EIGHT
Ferryn
Panic was the first thing I was aware of as I gained consciousness, the sensation of loss of time, loss of perception, loss of reality.
Was it too late?
My gut dropped as my heart found a new home in my throat, cutting off air, as my brain tried to fully surface.
But as I finally did, as my mind and body found the connection they had been missing, I could feel my upper body bouncing, a solid, painful unyielding pressure on my belly.
A body.
I was over someone's shoulder.
Bouncing because we were descending stairs.
I had only been out maybe a couple long seconds.
Even as my eyes watched the door, left carelessly open, I could feel the insistent pounding in my temples, immediately making nausea swirl through my belly and throat.
I prayed - though I wasn't sure what kind of faith I even had left anymore - that it was just from the blow, that I hadn't gotten another concussion.
Uncle Pagan had been the one to warn me about them, having been in a ring maybe more than anyone else could claim.
Gotta be careful with headshots, Fer. Easy to get brain damage from concussions. Or second-impact syndrome. Drop dead from a simple tap because you already got so much fucking damage up there.
One nice thing about Uncle Pagan was he refused to dumb things down or even censor his speech.
But maybe, just this once, I would have been happy not to have the idea of possible death in my future if I whack my head against a cabinet because I had a couple head injuries during this ordeal.
My body jolted one final time, knocking a bit more of my air out, as we hit the landing, pulling me out of my useless anxiety.
If I was going to be anxious about something, it should have been what I was about to do, about how I didn't even know how I was going to do what I needed to do.
My body jumped again, less violently, as he walked over toward my spot, hauling me down, almost dropping me on my butt full-force before he thought better of it, grabbing my upper arm as I dropped.
The shackle was on my foot in a blink, and he was turning.
Turning.
Toward Chris.
My gaze went in that direction too, finding her watching me with small, confused eyes, not understanding why I hadn't come back damaged, broken, a shadow of the girl I had been when I left.
There would be time for explanations and assurances later.
Now, I had to act.
Before he took her.
Before he and his friends made her pay for my mistakes, for my connections, for my ignorance of them.
Had I known from the beginning, I don't know, maybe I could have used that to my advantage. Maybe I could have gotten Chris at least freed in exchange for compliance, for whatever that nutjob of a grandmother wanted from me.
But even if she agreed, even if Chris disappeared one day, who the heck knew if she would be free?
It was better this way, I decided, as I took the key out of its hiding place, and stabbed it into the lock.
It sounded loud, metal scraping metal, to my overly-sensitive, paranoid ears.
But there was no time to think about that as I carefully slid it off my ankle, settling it down on the ground, pushing myself silently up, eyes dashing around the room for something I could use.
There was nothing.
They gave us nothing.
Except...
I almost felt my lips curve up as I tip-toe-ran across the room, closing my hands around the porcelain tank cover of the toilet.
Heavy.
Solid.
Perfect.
I lifted it up with a grimace before turning to find Chris' ankle was already freed, and that bastard's greedy hands were sinking into her hips.
She was going to shut down.
And I needed her here with me.
I needed her to be able to carry her own weight.
I had to act fast.
I flew across the room, not silently, my feet slapping on the concrete floors, drawing his attention.
But late.
Too late.
By the time his eyes could even relay the message of what was about to happen to his brain, I was pulling back, swinging, slamming the porcelain into the side of his face with every ounce of force in my body, half toppling forward from the momentum before I caught myself.
The crack was hauntingly loud, a sound I would likely hear in nightmares. The look of shock on his face froze there as his body crumpled to the side, out cold.
But there was no telling how long someone would stay out.
Seconds, like I had.
Longer, like I likely had been in the trunk of the car.
Who knew.
We had to move.
"Get up!" I whisper-yelled at Chris who I had caught just in time, before she slipped away to the beach or to Christmases of times gone by. Her eyes were saucers, lips parted wide. "Get up. We're getting out of here," I demanded again, grabbing at the man's still body, still enough that it almost seemed lifeless, digging out the gun, popping out the magazine.
