Lost Girl

Chapter Six: The Flight

Different places in Eve's apartment building had different sounds. Not just in the sense that the halls sounded like halls and the laundry room sounded like a laundry room. No, the sounds carried different feelings. The whump-whump-whump of the laundry room made Eve feel hopeful somehow, as though the laundry being cleaned was symbolic of new chances, of throwing away the filth that caked everything in this place and becoming worth something again. The sound of people walking in the halls made her feel bouncy, like she was on one of those wooden novelty bridges at a fair or an amusement park.

And the sound of the stairwell was, for her, the sound of despair. Because it meant she was either leaving home and going out into a world that had shown her all too often how little it cared... or she was going back home, which was worse.

She tried not to think about it, tried not to think about the dull reverberation of her boots on the metal treads, the pale echo that bounced back and forth on the graffiti-splattered concrete walls. But when she tried to think of other things, all that came to her was the feeling of her mother hitting her with the bottle. The crackle as the glass broke, the stickiness of the few remaining drops of beer mingling with her blood.

Of course, Sylvia was upset that it had happened. "Sorry, sorry, sorry," she kept saying over and over, like it was a prayer to whatever God watched over drunks and low-lifes, like if she said it enough Eve might forget it had ever happened.

Eve wouldn't forget, though. Not that she could do anything about it, either. She could hardly go to the cops, and –

(and here she glanced at her arms, clasped tightly around her school binder, long black sleeves like always covering each arm from shoulder to palm)

– and she didn't have any other family to go to. Other than Gramma, and Gramma didn't count. People wouldn't believe her, either. No one ever did.

Clank, clank, clank. Boots on treads, sound bouncing off walls. Despair. In fact, that was what the clanks sounded like they were saying. De-spair. De-spair. De-spair. You'll. Ne-ver. Leave. De-spair. De-spair. Jump. Jump. Jump.

She looked over the banister. The stairwell was a claustrophobic coffin of a place, a vertical tube whose stairs had to practically curl in on themselves to find the needed room to descend. But there was a bit of room between each level of stairs. Enough to fit? To jump? Maybe. Maybe that would be the best way to go. Maybe she should just –

Eve realized that she was standing on one of the steel pipes that supported the banister railing. She was leaning out, her hair hanging in long black strands straight below her face. She didn't exactly know how she had gotten there. That scared her. And she realized she wasn't getting down, even now. That scared her more. She knew she was messed up, knew that even without an alkie mother and her arms being the way they were. She would be a mess no matter what.

So just end it. Just let go and fly.

The thought appealed to her.

Her left boot rose to the next banister support. The flight would be a brief one, but wouldn't it be grand for a second or two! Wouldn't it be wonderful to feel the wind on her face, the cool air touching her body and then... sweet nothing. An end to the nightmares – the ones that came in her sleep as well as the ones she had to deal with when awake.

Her right boot joined her left. She was leaning out so far that another inch would topple her.

She was going to do it. She was going to end it.

And then she heardthe sound.