The Last of Us

One

I remember the slice of the knife. It just missed my heart, the doctors said. Sliced clean through my back, stuck between my ribcage. It lodged itself there for hours as I lay on the floor, staring at the ceiling. A piece still rests inside me now, unable to be cut out. 

I can feel the throb of my scar now. The knife that's never really left me.

I'm waiting for them to arrive. The chairs are aligned in a circle neatly, like an AA meeting.

The aircon hums softly in the background as I stare up at the blank ceiling. There's a dirt stain smudged into the paint. I wonder how it got there. 

I don't really want to be here. Surrounding myself with people like me is something I've avoided for years. Even when my mother constantly told me it could help. 

Like I needed the reminder of death. It was already pungent, like a bad smell hanging in the air. I didn't need to know other final girls to feel like I belonged again. 

I'd begun public speaking because I was desperate for the money. I hadn't been able to hold down a steady job in the years since the incident. So my mother decided to hire a publicist without my knowledge. It spiralled from there.

This was just another job. I'd faced final girls before. 

I couldn't help the feeling in my stomach, though. It's different this time. Deep down, it's why I'd been so hesitant to come.

The double doors swing open. My head shoots up, pieces of my dark hair cascading in front of my eyes. I push the strands behind my ears, standing. 

The first girl to walk in couldn't be older than sixteen. The age I'd been when it happened.

She's dressed in jeans and a grey sweater. Her blonde hair is pulled back into a tight ponytail, natural makeup sweeping her face. 

I offer her a blank smile when she stands by the door, waiting for it to slide shut behind her before she walks forward. A habit, I'm sure. Something she'd picked up when she was taken.

I'd learnt all about people's mannerisms when it came to trauma. Little things that you may not even realise you do now, like checking that nothing is in your closest five times before you can sleep. 

"Hello," I call softly, as she approaches me slowly. "I'm Harlow Sandoval. I'll be your--"

"I know," she cuts in. "I know what I'm here for."

She takes a seat across the room from me, tucking her feet beneath the chair. She has a hard edge to her that doesn't seem natural. A clear reminder that everyone in this room is not the same person they once were. 

They have all gone through change. Change that none of them deserved. 

I pick up the blue folder next to my seat, sliding out a piece of paper and pen. "This is just a questionnaire sheet for you. Fill it out at your own pace. You don't have to answer every question."

I hold out the paper towards her. She eyes it suspiciously before taking it between her thumb and forefinger. "I have my own pen," she says quietly. 

"Great," I say, trying to sound enthusiastic. Something my publicist had needed to teach me. 

"What was your name?" I ask her. 

"Claudine. Claudine Miller," she stares down at the sheet, scanning the questions. "How much exercise do I get in a week? Clearly not enough if I couldn't outrun a sixty-year-old man who owned a fucking white van."