Six.
I had six bullets.
Better than nothing, but if we hit trouble, six was not a lot. Not if she had dozens of men. Which, if she thought of them as disposable as paper dinner plates, she likely did.
I would have to save them, use my hands, use heavy objects, doing whatever I could to ensure I had them if or when I really needed them.
I rummaged for his pocketknife, knowing I would have to tuck it into my bra, being without pockets or shoes, and needing a hand free to open doors, but figuring any weapon was useful to have, even if it wasn't literally at-hand.
"Chris! Now!" I barked, knowing I was yelling at a traumatized woman made weak from pain and malnutrition, but I couldn't put on kid gloves now. Our lives were in my hands. I needed a good grip.
Her head jerked, like my words were a slap cracking across her cheek, making her jolt, jump suddenly upward.
Feeling a small bit of triumph, I darted across the floor, freeing Mary's ankle, slapping my hands into her zoned-out face.
Drugged.
She was high.
"Snap out of it. We need to get out of here," I demanded, hands framing her face - one with the gun in it, pressing against her cheek - voice a kind of desperate I needed not to sound like right now.
"She won't come," Chris' voice called, soft, quiet, afraid of being heard.
"She has to."
"Have your father come back for her," Chris reasoned.
Her entire body jolted violently as a low, deep, masculine grumble came from between the lips of the man on the floor.
My hand felt for the cool ceramic again, rising to my feet, ready to bolt across the room, when suddenly... something switched on in Chris.
Her anger.
Her righteous, too-long-buried, all-consuming rage.
It overtook her body that had always seemed so broken, barely capable of holding her up, livened, straightened, steeled itself with purpose.
And that purpose?
That would be kicking the ever-loving-hell out of the man on the floor, the man who had likely abducted her too, had trapped her in this basement, who had carried her upstairs to be raped and beaten, who had maybe participated himself.
There were grunts and hisses as her foot met stomach, ribs, groin, then silence when she pulled back, and with every bit of force in her body - which, at the moment, was a lot - she slammed it forward into his face.
Once.
Twice.
"Chris," I said, reaching out with my free hand to touch her arm. "Chris, he's out. He's out," I tried again as she kicked two more times. "There will be other guys to beat up," I added, and, somehow, that snapped her out of her daze.
Her gaze shifted to me, focusing, nodding. "Garage?" she asked, jerking her chin up toward the stairs.
"I think that is the best bet," I agreed, holding out the toilet tank top toward her, knowing I would need both hands to swing it, but I had to hold the gun. "Both hands. And HAAM like you just went on him," I told her, watching her look down at his prone body, his mouth and nose bleeding alarmingly, doing so with glacial indifference.
"Got it," she agreed with a firm nod, closing both her hands around it, following me as we made our way to the stairs, both spreading our legs wide to step only on the outsides of the planks where they were stapled down, where they were least likely to creak.
Getting to the top, my stomach swirling, my pulse pounding, I pushed the door open, steeling myself for any possible encounter as I poked out my head.
But there was no one.
Not even the sounds of anyone.
And, well, why would there be?
They were probably all figuring their comrade had it under control, gearing up for the "fun" they were supposed to be having with Chris.
I looked back, giving her a small smile, not quite victorious because we were nowhere near freedom yet, but letting her know that we had won a small battle in the war.
I moved out a foot only to feel my arm snagged in a surprisingly strong grip. Turning, Chris pointed toward the far end of the hall. Likely because it was quieter. And since she had a lot more experience with this place than I did, I moved across the hall with her barely two feet behind, sneaking like curious kids through the halls on Christmas Eve night.
The thoughts moved through my mind, unbidden, as I was worried even thinking them might jinx us, as we rounded a corner that I knew from counting my steps that first night would lead to the garage.
