1. Leonor

1

LEONOR

PRESENT DAY

M y brows furrow and my eyes pinch tight at the low buzzing of the phone on the table next to me. It’s a rhythmic reminder, a constant humming in my head that despite my many attempts, I am in fact, still here. Alive and breathing. Existing. I have failed to disappear, and no one is going to let me be forgotten, not completely. And that is fucking annoying.

So is the fact that my phone has been ringing nonstop for almost two hours now. Two hours and eleven seconds based on my count, with no end in sight.

I know this because I don’t sleep anymore, not in the traditional sense, and the slightest noise will have me jolting upright faster than the speed of light.

On a good night, I may drift into a sleep-like state for an hour or two before my fear rips me from a faux slumber and the weight of my reality returns, taking its rightful place sitting heavily on my chest. A fucking elephant that won’t leave me alone.

And today, like most days, that reality comes crashing down on me in the form of repeated phone calls from the only person left to make the effort to contact me.

Without even looking I know who’s been calling, and I know exactly why they’ve been blowing my ass up, too.

“Justine, do you have any idea what time it is?” The questions spill from my lips in the low, gruff growl that has become my normal speaking voice because I use it so little. At least I’m not grunting one-word responses anymore.

“ Yes . Which is why I’ve been calling you over and over all morning. You were supposed to be at work almost forty-five minutes ago.” Her melodic voice rises at the end of her sentence before it drops a few octaves down into stern. “You have one shot at this. One . I know it’s scary, I know it’s hard but if you don’t start taking control of your life and taking things seriously, you are going to stay stagnant in your misery and grief. Both of which are completely self-imposed and could be quickly remedied. You have to start taking care of yourself. You have to start doing everyday things like normal people, you can’t…”

I set the phone back down on the nightstand and scrub my hands over my face.

It is way too early for this shit.

With a sigh, I attempt to pull myself from my coffin-like bed, the mildly comforting warmth and peaceful reprieve created by the cocoon of my pillows and blankets begging me to sink back in, to crawl inside and hide, to never come out again.

Unfortunately, fate—and Justine—have other plans. Ones that start early as hell.

It’s almost eight o’clock.

I know the sun is shining, birds are most likely singing, there may even be a slight summer breeze carrying the smell of fresh baked goods and cut grass right outside my window. The only reason I know this is because my iPhone reads Thursday August 9th, 7:56 a.m. and nothing more.

I don’t watch TV; I don’t read the paper.

Doom-scrolling through any of the bullshit on my phone hasn’t happened in years, and I honestly can’t remember the last time I turned on a radio.

The tomb I’ve created here in my loft apartment prevents any shred of the outside world from breaching my walls, it prevents the so-called normal things from creeping in and reminding me that I’m still alive. Something else I’m fully aware of and can’t really stand.

“Leonor! Are you even listening to me? Are you there? Leonor! That’s it, I’m coming over, I’ll be there?—”

I snatch the phone off the heavy wood and quickly bring it to my ear. “I’m here.” I’m still fucking here.

It is getting harder and harder to hide the disappointing truth behind those words.

“I’m getting ready. I’ll be there in a half hour.” I hang up before Justine has time to respond then swing my legs over the edge of the bed and plant my feet on the floor. I pad my way to the bathroom, strip my clothes off in between every painstaking step, grab my tank top and leggings from the lounger, and try to prep myself to fake normal for the next eight to ten hours.

The only problem is, this is now my normal.

Hiding. Faking it. Forcing it.

Pretending I’m not still the fucked up headcase from three years ago.

And the more time that passes, the harder it is to find the energy to try.

Flipping the switch in the bathroom, I turn on the light then the faucet, grab a hair tie to throw my ass-length cherry waves up in a messy knot on top of my head, and continue going through the motions. I start brushing my teeth, scrubbing the dryness out of my mouth, and when I go to spit, I catch a glimpse of my almost unrecognizable reflection.

Even after three years, it’s still hard to believe that the woman staring back at me, is me.

Unblinking, I watch my hand move, watch my body work from muscle memory while I get ready to leave, and begin dissecting the stranger in my mirror.

My once-vibrant cobalt blue eyes, eyes so blue they were almost black, are now a muted and dull color settled against two dark circles underneath. Years of nightmares and lack of sleep taking a toll in a very unattractive and relatively permanent way. My eyes shift to the metal in my face, the multiple piercings shining through the smattering of tiny freckles that dot the bridge of my nose and cheeks, the constellation spreading toward my forehead and jaw before covering the rest of my fair skin.

Wiping my mouth, I note my Cupid’s bow lips have lost most of their color as well, now a pale shade of pink, dry and cracked from the constant gnawing at them.

I splash some water on my face then pat it dry and as I drop my towel on the counter, my eyes skimming over the plethora of tattoos that start at my throat then blanket down to cover most of my body.

A body I hardly recognize.

My lack of appetite is showing something fierce today.

My normal D cups are probably a small C now, my waist is slimmer than it’s ever been, and my wide hips give way to an ass that's smaller than I realized it was. I’m not exactly emaciated but if you look hard enough you can see the faint outlines of my hip bones and my ribs.

Wow.

Slowly and cautiously, I run my fingers over the dips and grooves created by the bones, and I don’t stop when they hit the jagged, ugly cluster of scars—four of them along and under my rib cage at a forty-five-degree angle.

Moving of its own accord, my hand travels to the large one, the thick, angry pink line that technically ends at my belly button and winds around my waist above my pelvic bone, creating a path that stops just shy of the left side of my spine.

I clutch my stomach, my other hand resting over my chest as it starts to heave. I stare at the three five-inch-long scars that reside over the place my heart used to be before my fingers slide up to my throat, outlining the mostly hidden one that sits just above my collar bone.

A work of art.

A real piece of work.

I hadn’t even realized tears started to form until one unexpectedly rolls down my cheek and plummets to the marble countertop of the sink. And that was enough to break the trance.

Wiping my eyes, I get my sorry ass into gear, throw my clothes on and take one last look in the mirror. I never realized how meaningful my tattoos really were until they started hiding the demons I’m doomed to carry around with me forever.

Which definitely means today is going to be a shit show. And that’s why I open the medicine cabinet, take out a bottle then tap two pills into my hand before replacing everything.

Running down the spiral iron staircase, I toss them in my mouth and head toward the kitchen. Not because I’m hungry, never that, but I know my body is going to need some sort of fuel to successfully function at work. Which is why I choke down a banana and a cup of coffee before triple-checking my go bag.

“Wallet... passport... chargers... iPad... laptop.” I start to panic as I dig through my backpack. “Clothes... toiletries... meds. Where is it?” My pulse is pounding in my ears, and I am heading toward a panic attack, but I blow out a breath when my fingers brush the cold metal of my Beretta, the extra ammo, and its cleaning kit.

Thank fuck.

Tossing in a couple bottles of water and a protein bar, I zip and buckle the beat-up gray canvas, and move to the counter to grab my keys and cigarettes before I start walking across the empty space that used to be my living room-slash-studio.

Weaving in and out of the various objects shrouded in white cloth, the ghosts living in this mausoleum with me stay quiet while I refuse to stroll down the most fucked-up memory lane there ever was.

Not today, assholes.

Then I slide my aviators on and take a deep breath, count backwards from ten, and finally step outside.