“I’m also still wondering if I’m hallucinating.”
It’s as if she can’t help herself—she does the twirl. “Still real.”
One side of my mouth quirks up with the barest smile before it fades. “Listen, Annie…I’m not really in a good place right now, as you’ve noticed. I’m not sure it’s a good idea to pal around with the people I’ve victimized. But I appreciate the invitation.”
She takes a small step forward as Toaster flies past her and joins me on the couch. “Yeah, of course. It was a dumb idea.”
“It wasn’t. I just—”
“I get it.” She looks around the room one more time, her shoulders deflating. “Anyway, my ride is waiting, so I’ll get out of your hair. I’m glad you’re okay.”
Moving to the front door, looking dejected, she stops short when I call out to her one more time.
“Hey.”
Annie blinks down at the dingy carpet in my living room before turning to glance at me.
“You left that note, didn’t you?” I ask.
Her cheeks pinken again as she clears her throat with a nod. “Yeah. I do that sometimes.”
“Leave strangers little words of encouragement after they abduct and traumatize you?”
“Write,” she corrects, smiling faintly. “Lyrics, poems. You know, whenever the muse strikes.”
I lean back against the cushions, burying my hand in Toaster’s fur. “Well, it meant a lot. What you said.”
My chest spasms at the memory of the words she left behind, scribbled on a wrinkled napkin leftover from a food-delivery order. I wasn’t expecting it. I’m not used to acts of kindness.
Undeserved, at that.
“Good. I’m happy to hear that,” she replies.
“You were kind to me,” I continue, inching forward, catching her eyes before she disappears for good. If this is the last time I ever see her, she needs to know it mattered. That someone like her looked at someone like me and didn’t turn the other way. “Why?”
Annie doesn’t miss a beat. Her lips curl up with a flash of teeth. “Because kindness is a testament to our own character. It’s not about external factors. If it ever feels difficult to be kind, we need to look within.”
My eyes glaze over as I stare at her, processing. Warm tendrils of light journey through me, curling around each rib. I don’t say anything with words, but hershave infiltrated. Punctured tiny pinholes in my armor.
Before turning away, she leaves me with a final thought, almost like a lifeline. Just in case. “Tag plays at that café off Devlin Street every Thursday night at seven. You know…if you’re ever bored.”
Then she walks away, swallowed by the afternoon light, her violet-striped hair bouncing at her back.
If I were anyone else, I’d call after her. Tell her I’ll be there, that I’m always bored, eternally looking for a telltale spark.
But I don’t.
I just sit there, holding on to her words like a matchstick in the dark.
***
Two weeks pass me by, filled with restless nights, stiff muscles, and the persistent, nagging ache in my thigh that no amount of ignoring can shake. The first few days were the worst, every movement a reminder that I took a bullet and that my body isn’t bouncing back the way I want it to. That I’m not invincible.
The follow-up appointments are tedious. The doctor pokes at the wound, asks about my pain levels, and reminds me to “take it easy”—as if I have any say in the matter. Stitches out, more bandages. More rules about what I can and can’t do.
At home, I go through the motions, begrudgingly following my physical therapist’s instructions. Push too hard, and my leg reminds me that I’m fucked. Laze around, and my brain tells me I’m useless. It’s a constant battle, one I keep losing.
Somewhere in the clusterfuck of it all, I pick up a guitar again. My fingers move easier than my legs do, and for a few minutes at a time, I forget that I’m stuck in this body that refuses to cooperate. I can sink into something that still feels like mine.
