Wicked Things by Yolanda Olson

Hollis

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Sailor’s.

I stood across the street and read the sign more times than I cared to admit.

I had never been inside the place, but I reasoned it would be safe since it was on the other side of town.

I wanted to go inside more than anything, but it was the nervous feeling I’ve always felt in the pit of my stomach when I forced myself to try and interact with others that had been holding me in place.

Nervously, I licked my lips as I started across the street.

I stood in the line of people waiting to get in and caught a glimpse of myself in the reflection of a car window.

What was staring back at me was not the pretty, young woman that had left the house, but the distorted monster that I was so used to being branded.

I cleared my throat and bit down on my lower lip, trying to keep the tears that threatened to fall tucked away neatly where they belonged.

Ten minutes went by, then another five before I finally approached the man at the front door.

He asked for my identification, and I gave it to him, hoping above all else that he would hand it back quickly and just let me in.

And when he did, I felt something I hadn’t felt in a long while.

Relief.

___

Almost all of the stools at the bar were taken by the time I was able to fight my way up to it.

I managed to find an empty spot and sat down, making myself as comfortable as I possibly could for as long as I would be there.

I placed my small clutch on the bar-top and glanced at the bottles that adorned the mirrored wall in front of me.

The music got louder, and the people around me became even more rambunctious as the seconds ticked away.

With a sigh, I leaned forward and opened my bag to retrieve my wallet—suddenly I felt like I was being watched.