This is too easy.
But why would they feel the need to station guards all around when they kept us chained in a basement behind a locked door?
My breath was stuck in my lungs as my hand grabbed the doorknob, feeling it turn easily in my hand, opening without a sound.
Unable to help it, I shot Chris an incredulous look over my shoulder before moving into the dark space. Unable to see, I felt Chris brush against me as she came in.
I closed the door with a quiet click as Chris's hand felt around the wall, found a switch, flicked on a fluttering bulb overhead.
I cringed at it, wondering if the light might draw attention, but it was pitch. We needed to be able to make out our surroundings.
The car that had been my very temporary prison was gone, leaving nothing but a drip spot darkening the concrete of the floor.
Long, weather-worn workbenches lined one wall, tools of every form, for every task, hung and lay there, some new and shiny, others dusty, connected to one another by long filmy strips of old cobwebs.
It smelled like a garage too - all dirt and oil and airlessness.
"There's a door," Chris declared, waving a hand out to the side of the electric garage door - something that would make too much noise, but would have been the only option otherwise.
I nodded at her, eyes moving across the workbenches for anything of use. "Do you see a flashlight? It's nighttime," I added since it was easy to lose track of day cycles in a darkened basement. "I don't know if we are escaping into the woods or what, but a flashlight would be handy."
And a lighter.
Something weatherproof.
But I wasn't hoping for miracles.
We would make do.
"There," I whispered, seeing the telltale silver of a Maglite butted up on a shelf near the door.
We moved in that direction, Chris instinctively taking my six, letting me lead, trusting me.
Trusting me.
When I was as young as she was.
But, I reminded myself, squashing down the insecurity that had been bubbling up, I had led a very different life, had very distinct skills that she likely lacked. She probably picked up on that, decided I was better equipped to take the lead.
My hand reached for the flashlight, closing over the reassuring weight, knowing it could easily break a nose or eye-socket. Or front tooth. Like what happened to Malc a few months back, giving everyone nightmares about it for weeks while he got a nice crown and acted like it was no big deal.
I hoped it had batteries as my palm slipped over the grips on the handle, my thumb finding the button on the end, pushing.
And it lit up.
Right on something very familiar on the floor beside the door.
Something I had with me when they took me.
Something they had used to pull me back, catch me off-guard.
My purse.
I didn't even think.
Didn't stop to wonder if the contents were worth taking it, worth the extra weight. It was like there was some primal drive not to have any part of me left here save for maybe some blood stains on the floor.
I grabbed it, throwing it over my shoulder, but keeping the flashlight in my hand, just flicking it back off.
"Take a deep breath," I told Chris.
Because we were likely going to run like we never had before.
But also because we had no idea what we were walking into, what we might have to face, and a steadying breath was likely something we both desperately needed.
I sucked one in until my lungs burned, until my belly was distended, holding it for a second before letting it slowly out.
"Ready?"
"Yes."
There was conviction in that word, something deep and certain, something that said she felt it right down to her marrow.
And that determination was only going to do us good as I reached for the door, turned the lock, and moved outside.
The air felt colder than I expected, prickling over my too-exposed skin, making goosebumps form over every inch of me as a shiver racked my system.
The moon was blessedly bright, not hiding behind some clouds, making an already difficult task downright impossible, illuminating the grounds, massive and tree-lined.
We must have been facing the side property, a giant, crumbling retaining wall holding back a mass of overgrown vegetation, trees that were more like weeds, brambles, leaves that looks suspiciously shiny even in the nighttime - poison ivy.
It would have been the closest way to freedom, the side yard.
And while I was a pretty decent climber, I didn't know about Chris. And this didn't exactly seem like the time for a long conversation about anything.
I moved out a few feet, keeping my body pinned to the side of the house as Chris moved back a foot, shutting the door with a click that was quieted by the sounds of the night. Wind rustling leaves. Crickets chirping - 'stridulating,' Rey would have informed me, being a bottomless pit of critter knowledge. Whatever it was, it was loud, a symphony playing our escape music.
