Cross My Heart (18+)

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I groaned to myself quietly as I heard my alarm on my phone rage loudly, pulling me out of my peaceful sleep. Last night was the first night of me not having a night terror in four months, so I slept extremely peacefully. I pulled the knit blanket over my body, not wanting the warmth to leave my skin. I slowly sat up, my arms extending over my head as I stretched. I then cracked my neck, something my mother dearly hated. Everything reminded me of her, and at times it felt unbearable. I quickly pushed the thoughts away, looking out the window. The streets were crowded with pop-up stands where farmers tried to sell their produce. There were also small stands with homemade jewelry.

I cringed as the sound of honking cars filled the air, the loud noise making me wince momentarily. I pulled myself out of my warm bed, quickly throwing on an oversized sweater and leggings along with my very beat-up white hightop converse. I pulled my long black hair up into a ponytail, wrapping an old bandana around my head to keep my ears somewhat warm. As soon as I had money, I would buy myself a black beanie with fuzz on the inside, I noted in my brain.

I slipped my phone into the waistband of my leggings before taking my mother's old faux leather jacket off of the hanger and throwing it on. I took my small backpack too, shoving my current read in it — The General in His Labyrinth, by Gabriel García Márquez. Thus far I had taken a liking to it, Márquez was undeniably poetic with his dialogue. Reading had been my little escape for as long as I could remember, it soothed my soul — even if it was just for a few minutes.

It was a cold morning, and I found myself immediately rubbing my arms quickly to try and warm myself up as I walked outside. As I began pulling my phone out to go to Google Maps to find a coffee shop close by, I realized that there was one practically right in front of me. It was called Double Espresso. I could've jumped in joy right then and there. After all, it is the little things that make you the happiest. As I entered the shop, the enticing smell of coffee feeling my nose. It reminded me of my old home.

Who was I kidding, everything reminded me of the life I used to have. I constantly was filled with the feeling of bitter nostalgia, which is an indescribable feeling of heartache. It consumed my soul, like ugly vines wrapping around an abandoned building until no bricks were visible. Thinking of things that could've been felt like when you drained a warm bath and all of the water has finally been sucked back down — leaving you cold.

I placed my order to a woman who looked to be in her mid-forties. Her blonde hair was tied into a top-knot bun, and her crystal blue eyes reflected from the sun shining in through the wide windows. She was absolutely beautiful, but she looked like she hadn't slept in days. My heart ached for her. She seemed to be, from what I could tell, the only one on staff; due to no business owners making enough money to pay employees. As she was handing me my receipt and thanked me, I asked her if there was any work available in the town.

For a moment, it looked like she had seen a ghost, which threw me off guard. Why was that such an odd question? She shook her head before looking down, waiting for the next costumer to place their order. I shrugged the odd interaction off, grabbing my double espresso latte and sitting down in the cozy corner of the store. I brought my legs up to my chest, taking a sip of the liquid. I could sigh in happiness, I had missed coffee so much.

'Remember your mothers french-pressed coffee she would make you everyday before school?' The little voice in my head antagonized. I ignored it, pulling my book out before flipping to page fifty-seven. The pages were illuminated by the sun in the most lovely way, reflecting off the platinum ring my mother had given me.

I read for about an hour, sipping every few minutes until the drink had emptied. The last bit of it was cold by now, too. I stood up, stretching my legs before throwing my cup away and packing up my things. Right before I was about to open the door to leave, a hand halted my movement — placing his hand right over the handle. I slowly turned around, only to see a quite unfamiliar face. I scrunched my face in confusion, waiting for him to speak so I could get on with my day.

Instead, he held out a small business card. I raised a brow, now more confused than ever.

"You need work?" He grunted. "Street-fighting. Underground. If you can do even the bare minimum medically, you'll be good. If you can handle it, that is. They're desperate. You'll make a livable wage." Before I could reply, he was out the door. I stared blankly at the small piece of paper. It was discreet, looking as if it were a laundry mat — but there was a bolded number at the bottom, indicating to call for application.

Street-fighting.