Vanessa
The waiting turns viscous.
The echo of the screams still ricochets off the walls, same as the stink of old gunpowder and cheap bleach. I breathe through my nose: wet concrete, sweat, gun oil. I shut my eyes for a second and my grandmother appears in her armchair; I’m this close to breaking into sobs.
Knuckles hit the door and the lock gives with a click that jolts me.
The guy comes in .
Metal toolbox in his left hand, plastic water jug in his right. First thing he does is throw the bolt; second, he sets the jug on the floor and kicks it so the water churns and slaps the plastic walls. The sound makes me thirsty on the spot. I swallow. My mouth tastes like copper.
“You look worse than an hour ago,” he says. His voice is gravel. Tank top, dark jeans, boots that stamp the floor.