I was sure I would never hear it the same way again.
I took a few more steps, pulling in another breath before I popped my head out from the corner of the house to check out the backyard.
I yanked back with a hiss, heart slamming.
"What?" Chris whispered, barely loud enough to meet my ear, and I was only inches away.
"Three guys," I told her, leaving out that they had semi-automatics strapped around them, one hand on the guns themselves, ready to use them.
If there was that kind of force in the back, the front was likely no better. But we had to check.
Worst case, we could scale it.
I wasn't the strongest of girls, but with fear and adrenaline coursing through me, I was sure I could pull Chris up with me if she couldn't manage on her own.
I moved around her, nodding toward the front. "Gotta check," I whispered, hip brushing against hers as I moved.
It was only maybe twelve feet, but felt the length of a football field before I was at the other corner, steadying myself as I peeked my head around to see.
There was one guy toward the far end of the property, eyes scanning around before there was the distinct - but indecipherable from this far away - sound of a man's voice. I froze, watching as the man in the front smiled, then followed the voice, seemingly toward the back with his friends.
"We need to run like hell," I told Chris, giving her just a second of eye-contact to be sure she was with me, then turning back.
I didn't think.
I didn't weigh the pros and cons.
I just threw my legs out - suddenly incredibly thankful that I had inherited them from my father - and ran as fast as they could carry me, heart slamming, wind whipping through my hair, the sound whooshing against my ears.
I didn't realize I was alone until I heard her.
Not Chris.
No.
V.
My grandmother.
"Missing something, Ferryn?" her voiced called, sickly sweet, like a witch asking children to come inside for tea when she intended to bake them into cookies.
I knew.
I knew without turning.
But turn was what I did.
To face my grandmother.
To find her with Chris right in front of her, a gun pointed at her temple.
She must have frozen.
Chris.
She must have frozen when she felt a hand grab her, because she was still holding the top to the toilet tank, could have used it before that gun pressed into her temple.
I wondered a bit fleetingly if she knew V, if she knew she was behind the whole operation, if she understood what was happening right now.
One look at her face showed sheer panic, her eyes taking on the look of a deer in the headlights, her body trembling visibly even from a distance.
"Give it up!" I demanded, voice raising enough to make the man who had abandoned his post a moment ago coming running back.
"Excuse me?" V asked, seemingly put off that I wasn't similarly shaking, wasn't begging for our lives.
"Give it up. What do you stand to gain here? What do you want from me? My mom? She's too smart to walk in here without a plan and backup, and you know it."
"A mother will do just about anything for the love of her child."
"Love," I scoffed, trying to keep her talking, trying to give Chris a chance to fight or even just sink to the ground, get out of the path of a bullet. "What could you possibly know about love with that black hole of a heart in your chest?"
"Love has many forms," V insisted, a muscle starting to tick in her jaw.
"Really? And scars across your daughter's back, and threats of rape against your granddaughter... what kind of love could that possibly be?"
There was no answer to that.
She fumbled with that realization for a second as my eyes begged Chris to do something. Anything at all.
But all she could do was shake.
Mouth I'm sorry to me.
She was sorry.
Her.
Not my grandmother.
Her.
Somehow, that made the rage boil through my veins again.
There wasn't a single thing this girl who had been brutalized for months, with no hope of an end, should be sorry for.
But the woman behind her?
The woman with a gun?
The woman who wanted to use her to get to me?
To have her men abuse her in my name?
Yeah, no, that bitch had everything to be sorry for.
"Get back in the house, Ferryn," she finally said, breaking the deafening silence, sounding so much like a frustrated mom that it was almost laughable.
But she wasn't a mom.
She was a demon wearing the flesh of a woman who once so happened to give birth to someone.
That was all.
