no turning back

• fourteen •

gladys

The bluish glow of Cyrus' headlights reflected off the dark pavement. My breath came out in a tiny, cloud-like puffs, the moisture instantly crystallizing in the surrounding air.

I didn't hesitate to walk right up to the passenger side of the Charger. It had been like this every day since the first snow.

If I ignored him, he just followed me until his car went so slow that it stopped traffic—at which point I always caved, if only to remove the unwanted attention.

With the nasty weather, I was usually grateful for a safer means of transportation to work. Today marked a week straight of snow storms and sub-freezing highs. I'd been dodging patches of black ice for days now, and my frequent failures left my ass chronically bruised. My palms and knees were devoured in scrapes and cuts.

That being said, I would still prefer to walk than sit in the car with him for minutes on end. Fortunately, since he and Jesse were hanging out more and more after work, I was spared most evenings.

As I pulled on the door handle, my hand encountered resistance. I pressed my face to the window of the locked door, but the dark tint obscured any visibility.

I didn't have time for this shit. I turned around and walked off. If he didn't want to give me a ride, that was fine. I never asked him for it, but he continuously insisted. He just liked to play games to annoy me, but god forbid I annoy him or protest his absurd behavior.

Before I made it even two yards, his car horn blared. I jumped at the loud noise and spun around. The Charger paused beside me, cars honking. He continued blaring his horn at me so I threw my arms up.

"What do you want from me?" I demanded.

The window rolled down as he laid off the horn. "Get in," he ordered.

Rolling my eyes, I tried the door and found it unlocked. "Asshole," I muttered under my breath while sliding into the passenger seat.

The dashboard screen showed Jesse's contact and a log that showed their recent phone calls. I buckled myself in and folded my arms in protectively across my chest.

"Why do you do this?" I asked.

"Do what?"

"Give me rides. It's clear you don't want me here and I'd rather walk."

He scoffed. "Ungrateful, too? I'm being a gentleman in giving you a ride while it's snowing, Gladys," he said, lacing my sound of my name with distaste. "My brother has quite the taste in women."

"It's Gwen," I said. "And if he's making you give me rides, do us both a favor and just say you're driving me around. He's not going to know the difference."

"You're so naive." He shook his head. "And by the way, going by your fake name is pointless. The only reason you have a fake name is to protect yourself from Elijah, and he already knows where you live, where you work, and your new identity. Personally, I don't give a fuck. You can call yourself 'god' for all I care, but I don't feel like hearing him bitch about it."

"My name on legal documents is Gwendolyn," I bit out. "You can believe whatever you want, but that's reality. Gladys Wilder doesn't exist anymore."

We turned onto the main road and took off toward the clinic. I stared out at the snow banks along the road and gleaming streaks of ice along the sidewalks.

"Reality is that you're going to be leaving here at some point and you will be called 'Gladys,'" he said. "You might as well shred those documents."