Total pages in book: 69
Estimated words: 63842 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 319(@200wpm)___ 255(@250wpm)___ 213(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 63842 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 319(@200wpm)___ 255(@250wpm)___ 213(@300wpm)
Eric had told me he had the same dream. Turned out, his dream had been more about building himself up by keeping someone under his foot. It had been me since before college. Then he wanted Mia but wanted his fucking mind games with me too.
I picked at a dangling hangnail until it bled, sucking the small wound. I’d come to Haven because the nice lady who’d brought me said this place would keep Eric away from me. No questions asked. I stayed in Haven because I was officially homeless and had nowhere else to go. The sad truth was, I hated the thought of leaving this place because I’d never stayed anywhere I felt safer than I did at Haven.
What came next? The question circled in my head like a vulture. I couldn’t stay here forever, but I couldn’t imagine a life outside these walls either. Not when Eric was still out there.
I wrapped my arms around myself, pressing against the bruises on my ribs until the physical pain drowned out everything else.
The crash shattered the afternoon quiet like a gunshot. I didn’t see what happened. First, the ball bouncing across the linoleum, then a little boy chasing after it. One or both of them hit the table where a ceramic vase sat just a little too close to the edge. I only registered the sound as it exploded against the floor, blue and white shards spraying outward like shrapnel. My body reacted before my mind could catch up. Flinch. Gasp. Arms over face. Heart instantly hammering against my ribs as if trying to punch its way out of my chest.
The rational part of my brain knew it was just a broken vase. Just a child’s accident. But my body was already in full survival mode, dumping adrenaline into my bloodstream. My ears rang. My vision tunneled. My muscles coiled tight, ready to do anything I could to avoid what usually came after a crash.
I sucked in a sharp breath that hurt my throat. Held it. Forgot how to release it. The common room had gone still. Through the gaps between my fingers, I saw women frozen in various postures of interrupted activity. Some exchanged knowing glances and looks of sympathy, a language survivors recognized as a trigger response. Others deliberately turned away, giving me privacy in my panic, or maybe protecting themselves from the mirror I’d become.
“I’m so sorry,” the little boy’s mother murmured, already on her knees, gathering ceramic pieces into her cupped palm. “Tyler, go put your ball away, please.” Her voice was tight but controlled. Tyler looked terrified, his lower lip trembling as he clutched the rubber ball to his chest and scurried away.
“It’s fine,” someone said. “Just an accident. Our fault for having something not kid-proof in here.”
“I’ve got a dustpan,” another woman offered, heading toward the supply closet.
I forced my arms down, away from my face. Attempted a smile that probably looked more like a grimace. My hands wouldn’t stop shaking, but I couldn’t just sit there like a broken doll while everyone else handled the situation. I slid from my chair and knelt beside the boy’s mother.
“Let me help,” I said, reaching for a larger piece of ceramic.
She glanced up at me, her expression a careful blank. “Thanks.”
My fingers trembled so badly I couldn’t pick up the shard. I tried again. Failed again. The third time I managed to grasp it, but my hand shook so hard that I dropped it almost immediately. It clattered against the floor, breaking into smaller pieces.
“Sorry,” I whispered, mortified.
“We’re all a hot mess,” she said with a watery smile. “How about we do the best we can and understand we’re all ghosts?”
The woman with the dustpan and a hand vacuum arrived, sweeping carefully to get the larger pieces before using the vacuum. I tried again to help but my breath came in shallow gasps that weren’t bringing in enough oxygen. Black spots danced at the edges of my vision. I was going to pass out and make an even bigger scene.
I stumbled to my feet and backed away, scanning for somewhere to retreat. The bathrooms were too far. The dormitory area was up a flight of stairs. My legs couldn’t even manage to make it to the elevator much less up a flight of stairs. Luckily, I found an empty corner by the bookshelves, partially screened by a large potted plant. I made my way there on wobbly legs, pressing my back against the wall and sliding down until I sat on the floor, knees pulled tight to my chest.
I used to be good at talking myself down from the ledge. Back when the panic attacks were just garden variety anxiety and not the souvenirs of systematic abuse. I tried now, struggling to find the rhythm of controlled breathing that had once been second nature.