My chin was in the process of lifting a bit higher, something almost all of the women in the girls club did, a sign of pride and stubbornness I was proud to inherit, when she spoke again.
"Do it now, Ferryn," she said, voice low and lethal. The woman had a blade of a knife instead of a tongue. "If you make this difficult, I will make you watch while the men have fun with your friend, just so you know what damage your insolence has."
I didn't think.
I wasn't even aware that the signal had gone from my brain to my arm until my eyes noticed it lifting.
I wasn't capable of being aware of thoughts when all I could feel was the kind of rage that felt like an out of control wildfire ravaging through my system, destroying everything in its wake.
My finger slipped to the trigger.
Pulled.
Everything seemed to slow as I felt the explosion of the bullet leaving the muzzle, felt the kickback of it through my hand and arm.
I'd swear I saw it as it barreled outward, a small flash and a lethal metallic bullet slicing through the air.
But even as I became aware of that, it was suddenly soaring through the air faster than an eye could follow.
The next thing I knew, a hole was forced into the skull of my grandmother, stark red blood and pink brain matter exploding outward from the pressure, splattering the side of Chris' face as - just like that - the life left my grandmother.
Her body swayed on its feet for a long second, her face plastered in her death-shock, eyes - so much like mine - huge, lips parted, like she couldn't believe this pathetic standoff was what finally put her in the ground, closer to the depths of hell where she had clearly come from.
There was no time for the realization to hit me as the man - V's man - roared, making me horrifyingly aware of the semi-automatic in his hand, the kind of damage he could do with it. Easily. With no effort at all.
Even as I thought it, the boots of the others on the ground as they scrambled to see what was going on filled my ears.
But then there was something else.
A whoosh.
A thump.
I knew that sound.
I knew it.
But I couldn't place it until I saw the man's body jolt, then fall backward, likely dead before his body hit the ground.
The whoosh.
That was a gun with a silencer.
The thunk was the bullet hitting home.
There was a mere second of utter silence before the other men appeared, each jolting and falling as soon as they were in view.
I knew then.
Without having to look.
Without having to hear them.
Without having to see them.
But I turned anyway, eyes scanning the woods, prying into the darkness.
It was the eyes I saw first.
My eyes.
Her eyes.
Our dead relative's eyes.
Mom.
Mom was here.
And if Mom was here, so was Dad, so was Aunt Lo, Aunt Janie, all the men and women at Hailstorm and The Henchmen compound.
I was surrounded.
Safe.
I was safer than I had been in a good long time.
I should have felt relief.
I should have felt warmth enveloping me like an embrace.
But all I felt was the rage still, and - what was more unsettling - a coldness, a deep, awful coldness that I had never known before, that was seeping into my bloodstream, organs, bones, until it was encoded into my DNA.
I don't know what prompted it.
When I had made the decision.
If it was a spur of the moment thing, or something that I had been considering for much longer.
But as soon as I saw Dad and Aunt Lo break out of the tree line, as soon as I knew Chris - and Mary too - were safe, I couldn't seem to stop the urge. I couldn't seem to command that my body carry me toward them.
No.
I turned.
I ran.
Away.
I ran away.
"That's my dad," I told Chris who was still just standing there shaking, unable, it seemed, to truly process what had happened. "And Aunt and Mom," I added, thinking maybe women would be of more comfort for someone who had been through what she had. "They'll take care of you," I added, running past.
Running.
Running away.
Even as my name split the night air.
Pained, worried.
My mother.
And another time.
Pained, commanding.
My father.
And others still, a chorus of the people who loved me enough to move heaven and earth to find me, to take lives without a second thought, to storm a heavily armed compound just to bring me home.
And here I was, leaving them all behind.
But I couldn't seem to think better of it.
I couldn't seem to think at all.
I just flew across the grounds, ever proof of why the track coaches had courted me relentlessly, my long legs giving me speed any of the team members would envy, even if I hated running, hated the uselessness of running in a circle to win some makeshift award.
