“GET OUT!” I scream louder than maybe I ever have in my life, shaking. “GET OUT! LEAVE!”
He scrambles up, his face twisted with anger. “You crazy bitch! What the fuck is wrong with you?”
“LEAVE!”
He hesitates for half a second as if he’s considering arguing, then storms out, slamming the door as he goes. The walls and window pane rattle before an even more powerful silence follows.
I sink to the floor, my whole body quaking as the fragmented memory plays over and over again in my head.
I draw my knees up and bury my face in them, fighting for something as basic as air.
But I can’t breathe. I’ve forgotten how.
My chest squeezes tighter as if an invisible boa constrictor is clamping down and crushing my ribcage.
The room feels like it’s moving, the floor under me no longer stable. It takes me several minutes to even be able to calm down enough to realize I’ve started sobbing.
Silent sobs but they pour out of me as I fight to breathe.
For the past week and a half, I’ve been desperate to remember. But now that more memories are trickling in, I want nothing more than to pretend that Saturday doesn’t exist.
I push myself back onto my feet and stagger through the house, my legs less steady than Jell-o. The second I make it into my bedroom, I’m collapsing onto the bed, burying my face into the pillows.
I don’t know what to do or how to even handle this. I was never prepped for something like this.
How can I even move forward when things feel so fractured? When I can’t even make sense of it myself?
But deep down, I know it’s not like I hoped. I’ve always known from the moment I woke up naked Sunday morning.
I just… didn’t want to believe the truth.
A sense of hopelessness fills me up ’til it’s unbearable. I can’t handle this alone; I can’t figure this out by myself.
I need someone to talk to. Someone who can at least help me make sense of this.
My hand shakes reaching for my phone. I scroll through my contacts, vision blurry with tears. Uncle Eddie would go insane if he found out; he’s never been a great listener, always one to resort to violence like the club enforcer he is.
Moses is in Vegas being Moses. He’s my older brother and would probably have a similar reaction to Unc. He wouldn’t listen at all.
I can’t call Shay or Yvette. Not when they’ve been calling me blackout and seem to think I’m being sensitive and dramatic.
Silver’s name appears on the screen. The same man who noticed I wasn’t okay and who asked if I needed anything. The same man who came to pick me up that Sunday morning and actuallysees mewhen everyone else looks straight through.
I press call before I can think better of it.
One ring. Two.
Please answer. Please… I need…
He answers on the third ring, already sounding concerned.
Sincere as ever.
“Solana?”
“I… I…” I warble out through my tears. “I need you.”
9
