𝙀𝙫𝙚𝙧𝙮 𝙏𝙞𝙢𝙚 𝙄 𝘾𝙡𝙤𝙨𝙚 𝙈𝙮 𝙀𝙮𝙚𝙨 || ˢᵗᵉᵛᵉ ʳᵒᵍᵉʳˢ

Chapter 2⏤Jaws

j a w s

After she was released from the police station—it was already the next day, but she didn't mind, given she had been fed and had a warm place to sleep—she made her way to the building where she usually spent her nights. The construction workers hadn't shown up in a while, so she wasn't concerned about being caught sneaking around. There was no elevator, and she kept her belongings on the fourth floor, where her childhood apartment had been. When she arrived at the correct floor, she had to double-check because she couldn't believe her eyes. A man was standing over her stuff, rifling through her backpack.

"Hey!" she shouted, drawing his attention, "What the hell do you think you are doing?" He glanced up briefly before slinging her bag over his shoulder and darting towards her. Instinctively, she stepped aside, nearly tumbling over from the surprise. It took her a few moments to comprehend what had just occurred before she started chasing after him. When she got to the door, she looked both ways, uncertain of his direction. Her intuition told her to go right, so she did. She searched for a while but found no sign of him.

Frustrated, she leaned against the nearest wall, sliding down to the ground and resting her head on her knees. It amazed her how much misfortune one person could endure in a lifetime. Everything she owned, everything that mattered to her, was in that backpack. There was one item she would truly miss—her phone. Not for the reasons most people might think; she wasn't one to spend her life glued to screens, oblivious to the passing of time. It was a voicemail on that phone she cherished.

The voicemail was the last remnant of her parents, of her past life, of her family. Both her parents could be heard arguing over traffic before their favorite song came on the radio and her mother began singing, only to realize she was still recording a voice message. "Sorry, hon, I'm such a goon, be safe, love you," were her mother's last words before the message ended.

Tears welled in her eyes, and she fought hard to blink them away. She didn't want to cry, not again. It seemed like all she had done in recent years was cry, tormented by past events. Her life had turned into one massive pity party. So, she resolved not to cry again. It wouldn't achieve anything, wouldn't improve her situation. Why bother in the first place? She could use her energy for better pursuits than shedding tears. Like reading, or, she thought with a hint of dark humor, even masturbating? Alas, she mused, she was too poor to afford porn for such activities. The only thing she could fantasize about were the coupons she had found on the street days earlier, still in her jacket pocket. But could she really rub one out to nearly free broccoli? She doubted it. Yet, she admitted to herself, she did like broccoli—missed it, in fact. She reminisced about how those little—well, not so little—green trees used to get stuck in her teeth as a child because of her tooth gap, a gap she no longer had, thankfully.

Sniffling, she wiped her tears and stood up as if nothing had happened. She ran her hand through her hair, trying to smooth it down, then wiped her hands on her pants and started picking at her nails—a nervous habit she'd had since childhood. Her mother used to scold her for it, saying it was a dreadful habit. And she was right—it annoyed her, but it helped her think.

Still scanning her surroundings, she made her way back to the apartment building, up to the fourth floor. Uncertain of her next steps, she dreaded the thought of sitting by the roadside, begging for money. She didn't want that life, yet with the thief making off with all her possessions, she felt she had little choice. So, swallowing her pride and the last shreds of her self-worth, she exited the building, determined to find some way to survive. She knew a few spots where she could scrape together a bit of money, never enough, but she had to take what she could get. In her situation, choosiness was a luxury she couldn't afford.