But before I even felt my lungs starting to burn, I found myself buried in the woods, the canopy above blocking the light except for in sporadic slivers.
My bare feet met dirt and leaves, sticks, rocks, breaking them open, the searing pain something that somehow did manage to break through the blanket covering my mind, keeping thoughts at bay.
But I still didn't turn around.
I kept running.
While my lungs burned.
My muscles ached.
Until sweat was trickling over almost every inch of skin.
Until I hit a road.
Then disappeared into another set of woods.
Then hit another road.
Followed it until I found a bus stop, remembering at the last possible second to tuck the gun away.
I paid my fare, ignoring the concerned eyes of the driver and lone passenger, a guy maybe only a year or so older than me.
It felt like it took hours, but a look at the clock on the radio showed barely twenty minutes before we did it.
Broke into Navesink Bank.
I hopped off miles from my house, tearing down a back road, coming up through a space no larger than my body between fences like I had done countless times before. It was one of the few situations I was genuinely glad I had the frame of a pre-pubescent boy because no one else would ever fit.
Iggy's house was dark, quiet, as it should be for the hour. As it always was after nine p.m. when her parents' declared it was time for lights out.
I slipped through her backyard, coming up on the side of the house, knocking my knuckles on the pane of glass in a code we had used for as long as we figured out how to get past her parents' too-strict rules.
There was a pause.
Maybe confusion inside.
I tapped again.
There was a shuffle for a second before the blind moved.
And there she was.
Face ghost-white at seeing me.
At seeing whatever mess my face was in.
I didn't even know.
I hadn't seen it in so long.
She wasn't in pajamas like I thought she would be.
She was in jeans and a tee, some makeup even on her eyes.
Like she was going to go out.
There was a long pause before her hands grabbed frantically at her window, yanking it up, her voice not even quiet as she declared, "Ferryn! Oh, my God! Where have... does your Dad know you're... what are you doing here?"
"Let me in," I demanded, tapping on the screen that we had used to sneak me in so often that it barely fit within its track anymore.
"Okay, but Ferryn, your face..."
"Is a mess, I bet," I agreed, tone a little deader than usual. "Please. I will explain. But I need to come in. I need a shower. And food. Please."
Finally free to display the desperation that had been bubbling under the surface for days - and I still didn't even exactly know how many days - it seeped into every word, something Iggy picked up on, not asking any more questions.
The screen popped out as I climbed up top the little plastic fake rock monstrosity that her parents used to hide the cap for the well, hauling myself up and in, finding that with all the adrenaline depleted, my arms and legs were feeling like Jell-O.
"Shower first?" she asked, making me suddenly wonder self-consciously if I actually smelled. I never smelled. Never. I made sure of it. It was pretty much universally accepted that stinky people were the type of people that no one else wanted to be around.
"While you make me food?" I asked, going automatically to her closet to drag out things that might fit me even though I was a few inches taller and a bit more narrow.
God, new clothes.
Fresh underwear.
There were some things you never realized it was even possible to take for granted until the luxury of them were taken from you.
"Of course. Yeah. I will make..."
"Not eggs," I demanded a bit frantically. "Or rice and beans."
"O...kay," she agreed, tone hesitant, questioning, but accepting of the agreement we had made.
"But, Iggs, a lot of it. Please," I said. If it was possible to hear hunger, you could hear it in my voice then.
She must have sensed it, too, because she gave me a rapid nod before shuffling quietly off.
I let myself in through a door inside her room that led into her own private full bath, something I had always been jealous of in the past, but now was just incredibly grateful for as I put the clothes down, grabbed a towel, turned on the water, and stripped out of the clothes that had been sticking to me with grime and sweat for hours, days.
I had always been a shower freak, having to listen to Fallon or Finn slamming on the door at home, annoyed that I was taking so long.
But this was different.
