I don’t have that anymore.
I have a tiny apartment, a job in a diner in a nearby town, and a roommate who smiled at me and sold me anyway.
The thought of my roommate makes my throat tighten so hard I gag.
Tessa.
Her laugh was always too loud. Her kindness always had an edge, like she expected applause for it. She was the only person who knew I didn’t really have anyone. She knew the details because one night she asked and I told her, like an idiot, because I wanted a friend.
“No family,” I said, trying to laugh it off.
She whistled. “Damn. You’re like, free-floating.”
I remember the way she said it, like it was interesting, like it was a party trick.
Then, a week later, she came home waving her phone and said she had a gig for me.
“Easy money,” she said. “Table cleaning at this club. Cash. You’ll be in and out. I can’t take it because I’ve got that thing with my cousin.”
I should have asked more questions. I should have said no. I should have listened to the small, sick feeling in my stomach.
But I needed money. Rent was due. My hours had been cut. And I was tired of being afraid of everything.
“It’s just cleaning,” she said again, and she rolled her eyes when I hesitated. “You’re not dancing. You’re not doing anything. You’re wiping down booths. You’re sweeping. You always act like the world is out to get you.”
That one landed, because it was already what I told myself on my bad days.
Stop being dramatic.
Stop thinking the worst.
Stop acting like you’re special enough for bad things to happen to.
So, I went.
I wore jeans and a hoodie. I tied my hair back. I told myself I was being responsible. I told myself I was finally handling my life like an adult.
The club was loud and hot. Lights and perfume and men who looked like they were used to buying whatever they wanted. I kept my head down. I cleaned what I was told to clean. I didn’t flirt. I didn’t drink. I didn’t take breaks where I couldn’t be seen.
I did everything right.
And it still happened.
A man in the hallway had a badge clipped to his belt. He told me he needed to verify my age because they’d gotten a report about an underage worker. His voice was calm, annoyed in a bored way, like he’d rather be anywhere else.
I believed him because I was raised to believe authority means safety. Grandma taught me to respect cops. Teachers. Doctors. Men with badges and calm voices.
I followed him because my whole life, following has been easier than making a scene.
The door shut behind me and his smile went flat.
After that, my memories are sharp in pieces and blurry in between. A hand on my arm. Another hand over my mouth. The sting in my neck. My body turning heavy like it was filling with wet sand. The sound of the lock clicking.
Then the room.
Then days, or hours, or some long stretch of time where my brain stopped keeping count because counting made me panic.
Then the moment the door wasn’t latched.
