“Yes of course!” she says with palpable zeal, as if Lynden is some hidden gem. I blame social conditioning for unconsciously following her when she resumes walking down the aisle. “The candidates we meet tend to live in the larger cities, so it’s rare that we have a chance to slow down and smell the proverbial roses.” I promise it’s not roses you’re smelling, Blondie. “There’s just so much to appreciate with small towns like this.”
“I wouldn’t know. I’ve never left Lynden,” I admit, but I can’t smother the edge of resentment that makes my voice waver. “I am taking some online classes, though. Not sure what I want todo yet, but I figure a college degree couldn’t hurt my chances of getting out.” Why am I telling her this?
“Oh, that’s wonderful! How much longer do you have in your studies?”
“Depends on how many classes I can afford at a time.”
“Such tenacity is an admirable trait in one so young.” I glance at her as we continue to walk down the aisles—she can’t be more than what, mid-thirties? “Have you considered applying for a scholarship?” she probes, oblivious to my inner turmoil recalling the most recent rejection letter.
But I just brush it off like all the other times. “It just hasn’t worked out yet.” She tilts her head and hums in thought. “What’s your favorite city you’ve traveled to so far?” I ask, deflecting her line of questioning. She thinks as we meander through the aisles.
“I’ve grown fond of the Pacific Northwest. There’s something… magical about it that resonates with me,” she says with a soft smile.
“I figured you’d say New York, or Los Angeles or something. Seems like those would be more your vibe.” I say, nodding to her outfit.
“We’re all just full of surprises, aren’t we?” she teases, waiting patiently for me to fill my backpack with fifty-cent noodles, and resumes when I finish. “You know, Nyx, after so many years in this line of work, I like to think I’ve developed the ability to read people fairly well,” she hedges, and I tense at the change in her tone. “I don’t mean to be presumptuous,” she continues, “but despite our brief acquaintance, I feel compelled to mention my alma mater—a small, private college not far from Boston. I suspect that it might be someplace where a student with your interests might thrive. I would be delighted to speak with my contacts there on your behalf, if you’d like,” she offers with an expectant smile. Her words echo in the now frigid silence hanging between us and I stare at her, trying to tame thewrithing tangle of emotions wreaking havoc inside of me, but not even the familiar burn of shame can cool my temper.
It’s not often that I acknowledge what people see when they look at me. The lies I tell myself—that no one else’s opinion matters but my own—have become armor so thick that no one and nothing can get close enough. Especially not something so patronizing as Celestine’s casual cruelty, thinly veiled as charity. I see her offer for what it is, like so many others before her: sweet promises that hide the bitter aftertaste of performative sympathy, because no one offers anything for nothing.
Poverty tourists like her breeze through Lynden all the time, spectators to the drama of desperation, throwing scraps to the huddled masses before returning to their gilded lives with smug satisfaction. She probably expects me to placate her with platitudes about her selfless generosity like so many others who’ve demanded simpering gratitude. But she’s miscalculated, mistaking the mask of detachment and impassivity I wear to survive this place for meekness and naiveté.
I’m not some toy to be shelved and forgotten.
I’m a starving animal, with its limb caught in the jagged teeth of a trap, ready to gnaw off whatever piece of me it takes to escape.
And like an injured animal, I lash out with my own vicious cruelty. The kind that hurts others first, before they hurt me. Her brows furrow at my hardening expression.
“You would be delighted to pass along my information.” A statement, not a question. “You think I’m worthy of your charity,” I hiss with derision, “because we had a little meet-cute and you saw someone desperate for a handout?” The low chuckle that escapes is devoid of any humor, and I can see the realization dawn when she registers this conversation isn’t going the way she thought it would. “Nah, I know better than that.” Celestine’sexpectant smile slips, and her lips part, but I don’t give her the chance to speak.
“We’re not in some fucked up Disney movie, and you’re certainly not the first asshole with a savior complex to come through this dead-end shithole, making promises you have no intention of keeping.” I scoff and turn to leave, but she reaches out to stop me.
“You misunderstand me, Nyx. Please—” I shake her off, whirling to face her.
I catch someone watching us from the corner of my eye and glare at them until they turn away. “I understand you perfectly.” My voice takes on a venomous edge. “People like me are nothing more than playthings to people like you—dogs on leashes that you parade around as proof of your righteousness, trained to sit, stay, and beg while you pat yourselves on the back for having brought the mongrels to heel.” She starts to protest, but I refuse to hear whatever poison she spews to justify herself.
“No. You don’t get to come into my town, my work, my life, and insult me with your charity, only to forget this place ever existed the moment you leave. I may be nothing to nobody, but I’m worth more than that. Get fucked.” I scoff, full of disgust, and storm away, dumping the food I badly needed into an abandoned shopping cart and leaving empty-handed.
The world fades into the background as I march toward my apartment.
I ignore the driver laying on the horn as I cross in front of his truck.
The wind-chilled tract left behind by an escaping tear.
The chatter of the happy family giving me a wide berth on the sidewalk.
I ignore everything except my rage until I get to my apartment and throw my empty backpack against the door as it slams behind me. And then I’m burying my face into my pillow,muffling my raw, broken screams as the fury that fueled me only moments ago saps my energy. In the suffocating silence that follows, I’m left empty, like the shelves in my fridge, the solitude of my apartment, and the growing, gnawing void in my stomach.
My vacant, glacial mood lingers, following me into work later that evening. Misty might say it’s my “aura” warning people to keep their distance, but I’m convinced it’s rooted in the collective experience of those who live here. Hyper vigilance is one of the many trauma responses ingrained in Lynden’s population—a survival skill honed and passed down through generations. A preternatural sense that something lurks around the corner, stalking any unfortunate prey stupid enough to blink.
I don’t greet Maddie when she waves at me from behind the bar.
I don’t touch the nachos that Carlos passes us through the kitchen.
I remain silent despite Eileen’s escalating attempts to lure me into conversation.
And perhaps most shocking, I don’t even acknowledge Montrell’s nod of thanks when I set his food down.
The motions that my body’s memorized through years of walking these creaking floors night after night suddenly feel wrong, stifling. Like a shirt that suddenly doesn’t fit right. Like even faking the bare minimum of what passes as etiquette in this town is a betrayal. As if laughing and smiling means I’ve accepted my place here: a little Nyx-shaped coffin, carved into the bones of Lynden, just waiting for time to turn me into ash. I don’t remember slipping into the sanctuary of my waking dreams, but like always, I sink into the depths of fantasy as it consumes my reality like so many times before.
