Where We Found Our Home by Natasha Bishop
Ciara
Ihiss as the warmth of my dripping wet back hits the cool floor of my new apartment. Sweat is coming out of places I didn’t know sweat could reach. Who told me moving to Texas at the end of May was a good idea?
You could’ve stayed in Baltimore and waited to die, if that would be better for you.
Okay. I need a snack. Because even my inner voice is being an asshole now.
I search through my purse until I find a granola bar. This’ll do for now. I look around at what I hope will be my new safe haven. It’s nice. A simple one bedroom. That’s all I need. The kitchen is an open floor plan that connects to the living room. The bedroom leads into the bathroom, and the closet is on the other side of the bathroom. I kind of hate that, but I won’t complain. I’m lucky to even be here. It doesn’t feel like a home but it feels…better. Different.
This will work out. Just fly under the radar, and you won’t have to run again.
Ahh okay. The snack is working its magic, I see.
I look around at all my boxes I’ve brought up so far. I don’t have too much stuff but enough that the thought of unpacking right now puts a pain in the pit of my stomach. I decided moving from Baltimore, Maryland to Austin, Texas by myself was enough of a headache with just the small stuff, so I don’t have any of the big items yet. No couch, no bed, no table. I have some of that stuff ordered, and they’re coming this week, but it’ll be an air mattress for me until then.
I should probably take a short rest before I overheat. I might as well take advantage of the slightly less hot air in my apartment and call my mom and friends to let them know I’ve arrived before going to get the rest of my stuff.
My mom answers on the first ring. “Are you okay? I thought you were going to call when you first got there.” She barely takes a breath during that sentence. I feel bad knowing that she’s probably barely taken her eyes off her phone since I left.
She tries to grill me on my motivations for moving…again, but I deflect because I don’t want to have that conversation. She knows the basics. I was tired of being scared shitless to walk outside. I hated who I had become there. I’m not one to hide in the shadows, afraid to go anywhere or talk to anyone. She doesn’t need to know the rest. That she’s safer with me gone. I’ll do what it takes to protect her and my girls. I fill her in on the ride down here, and she fills me in on everything going on back home before we hang up and my friends invite me to a video chat.
I love my best friends Brittany, Simone, and Sarah, but our conversation is just like the one I just rushed through with my mom. They’ve been trying to coax more information from me about why I felt the need to move by myself. Anyone else who knew my story would say “ah, that makes sense” and leave it at that, but these girls have been my best friends since elementary school. They know me better than I know myself. They know I’m hiding something. But I’m not telling them the whole story. They’ll have to pry the information out of my cold, dead hands.
Which could be sooner rather than later at this point.
I do what I have to do to get them to back off. I lie. I’m becoming concerned with how easily the lies are falling out of my mouth now. The lies are intricate. A simple “I’m fine” won’t do. I have to feed them lines about rebuilding myself and needing time to clear my head. They don’t need to know that I’ve sentenced myself to a life of solitude. That I don’t plan to let them visit me—ever. That I didn’t just come here to put distance between myself and my hometown but between me and them. If I tell them everything, they’ll crowd around me and never let me out of their sight. And they’ll be rewarded for their efforts with a bullet between the eyes or some other brutal death.
Once the topic is firmly off of me, the conversation flows much better. Brittany gives us the scoop on her latest work drama and last creepy date. The poor thing has the worst track record with dating. Sarah fills us in on her upcoming trip with her longtime boyfriend, Jordan. Simone of course asks me if I’ve met any attractive guys in the five minutes I’ve been here, because apparently I need a stress reliever in the form of dick. She’s not wrong, but the thought of trusting someone enough to be that vulnerable with them right now? Impossible. The thought of someone seeing and touching my scars? No, thank you. She then gives us the rundown of her quest for good dick and how she thought she found someone to break her four-month drought, but he turned out to be a dud. Her exact words were, “I was trying to get these walls beat up last night, and I had to settle for my vibrator. Again.” God, it feels so good to laugh with them. When was the last time I haven’t faked a smile or laugh?
After we end our call, I grab my keys and head toward the door. I check the peephole, stand behind the door, and pull it open quickly. Nothing, or no one, charges their way in, so I poke my head out and check the hallway in both directions before stepping out and locking the door behind me. Bringing all my boxes upstairs would be much easier if I didn’t have to take the time to unlock the door after every trip, but the last year has bred some healthy paranoia into me.
Okay, maybe not healthy. But I am entitled to do what’s needed to feel safe.
Even if you may never be truly safe again.
Do you need another snack? Please shut up.
I grab the last box and lock my car. I start to reach for the building door, but a man opens it before I have a chance. He has a salt-and-pepper beard but no hair on his head. He looks like he’s in his forties or fifties, and he’s wearing a brown tracksuit that gives me Bernie Mac vibes. But his slow perusal of my body has my guard way up. He holds the door for me but he speaks directly to my chest as he asks, “Need any help with moving in?”
“No thanks, I’m fine.” I move past him, careful not to touch him and careful not to look back at him, but I feel him watching me.
“You new in town or you from around here?”
Oh Lord. Please not with the personal questions. When is this elevator getting here?
“I’m from around.”
He chuckles. You know—that chuckle men give when they know they’re getting the brush-off but don’t care.
“Well, if you need anyone to show you around town, let me know. I’m in 4408.”
Thank goodness he’s not on my floor. Answering my prayers, the elevator opens at that moment.
“Good to know. Nice meeting you,” I lie.
I live on the sixth floor, but I’ll take the elevator to the seventh floor and walk down a flight. Yeah, I’m that paranoid.