Another night. Already.
And then, worst of all, shower time—by far the hardest part of the evening.
In the bathroom, she set her towel by the shower and took in the lay of the land—memorized it—before turning off the light.
Okay. Pants off first…the easy part. As they did most every night, her hands clenched themselves into tight fists when she reached for her shirt, her body as unwilling as her brain. But, God, she couldn’t stay dirty forever.
Painfully unclenching before forcing her fingers to claw at the cotton, then tearing so hard at it the neck scraped back her ears, and she didn’t care. What was physical pain when the sight of your own body pulverized your soul? Just its shadow in the dark.
Through the invading moonlight, she took the two steps to the bathtub, blindly scrabbling to turn on the water, then inside, not even waiting for the temperature to adjust, because who gave a shit about something so inconsequential as comfort? Shampoo first—the easy part—then soap, with eyes squeezed shut. But even her eyelids couldn’t obliterate the words. She knew they were there. Knew their intricacies intimately, despite never looking.MINEon her wrist.BITCHon both arms. One version misspelled and crossed out, and the rest…more. So much more. All of it burning, burning, burning.
Soon. Soon they’d be gone. It was why she was here, after all.
Water off, she dried herself as quickly as possible and yanked her clothes on over damp skin.
Done. Breathing hard, she went back to her room.
How could the same house, the same room, the same air, all shift so drastically with the setting of the sun? God, why, in the thick of these lonely hours, was she reduced to hashing and rehashing events that she’d never be able to change?
Once the light was out and Uma could hardly see her hand in front of her face, she stripped down to her top and underwear. It was definitely time to invest in some real pajamas—with pants and long sleeves.
Rather than get into bed, she went straight to the window. Because, as darkness fell, her priorities morphed, alongside her fears. The safety of locked doors and stuck windows warred with her desire to escape, to breathe real, fresh air. At those moments, the fear of what lay outside was nothing compared to the torture within her own brain. She wasn’t convinced that she’d ever feel true freedom again.
And then the never-ending debate: to sleep or not to sleep. Sleeping meant dreaming. But staying awake meant dwelling on a dire past, a pathetic present, and a hopeless future.
Whatever. In the end, it didn’t matter whether she went for optionAorB—nights were hell either way.
The only thing that had staved off her panic the night before had been a certain rhythmic clanging, an echo in the night. Tonight, face pressed to the chilly window, she listened, waiting for its music to begin.
Nothing.
A deep breath in, and her mind started wandering—into safe territory this time: her father. Pops had been steady, regular. He might have been a hippy in the seventies, but somehow, over the years, his beliefs had morphed into something old-fashioned rather than New-Agey. Her mother, on the other hand, had favored more mystical spirituality, based loosely on ancient beliefs.
If she were here, she’d advise that Uma meditate. “It disperses the shadows of doubt,” her mom liked to say. Uma knew it wouldn’t work, but she tried anyway. She’d try anything right about now.
It was when she sank into the night, let it envelop her in a way that channeled both parents, that she eventually noticed the shadow moving in the dark yard below. She reared back briefly, panic flaring hot and tight in her throat, teeth already sunk deep into her hand, before recognizing the shape for what it was: the dog, Squeak. Sniffing in the grass. The animal squatted before disappearing into the hedge, from which she eventually emerged, head cocked to the side. Uma caught the glimmer of an eye, a pinprick in the night, and then noticed, with a hint of discomfort, that the dog was looking up, right at her window. Her first instinct was to duck down and hide.
She stilled.It’s just a dog.Besides, she couldn’t possibly be visible in the pitch-black room. Could she?
And then, from somewhere behind the house, the sound started, steady, regular…deliberate. A lifeline. A companion. Another soul alive in the dead of night. She sighed, a long, thin, pent-up stream of relief. Eyes floating shut, lungs finally functioning without effort, brain loose, just the tiniest bit comfortable. Little by little, her shoulders relaxed and her head dropped forward again, to lay against the blissfully cool glass.
Bang. A breath in. Bang. Breath out. Bang. Breath in… Bang… Out… For minutes…hours…forever, maybe, she rode the rhythm, thinking of absolutely nothing under the oddly comforting gaze of the neighbor’s dog, lulled by the metronome of… What? What was Ivan doing back there? Whatever was behind that sound, she had no idea. Curiosity burned her with its need to know, yet somehow it didn’t matter. All that mattered was that steady, metallic drone.
Later, she jolted awake, shocked to find that she’d finally, miraculously succumbed to sleep, face flattened awkwardly against the glass.
Uma’s brain rattled with echoes of a disjointed dream—pinpricks of pain, screams, arms caught in a fisherman’s net.
Outside was complete silence.
There was a thin line of drool smeared across the window, and beyond the window—
Uma’s eyes refocused past the glass and landed onthat manout there, seated on the steps of his front porch, lit from above, dog at his feet. He was doing something with his hands. Her attention caught on those deftly moving arms. Big and capable. Whittling? No, unwrapping something. Or wrapping. She watched with bated breath as he stood and went up the stairs, then disappeared into the shadows of his front porch.
There followed another sound, duller this time, but as repetitive as the metallic clang. Funny how the deep country quiet shortened the distance between neighbors.Thunk, creak. Thunk, creak, thunk, creak.Like a soldier falling into line, Uma’s erratic heart once again took to the rhythm he set, needing its regularity, craving it like her lungs craved air.
Part of her wondered what the hell he was up to—but mostly, she didn’t care. She just knew she needed that steady beat to get her through the night.
4