This wasn't about enjoyment per se.
This was about feeling like I needed to get not only the dirt and sweat and blood off of me, but the experience as a whole.
A useless task.
I scrubbed until my skin was red and aching from the attention, but still felt a slime covering me, an invisible coat of anger, helplessness, disgust, hunger, and fear that I was worried would always be a part of me, always be a reminder of what I had been through, even if I managed to move on from it.
If.
"Here, let me do that," Iggy offered as I pulled out a first aid kit from under her sink to deal with my feet. I had scrubbed the dirt off as best I could with how raw they were, but was not looking forward to treating and dressing them. "You sit. Eat," she invited, holding out a plate stacked with sandwiches, thick with meat and cheese, bright green romaine peeking out from under the rye bread.
My stomach groaned as I dropped my butt down on the top of the toilet, taking the plate while kicking up my legs on her lap as she sat off the side of the tub, digging through the kit to find witch hazel and triple antibiotic.
"Okay," she said when I was on my third half sandwich, finding the hole in my belly felt no more full than it had been before I started eating. "Talk to me, Ferr," she asked, securing the gauze on my foot with tape.
I did.
Words tumbling out of trembling lips, knowing that if there was a single person in the world who I could trust with my vulnerability, it was Iggy.
"That bitch," she snapped when I finished, shoving half of a sandwich whole into my mouth, chewing until my jaw hurt. "I'm so sorry," she added.
"I need to do something, Iggs," I said, heart fluttering around at even thinking about speaking these awful thoughts aloud.
"What?"
"I need to go."
"Go?" she asked, eyes small.
"I don't understand it either," I agreed, looking away, feeling my eyes glistening. "But I need to go."
"Go where?"
"I don't know," I admitted. "Somewhere that someone can turn me into a weapon," I added, cringing at how silly those words sounded spoken aloud.
"But, Ferr, wouldn't Hailstorm be the place for that?"
"Maybe," I agreed, nodding. "But they have trained me all my life. I barely held my own."
"You were surprised," she corrected, likely meaning when the men caught me from behind.
"I never should have been surprised. I never should have hesitated. I think... having my dad as my dad and my aunts and uncles as my aunts and uncles has always given me this safety net, this false sense of security. But it is false. This whole situation just proved that I'm not safer because of them. I am at a much bigger risk."
"Yeah, but... going off on your own will put a target on your back."
"Not if no one knows who I am," I said, shrugging. "Which brings me to the next - and last - thing I have to ask of you tonight."
"What?" she asked, sounding like she was dreading what I might ask.
"Does your mom still groom Peaches?" I asked, referring to the malti-poo that had a better life than most humans.
"Ah, yeah."
"Can you get me the buzzer?"
"Why?"
"I want to get rid of my hair."
"What? No! Your hair is gorgeous."
"I don't want to be gorgeous. I want to be lethal," I said, so much conviction in my tone that my voice shook slightly.
"But like... a pixie cut, right?"
"Like Demi Moore in G.I. Jane I corrected." She was shaking her head even before I finished speaking. "You do it, or I do, Iggs."
"You'd be all uneven if you did it," she objected.
To which I shrugged, making her huff her air out.
"Fine. But when you hate it, I'm not to blame."
Ten minutes later, I stood in the mirror, looking at a reflection that I barely recognized. It wasn't just the hair. My eyes looked harder, closed off. My face was a smattering of bruises. There was a stubborn set to my jaw and lips.
"Okay. I lied."
"I knew you would hate it!"
"No," I said, smiling a little, feeling a small bit of warmth swarm my chest. "I meant I lied about that being my last favor. I need a hoodie and shoes."
"You can't really be going."
"I know it doesn't make sense. And maybe I am just in shock. Have post-traumatic stress or something. But I need to do this. I can't explain it. But I have to go. Maybe it will be a mistake. Maybe I will realize halfway into the bus ride that I screwed up, that I was just crazy. But I can turn around. Or call my parents."
