See You in the Storm

8

I really do sleep the entire weekend, by the time I wake, my concussion has faded to a dull throb. What hurts the worst is my bruised ego, I relive my fear over and over. Lying on the ground, curled into a ball of pain. He was so much bigger. So much stronger. 

My stomach is bruised so badly that each breath feels like a hammer to the rib cage. I have never been to a hospital, and I won't be changing that now. The bags of food on my bruises have thawed, so much so that I am lying in a puddle, tinted water pooling on my mattress. 

I sit up, water dripping down my chest and shuffle to the kitchen. There are six missed calls on my phone, all from Peter. I grimace and call him back, putting my phone on speaker while I wash blood off my face.

"Alina?" His meek voice crackles through my apartment. If I close my eyes, I don't feel alone in my house anymore.

"Hey." My voice is hoarse. "Sorry, I've been out of town."

"It's fine, don't worry. I'm not coming to school today," he pauses, gulping down air between words. "My mom's still scared I'm going to be blown up or something."

I laugh and it hurts. "I was gonna skip anyways. I need a day off." My gaze falls on the stains across the floor. Blood and mud. 

I hang up on him and wipe the floor until there are only red stains on the wood. My forehead presses into the planks, hot breath leaving the ground moist. I'm just so tired. I just want something normal. 

My phone buzzes again, this time Dick. YOU OKAY?

FINE, JET LAGGED. I lie. 

Why he's texting me, I'm not sure, it's an odd gesture. 

Another notification has me rolling my eyes. Fuck my life. But it isn't Grayson. Instead there's an ad in my email inbox, a waitress position at some 60's themed diner. Cute. 

I'm about to swipe it into the trash when I pause, setting my phone down and biting my lip. The extra cash could be nice, I don't exactly have anything to do between school and my night shift. 

When I get Ethan out of Arkham, I'd like to have enough money to buy us a way out of the city. I don't trust the mob anymore, not after Friday night. 

God damn it. 

Serving up chocolate shakes and bussing tables isn't exactly a role I'd seem myself playing. 

I click the ad and it takes me to a form where I type in my information and press the pink send button. Easy peasy. Unless of course, they actually take my application.

My next few hours are spent on my fire escape. The rusty metal creaks beneath my legs as I dangle my feet off the edge. The ledge of the window presses into the back of my neck. Music blasts through my earbuds, I watch pigeons make a nest on a nearby skyscraper. People swarm in and out of metro stations, bikers dodge through the midday traffic. The park I almost died near is hosting some sort of festival, children play in the grass. 

I watch a family on a playground and they look like me. Like us. Like them. Everyone talks about the way loss lingers, each time you see what you could have been, the hurt comes back all over again. Everyone talks about it and yet I have never gotten used to the jealous tug on my heart. What I would give for one more night with them. I only have to wait a whole lifetime to find them again.

My email dings, the waitress form I signed earlier appears on my screen. And I'm supposed to meet at the diner in an hour. Shit. 

I take a shower in two minutes, partially due to my aversion of cold water. Then I take my time to style my hair, trying to make the outside as curly as the underside. Useless, almost as useless as putting on makeup. I don't really feel pretty with it, my insides are ripped to shreds, I have a black eye that my concealer has a hard time covering. In the end, one under eye looks cakey and I just feel like an impostor. These are normal, regular, teenage girl problems and I don't understand how to cope with them. I am used to bloody knuckles and knife fights, not picking out an outfit.