1
The alarm cuts through the darkness, and my hand slams it silent before the second beep.
Seven a.m.
Again.
My body stirs ahead of consciousness, a practiced response from the years when too much sleep meant stepping into trouble. The sheets twist around my legs as I sit up, my skin already sticky in the apartment’s useless air conditioning.
Another day of pretending I’m okay starts now.
My heels hit the floor, and in three steps, I enter the bathroom. Light switch on the left. Cold water splashed on my face. The mirror hangs above thesink, but I turn my back to it, a habit so ingrained that the effort goes unnoticed.
The coffee machine gurgles and hisses in the kitchen while I brush my teeth, and I stare at the cracked tile beneath my feet.
The stale scent of last night’s takeout lingers in the apartment, but it can’t hide the faint copper tang that never quite leaves, no matter how much bleach I use in the bathroom. My pheromones sit heavy in the air, filled with anger, unease, and all the things I try to keep on a short leash.
Back in the bedroom, I sit on the bed and pull the first aid kit from under the bed. The white plastic box is cool within my grasp as I flip the latches and lift the lid. Gauze, antiseptic, and medical tape, all arranged in their individual slots.
This routine, too, runs on autopilot.
I push the sweatpants down my thighs, revealing yesterday’s bandages. The adhesive clings to my skin, pulling as I remove each one with care. Air hits the lines of scabbed flesh underneath, some fresh, others faded to pale silvery tracks.
My breath catches as a scab tears, bright red beading along the edge. The sting registers from a distance, as if it belongs to someone else. I hold asterile square of gauze to the cut, applying pressure until the bleeding stops.
Some mornings, the scars itch like memories trying to claw their way out. Today, they throb dully as I clean each one, the antiseptic cold on my fevered skin.
I secure fresh bandages with practiced movements, smoothing the tape with my thumb. The ritual completes with the snap of the first aid kit closing, everything locked away and hidden once more.
In the kitchen, the coffee has finished brewing. The mug warms my hands as I stare out the window at the brick building adjacent to mine. Six stories up, and my view is nothing but someone else’s wall.
The sky above shows gray with early morning light, promising another scorcher. July in Ashford Heights means heat seeping through windows and creeping under doors, turning the city into a pressure cooker.
My phone buzzes from the counter, and my best friend’s name flashes on the screen, followed by a string of messages.
Micah
Self-defense at 8, don’t forget!!
Coffee after?
Are you awake??? Don’t leave me to face the Alpha instructor alone.
Saint?????
The corner of my mouth twitches. I’m not built for bonds, wasn’t even before I went to juvie, but Micah’s one of my few exceptions.
We grew up together in the same shit hole of a group home that the city put us in. I took the hits the older kids would have aimed at him and gave back as good as I got.
He’s my ride-or-die, and I’ve never let anyone else as close to me.
He also types like he talks, all exclamation points and dramatic pauses. My complete opposite.
I set the coffee down and return his barrage with a single word.
Saint
Coming.
