The Great Below

The Escape: Part 2

The sick feeling only got stronger.

Octavia wasn't sure how she was doing it, but she'd already crossed most of a suburban neighborhood in her bare feet, without a coat. As if to reinforce how bad of an idea this was, the rain intensified, slapping painfully at everything. Octavia hugged her album tighter against her chest, careful to keep her new magazine from sliding out the bottom, and continued only because the roar of the rain chased her. The rain also did Victor's will: it had drenched her scalp and run behind her ears, soaking her as thoroughly as a shower, only with clothes on. It made everything cling and rub and irritate.

She felt her impending punishment on her skin, which prickled against the cold, and in the hot sting of another clumsily discovered piece of garbage underfoot. With each step, she recalculated her ability to turn back. She could dry off, reattach herself to the couch. It would take some time. Every minute with the hair dryer or standing at the clothes dryer, fearing Victor had returned, would be torture. Plus, he'd never forgive her for taking the twenty she'd found on his dresser.

She didn't want to decide which step voided the sad fantasy of returning to his apartment, no harm done, so she trudged on. The neighborhood around her was so old that instead of curbs, it had sloping yellow grass that dipped down into a river of drains that punched holes through all the raised driveways like a moat, warning her away. Each house was far back from the road, their lights a distant promise of safety. When the asphalt was too harsh, Octavia would drift into the slippery grass and consider a jump into their yards and a desperate run to one of their doors.

Then she glimpsed it, coming closer by the minute: a Metra platform across the next intersection. These houses were still Victor's neighbors; if she stopped too close, she might not fully escape. Also, there was the nagging idea that they would be skeptical. That they would close their doors on her, fearing that she was crazy and homeless. They would be lost time.

At the edge of the neighborhood were signs of life: a gas station with a convenience store. A bustling commuter lot. Cars, so many cars. She would have to cross a four-lane road where traffic blew past, shooting waves of black rain over the sidewalks.

#

Octavia stepped tenderly onto the linoleum of the convenience store, careful not to go sliding. The door made a telltale electronic ring that caused people waiting in line to turn and stare. A middle-aged woman wrestling with a collapsible umbrella frowned, shaking her head.

Octavia hugged tighter to her album, hearing the rain pee off her but not listening, wondering if she could scream or cry or beg for help; if that was crazy. She wanted to. Her eyes stung and her throat locked up. How long had she fantasized about being around people? It wasn't supposed to be like this. They were supposed to be sympathetic and understanding; they were going to call the police right away and pat her shoulder in a way that wasn't threatening. They were going to offer her coffee or tea; they would frown but listen; they were supposed to be furious at Victor for his crimes.

Octavia looked from one shopper to another, hoping to meet their darting glances.

"Can I help you, ma'am." It was more of a statement than a question. A clerk appeared from between two rows of groceries, hard-faced, and folded her arms across a red polo shirt. This woman would be neither sympathetic nor understanding, and she might have called the cops, but only to get Octavia out of her store. Then the clerk tilted her head and scowled – she had noticed the faint color of blood in Octavia's wet footprints.

"Um, shoes?"

"I've got some flip-flops left over from summer." The clerk made up for Octavia's timidity by using a few more decibels than was called for, then pointed to a clearance bin brimming with brightly-colored plastic sandals.

Octavia crouched near the display, eager to hide from any more onlookers. The clerk returned to the front counter, calling to a co-worker for a mop. It was still tempting to ask for help, but Octavia hadn't made it very far and these strangers weren't as welcoming as she'd hoped. All she had to do was cross to the Metra platform and jump the first train that came. That would solve her problem while avoiding the cops, which she preferred.

It was stupid. She knew it was stupid. But that first week in the apartment back in May, she'd found an opportunity when Victor went to the gym. She'd screamed and pounded the floor under her until a neighbor called the cops for a noise violation. By the time the squad car arrived, Victor had returned, unfastening her and forcing them both to the bedroom closet. The cops had taken too long to get to their second story apartment. He'd piled in on top of her and pressed her voice box tight with one meaty fist while police knocked at the door. He whispered hot threats in the dark of the closet, followed by an assertion that they'd never come in without cause, or a warrant, and they waited like that – Octavia trying to breathe in stunted bursts – until the officer left.

Just the idea of calling the police, months later, felt like fingers on her throat.

Octavia tugged loose a pair of sandals in serene blue. On the way to the register she paused at a rack of cheap sweatshirts but decided against it. She wasn't sure she had enough money for both plus the train ticket.

The clerk who'd helped her also rang her out, still casting the occasional wary glance. Octavia tried to smile at her, but her skin pulled painfully around a sore spot on her orbital bone. "Could you cut the tag?" Octavia asked her. Scissors sliced through the thick plastic, making her flinch.

It wasn't until she was back outside, under an awning made of dazzling light, that her breathing came easier. The cushion of other people made her brave, even though Victor might drive past in his pickup truck at any moment. There were gasoline fumes and one-dollar hot dogs in the air – Octavia sucked in a deep breath of it and coughed.

She leaned against the wall of windows and lifted one foot to her opposite knee, picking granules of rock and glass from her sole before dropping the sandals to the ground. She sent one toe across the spongy surface, exploring under the plastic V meant to hold them in place. Gradually, each foot found a home. A bit painful, but it would be all right.