I woke late, the apartment was quiet except for the hum of Mariel’s fridge. The bruise had darkened overnight, its violet and ugly, blooming up my wrist like some sort of ugly tribal mark.
I stood in front of her bathroom mirror, the ice long melted, and just stared at my wrist.
It didn’t look like my skin anymore.
By the time I exhaled, I had already booked the appointment under a fake name, W. Daniels, by 2 p.m., for a routine follow-up. No Elias. No questions.
Mariel had already left for work. I left a note on the counter: Errands. Back by five.
My handwriting shook, but I didn’t bother to fix it.
The subway was packed by the time I got there, but I barely felt the crowd. With my Hoodie up and my head down.
Every screech of the rails sounded like the beating of my heart.
St.
