Velvet hunger

Wednesday. November 14, 2018 Blackwater City 5:45PM Rain hammered the city hard enough to erase it. Streetlights bled into puddles. Neon signs flickered through sheets of water like dying stars. Cars hissed past the sidewalks without slowing, their headlights briefly catching the hunched figure of a woman standing beneath the broken awning of Bellamy Books. Elena Vale stared at the folded paper. It was clenched in her hand so tightly her knuckles burned white. Termination Notice. The words looked embarrassingly formal for something that had lasted less than four minutes. She read the letter again anyway. We regret to inform you that your employment has been terminated effective immediately due to repeated difficulties interacting with customers and maintaining workplace efficiency. Something cold settled behind her ribs. Not again. Inside the bookstore, somebody laughed. The sound floated through the glass door before disappearing beneath the storm. Elena lowered her head quickly, pretending to search her bag so nobody would notice she was still standing there. Nobody was even looking at her. That made it worse. The bookstore suddenly felt suffocating and she hurriedly walked out, into the raining street. She caught the gazes from passing cars, from lit windows above the street. A bus roared past, splashing cold water against her jeans. She flinched hard enough to nearly drop her bag. She had been standing in front of the bookstore long enough to soak through. She turned and found their faces. Disgust, or something close enough. “Sorry,” she whispered automatically to nobody. The apology vanished into the rain. Unsure on what to do, she made her way to the train station. The rain softened briefly against her shoulders, and her mind returned to that morning. By 11:30 that morning, her manager had already spoken to her gently, carefully, without meeting her eyes. Her manager had not even sounded angry. That part hurt the most. Mister Bellamy had spoken to her gently, almost carefully, while avoiding eye contact. Like she was already fragile enough to shatter. “You’re a sweet girl, Elena. Really. But customers complain that you look frightened every time they approach the counter.” Because she was indeed frightened. Because every time strangers stared too long, her heartbeat tripped over itself. Because simple conversations felt like walking barefoot over broken glass. Because her mind could turn buying a bookmark into a life threatening event. She hated that about herself. She hated it enough to dig her nails into her palms sometimes, just to feel something else. Thunder cracked overhead. Elena jerked violently at the sound and ran hastily to the train station, before the embarrassment of existing swallowed her whole. Then that familiar scent hit her. She was at the train station. The station smelled like wet pavement and exhaust. She counted her steps. Two hundred and eight. Two hundred and nine. Thirty eight between streetlights. One hundred and twenty three to the pharmacy. Forty two past the apartment building with the ugly gargoyle that always looked damp. Ten more to the ticket machine. A group of drunk students stumbled from a bar, laughing. She crossed the street before the sound could reach her properly. Her lungs felt tight by the time she reached the platform. The train arrived. She waited for everyone to board first, then stood at the back where the seats were taken, where she preferred to be. She counted stops until she could transfer to the bus. Thirty minutes later she stood in front of her apartment building. The light above the entrance was out again. She almost smiled. Elena stared at the OUT OF SERVICE sign with exhausted disbelief. “Fantastic,” she muttered. Her voice sounded rusty from disuse. Four floors. She could do four floors. Probably. The stairwell smelled like mildew and old cooking oil. The flickering overhead bulb buzzed softly as she climbed. Second floor. Heartbeat speeding up. Third floor. Breathing uneven. Fourth floor. Chest hurting now. By the time she unlocked Apartment 4C, her fingers were numb with cold and something worse, the keys slipping like wet soap.The apartment greeted her with darkness and silence. No messages. No television noise. No waiting family. Just stale air and stacks of old postcards pinned carefully beside the kitchenette. Elena closed the door behind her and leaned against it for a moment. Still breathing too fast. She switched on the lamp near the couch. Warm yellow light filled the tiny room. It should have felt comforting. Instead it only made the loneliness easier to see. One plate drying beside the sink. One toothbrush in the bathroom. One pair of shoes by the door. One life small enough to fit inside six hundred square feet. Thunder cracked again. This time the panic arrived fully. Her breath came shallow, as if the air had turned to syrup. No. No no no. Not now. Elena dropped her bag and pressed both hands against her chest. She counted to four, inhaled, counted to four,then forgot the number and had to start again. The room shrank. Her vision blurred. She gripped the kitchen counter and counted. Five postcards. Three cabinets. The number four and then she lost it, had to start again. Her knees buckled. She slid onto the tile, back against the cabinet, and found her phone with shaking hands. No emergency contact. She had never added one because there was nobody to add. The laugh that escaped her sounded broken even to her own ears. She curled smaller, forced one breath, then another, until the grip loosened. Then she stood, emptied her bag onto the counter. Wallet. Notebook. Lip balm. Termination letter. A crumpled receipt from the bookstore, two weeks old. She had almost bought something that day. A used copy of poetry, maybe. She had stood in front of the shelf for ten minutes before leaving without it. The thought of the cashier's eyes had been too much. A bent business card slipped free and landed near the sink. THORNE PSYCHIATRIC INSTITUTE. Dr. Adrian Thorne. Specialist in Anxiety Disorders and Trauma Related Conditions. The emergency clinic, three months ago. She had stuffed it into her bag without reading it. Therapy sounded expensive. The kind of expense people like her didn't consider. She looked at the termination letter. Four jobs in two years. Too quiet. Too nervous. Too strange. She sat on the couch in her robe, hair still dripping onto the carpet, and stared at the card. Dr. Adrian Thorne. The name sounded expensive. Polished shoes. Judgmental eyes. She could already see herself crying in front of him. Crying especially. She pressed her thumb against the silver lettering until it hurt. Then she picked up her phone. The emergency contact section was still empty. She had never added anyone because there was nobody to add. Her thumb hovered. Then, slowly, she typed the number into her contacts. Not because she trusted him. Not because she believed therapy would fix anything. Because she was tired. Tired of being afraid every second. And somewhere beneath the anxiety and the loneliness and the humiliation, one small thought refused to die. Maybe this could be different. She set the phone on the counter and did not move until the screen went dark.