FREE STORY WITH EXCLUSIVE CONTENT. This is *not* a Paid Story.
Eighteen-year-old hockey prodigy Elliot Wexler has three goals for senior year. One: somehow graduate with a 3.5 GPA. Two: hide his bipolar disorder from his peers. And three: make it in...
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WITH ELLIOT GONE, the sounds of the building croak, moan, and breathe around me. I swear it's alive, and every sound injects me with fear.
Darkness swallows the attic when night falls, and I use a Bic I pickpocketed to light a cherry-scented candle I bought with the busking money. The miniscule flame is far from enough to keep me warm, but it smells like my old violin tutor's house, and that comforts me. In my pocket, I touch the rough edge of my heart-shaped box and feel okay for a fleeting moment. I can't believe Elliot got it back to me. The truth is, I'm incredibly thankful; I shouldn't have lashed out at him. He's... sort of a good guy. And if he hadn't shown up, those assholes in the alley would have stolen everything I've worked so hard to keep.
As soon as the sun comes up tomorrow, I'm leaving this area. Nowhere in this city is safe, but I'll be away from those guys in another block. Maybe I'll head east again, to the richer busking areas by the mall. Or maybe I'll find my friends Hal and Chay and see where they're staying these days. I haven't seen them in a while. They would probably think this is weird, but I miss them.
It takes forever to fall asleep. The sticky plastic of the couch crinkles beneath me, but if I take it off, there could be spiders. When I eventually drift away, I dream of Colton Slater.
His hands around my neck.
The bathroom floor.
Blood.
I wake up cold. Smoke rises from the burnt-out candle. A sliver of moonlight bleeds through the window, and I clutch at my neck, as if to make sure it doesn't hurt, as if to prove that dream wasn't a reality.
The only pain is residual from my nightmare.
I escaped him. I got away.
I'll never be anyone's prisoner again.
* * *
Every gym in the city knows to look out for kids like me. Homeless people have easy access to public bathrooms and water fountains, but showers are a whole different story. The good news is it's usually packed this early, so when I get inside, the girls at the front desk are preoccupied with some customers. Ducked behind a crowd of buff men going for their morning workout, I wait for my chance. They scan their key cards, opening the gate, and I slide in behind them.
Whew. Made it.
Women give me dirty looks as I enter the change room and keep my head down, avoiding the curious glances of any workers. I know what I look like in their eyes: greasy hair, dishevelled clothing. A homeless rat.
But I ignore them, because I have to do this. I set my boots in a locker with my freshly cleaned clothes. My first stop today was the laundromat; busking hasn't drowned me in riches, but I have change in my pocket. And after I shower, I'll finally be clean.