"Your parents..." she said, eyes and voice sad. She'd always had a soft spot for them. Likely in response to the soft spot they had for her.
"I am going to let them know. And I'm not asking you to lie for me. They'll show up here and ask where I went."
"But I don't know--"
"Exactly," I cut her off. "I'm not putting you in the middle. I will call them or write them. Tell them that. Tell them that I love them," I added, feeling my eyes water, my throat tighten.
"Ferryn, it's safe now. Just go home," she begged.
"No," I said, swiping the tears off my cheeks. "I can't," I added, slipping socks over the bandages on my feet so I could walk back into the bedroom, snagging a gray hoodie and a pair of slip-on shoes, taking a deep breath, knowing I had to go. I had spent too much time here already.
"Wait... take this," she said, grabbing her old laptop off a shelf, one that her parents had replaced simply because the new one they got her had better parental controls. "You'll need it. You know you will," she said when I started to object. Finding a backpack in her closet, she shoved it inside along with a change of clothes. "And this," she added, holding up a necklace she had gotten for her communion. "I hate it. You know I hate it," she insisted when I began to object. "And it will be worth a couple hundred if you hock it."
"I'll pay you back, Iggs," I told her. "I will get a job and pay you back."
"I know it is pointless to argue with you," she said with a smile I knew she didn't feel as she held the bag out to me.
"Do me a favor," I said when we stood there awkwardly, knowing this was going to be the last time we saw each other for a long time.
"Anything."
"Find some way to take classes at Aunt Lo's gym. Tell her I said to do it. For free. She will believe you. You should... every girl should have some training," I insisted, thinking of Chris. Of Mary. Of the countless others.
"I promise," she told me. And since we had a long track record of never breaking promises to each other, I knew she would keep it.
"I love you," I told her, reaching out with my one free arm, giving her a short, but hard, hug. "Oh, God," I hissed when I heard a car pull into the drive.
"It's Vance," Iggy assured me. "He's worried about me. I'm worried about him. We were going for coffee at the all-night. He will be so happy to know you're okay."
Vance.
There was a faint fluttering sensation much like I always used to get when I thought of him as I ducked out the window, hearing Iggy following, coming with me toward the front of the house where Vance was just languidly lifting himself from the front seat of his T-bird.
He looked as good as I remembered.
Better maybe.
But there were bags under his eyes.
Like he hadn't been sleeping.
And I guess that made sense.
"Ferryn?" he hissed as his eyes moved to me, confused for a second, likely about my new bruised and shaved look.
"Vance," I agreed, taking a deep breath.
I didn't even think about it.
I didn't hesitate.
I closed the distance between us, reaching up, snagging him by the back of the neck, dragging him down, and sealing my lips over his.
It should have been the most exciting moment of my life. It would have been had it happened a week ago.
But excitement wasn't something I was seeking anymore.
This was determination.
This was the culmination of something I had wanted for far too long without acting on it.
His body had stiffened for a moment, knowing he was supposed to pull away, but softened a second later as my lips demanded a response, then got one, as he finally took over until my body felt like it was thrumming with need.
Then and only then did I pull back, break away, finding his eyes hooded with desire but somehow also widened with shock as he looked at me.
"Just so you don't forget me," I told him, taking a steadying breath I desperately needed, turning, and running off, ignoring the stabbing in my feet, ducking in and out of backyards until I reached the convenience store a town over, taking a card out of my wallet.
My 'for emergencies' card.
Except it was simply a card to my parents' checking account.
With a lump in my belly, I withdrew eight-hundred, reminding myself that - like Iggy - I would pay them back as soon as I could.
I bought a ticket.
I climbed on a bus.
And I watched as Navesink Bank drifted into the distance.
I would be back.
When I was stronger.
When I could stand on my own.
When no one else could ever use me again.
Yeah, I would be back.
Someday.