It’s not like it matters anyway.
I'm three years older than when Roman left, but I feel I’ve aged at least ten years. They always said there is nothing worse than growing older, and I will live life chasing my youth, wishing for the day when I could drink as much as I want, party, and wake up without responsibilities.
I never had those four things, so I don’t long for them. Sometimes I miss the girl I was when Mickey was around. The one who was delirious and incapable, who questioned everything in the name of insecurity, but nothing that really mattered.
It’s kind of pathetic that I haven’t felt a glimmer of happiness since the day he disappeared, and there doesn’t seem to be any joy waiting for me in my future.
What’s even more pathetic is wishing he’d taken my virginity before he left so it could be forever immortalized as the day I lost everything.
“Thank you, love,” the customer, who has been eyeballing me since he walked into the store, says when I hand him the receipt. He drops his business card and smirks. “You should call me sometime.”
I give him a tight-lipped smile. “Thanks.”
He nods. When the door rings shut behind him, I drop his card in the trash without reading it. I found that one word works best. Thanks. Short, sharp, to the point. Say too much, and they think you’re leading them on. Say the wrong thing, and they might kill you.
The joys of womanhood.
Marcus is getting bolder with his advances every passing day. It’s only a matter of time until groping doesn’t cut it, then he’ll take another part of me I’ll never get back.
He’s developed even more entitlement now that I’m no longer property of the state. I live under his family’s roof without paying rent. In exchange, I work at this crappy hardware store while Marcus and Greg work in the garage next door.
I want to leave. With every fiber of my being, I want to escape this horrible family and abominable city and never turn back. The only thing holding me back is the knowledge that, if I leave, there’s no one to look after Jeremy. Millie is too busy most of the time, Greg and Marcus won’t take care of him, and the state isn’t doing jack about it, no matter how much I complain.
I’m losing more battles than I can win.
Scratch that; I don’t think I’ve won a single battle in a long time.
One day, I’ll get out of this god-forsaken city. I don’t know when, how, or where I will go, but anywhere is better than here. I’ll monetize any hobby I have, whether it’s knitting, painting, or sculpting. I’ll keep building on doing drawing commissions, and hope one day it’ll be enough for something.
I may not have any college plans like Roman did with fixing up motorbikes and cars, but I have my own aspirations… of sorts. I want to live a life with a full heart. As immeasurable as it is, I’ll know when I get there.
If I don’t, I’ll be a girl wasting away at a hardware store owned by a predator.
With no one needing me at the counter, I return to stocking the shelves. The place is rundown, with dreary brick walls and linoleum floors. The only good thing about the store is the big bay windows—with safety bars—mainly because of its metaphorical appearance. I pretend I’m outside, under the sun, and not a caged bird.
My days are monotonous. Wake up, make breakfast for everyone, work, make dinner for everyone, sleep, then repeat. But there are good days, too. Those are when someone pays cash, and I manage to pocket some of it without anyone being any wiser. Not much, though; five dollars here and there. Better than nothing when it’s the only money I’m saving after buying food.
Stale cigarette smoke and diesel fuel assault my senses, and bile lurches up my throat when Marcus grabs my ass.
“These jeans suit you,” he purrs in my ear.
The blood rushes from my body. He puts his arm on the shelf by my head, caging me in.
“One day, you’re gonna want me back.” He pushes his body against me, and I cringe back as far into the shelf as I can possibly go.
“I need to work,” I whisper, forcing myself not to gag.
He disgusts me. Just because I live under his roof—his parents’ roof—doesn’t give him any right to put his hands on me. But I can’t do a thing about it. I can’t push him or tell him to stop. I can’t scold him or give him a piece of my mind.
I slapped his hand away once, so he gave me a black eye in return.
He’s a pig. The weakest people are the ones who lash out when they get rejected. That’s another thing I’ve learned now that Roman isn’t shielding me from the world. I don’t forgive him for leaving, but it was the wake-up call I needed.
“You aren’t working tonight.” Marcus presses the bulge in his pants against my ass. “In fact, your bed’s been pretty empty. You must be getting cold at night; I can warm it up for you.”
I’d rather walk naked through the Arctic.
One day, he’s going to break the bedroom door down, and my makeshift barricade won’t stop him.
I swallow. “I’m okay, thank you.”
Why do these men need to be coddled when being turned down? Why do I need to be polite when they’re the ones who started it? Can’t I just say ‘no’?
Sorry, I’m alright, thanks.
Thank you for your offer, but I’ll have to decline.
Please don’t touch me—because you can’t simply say don’t touch me.
I hiss through my teeth when he fists my hair and yanks my head back. “You’re going to stop saying no very soon, slut.”
I bite my tongue to stop myself from lashing out.
When she wants it, she’s a slut.
When she doesn’t want it, she’s a slut.
The biggest insult men like him can muster is telling a woman exactly what he thinks she is: an object that can be debased to the holes she has.
Fuck him. Fuck him. Fuck him.
And fuck Roman for leaving me here to deal with all this shit.
Marcus shoves me away as if I was the one who infringed on his space. I yelp and right myself before I lose my footing. My lungs fill with air, but it feels more like razor blades. And because I don’t have a choice, I have to smile at customers and go about the rest of my day pretending I didn’t just get assaulted. I have to live with this acceptance. I’m angry, but this is how my life is for now. I will get out eventually.
I used to think I was weak because of the stutter in my heart or the way it never feels whole. I thought I was defective somehow, like when God was making me, he shipped me off without putting me together the way he should.
It took losing Roman to realize I’m a survivor in my own way. Because this is what survivors do: they keep walking even if the sun is blazing or the sky cracks with lightning and rumbles with thunder. One foot in front of the other until, eventually, you can’t walk anymore.
My heart is still broken, but I’ve let the shadows take up the empty space and gave it a name: Rage.
The phone rings, and I groan internally. I fumble with my mandatory work apron until my fingers wrap around the indestructible plastic brick. “Good afternoon, Barfoot’s Hardware Store; how can I help?”
Silence.