsure of what I can give her, but I have to admit, the feeling of my mask slipping makes me feel more human than I have in the last decade.
“I wanted to become a doctor to overcome my fear of death. I figure if I inspect it closely, I could become more comfortable with it.” She smiles. “Most people want to save people. I just want to understand why we all die.”
I nod and take a seat, trying to mull over which secret to share.
“Your turn,” she reminds me.
I look her square in the eye and tell her, “People die because of checks and balances.” It’s the simplest answer I can give. Good people die; bad people die. And if you’re lucky, you make it out in a way that feels more like relief than pain.
“That’s not a secret,” she tells me.
“A secret? I think everyone in this town knows I’m dangerous. They don’t know how or what it is about me, but they’re right.” I expect her to question it, but she sits there, not a shift of emotion in her eyes. Not a lick of fear.
“I haven’t been back here in three years,” she says. “The last time I was here, I was dying.” She lifts her arms, shoves the sleeves up, and reveals two vertical scars—one on each wrist.