This is not a hoax. This is an actual update. Apologies for not updating sooner. This chapter is a bit long and it will get a little uncomfortable towards the middle.
Everyone who has been encouraging me to continue, thank you very much. This is for you.
Recap of Chapter 9:
Erin and Jay were having a lovely time in their date at the Blackhawks game before her stepfather showed up and ruined the atmosphere.
It starts off from where we left these two.
Enjoy.
Chapter 10
10:27pm
When Noah was born she didn't want to hold him; she was frightened because he was so tiny and fragile and squirmy and she thought she'd just be a lousy mother.
The apple doesn't fall far from the tree, after all.
She didn't have a clue on how to be a mother, even though she had gone down to the library everyday of her last trimester and read almost every book on parenting and motherhood she could find.
It still wasn't enough. She didn't trust herself.
"No," she shook her head, looking at her boy then to the nurse looming above her, "I can't. I don't know how." she pleaded, voice rough from the excursion and shame.
Not that she didn't know how to hold a baby - well, it theory, she did know, she had read how to, after all. But to actually actually hold a newborn in her arms, she wasn't so sure, at that time.
She hadn't ever held one until her own.
"Child, you better hold him. Hold him and never let go."
And when she took him in her arms, held her bloodied child close to her chest for the very first time, shaking and crying, for a little while there, she felt whole again, complete. Family. It was still frightening but she did it. Family. He is her family and it was all she ever wanted in life.
"Noah."
She vowed to never let him go.
When she woke up from the dreamless nap and the little pinkish bundle was, once again, placed in her arms, Erin realised she was still frightened.
But there had been no time to be scared as there was room for little more than fascination and a convoluted, gigantic affection that she couldn't handle yet. She recalled spewing greetings and promises with a raspy voice, unaware of her own words, the raw scent coming from both of them, and little else.
Now that they had both rested a little and started to understand their new places in this world, Erin could allow herself to be taken aback by the small, toothless human tucked in her arms. No matter how many times she had seen babies; this felt completely unprecedented. Now, she realised, her job had just started.
She shifted in bed, carefully unwrapping Noah just enough to examine his body. She could see a small bump in his chest, thumping quickly, and a shiver went down her spine, realising his little heart was just a few thin layers of skin and muscle away. His wrinkled face contorted slightly, making a small squeal when he yawned. Erin trembled more.
It was the most beautiful sound she'd ever heard, and the strangest. She wondered if laughing at the poor little creature would be acceptable for a new mom. But then again, there was no one to judge her here, so she chuckled delightfully.
Her baby was the cutest wrinkled thing in the world and made the funniest sounds, and was delicate as a looking glass. She caressed his nearly inexistent fair hair with the tip of her fingers and wondered if it'd get darker with time. She stared deep in his blue-green eyes and wondered if it'd stay like that forever.
Probably not, but still it was a spark of herself in another person, in the most intimate way. It was from inside out, flesh she built and nurtured in her own entrails, and that now was someone who was breathing and producing lovely sounds. She believed he had all fingers and toes (she didn't check) and that his insides were okay (she didn't ask) and that he was overall healthy, that there was nothing to be aware about (she couldn't know).
Erin realised she was crying when tears fell on his blanket. She nonchalantly wiped them from her face, knowing too well they were from sheer fear. Fear of the unknown, fear of her stepfather, fear that he could be taken away. It'd been a long time since she was that afraid.
But he was worth it. And she placed a tender kiss on his forehead, lowering her head to touch the tip of his nose with hers, grinning just for him.
On the fourth night at home alone with Noah, she felt terror again.
XXX
10:42pm
Right now, it is terror that she feels. Terror that she might not be able to make it home tonight to see her baby boy. Terror that she will not get out of this car unscathed. Terror. Fright. Dread, because either way, something is bound to happen tonight.
All the fright are directed at her stepfather because he's purposeful and calculating and he knows everything when it comes to her since he has his henchmen follow her wherever she goes.
It's infuriating and ridiculous but how else would he know that she was at United Center tonight.
10:45pm
It's silent in his car. Deathly silent. There might as well be crickets and the only thing she can hear over the quietude is the harsh pounding in her chest. There's a ringing, too, in her ears and she can hardly breathe, let alone get her brain to think of something - an excuse, a reason, anything as to why she was out and about with Jay, a cop - so he wouldn't kill her.
She's almost certain that he's boiling with rage. He doesn't appear to be outwards, though, she knows her stepfather, he's probably plotting her murder right now because whythefuckwasshefratinisingwiththeenemy!
It's always so silent whenever she's in his car because it's not like the both of them have anything in common or anything interesting to discuss or talk about.
But tonight, its worse; it's silent with a purpose.
No. She's wrong. It's loud. Even with the silence between them, it's loud. God, it's so fucking loud. It's in her head screaming at her, telling her to beg for forgiveness because tonight, she'll be sucking in her last breath. Not taking it in or breathing in her last breath but sucking it. Maybe even choking on her last breath because she knows Misha and she knows he likes to be hands on; it's more intimate that way. He likes to watch his victims' eyes blink out their existence like an unplugged Christmas tree.
She's seen him done that before.
Maybe she ought to just open the door right now and let gravity take her.
Stoic, she peers to her right and thinks about opening the passenger door next to her and jumping out. At the speed he is driving, she will be lucky. Just a couple of broken skin and bones. Maybe. That would be unfortunate but still, the thought crosses her mind.
Would she rather die a slow and painful death or a fast and quick one?
She's really contemplating that option.
... and it's locked.
Of course it is.
11:03pm
She's scared. More so now than ever and she feels as though she's about to cry. But she knows she won't because her tears seems to be too proud fall. For now, that is.
She's scared. Eyes never taking off the dark, slick and cold road ahead as she presses her head into the window. The headlights giving life to the dimly lighted streets. She'd like to be as far away from his wrath as possible.
She's scared. Because she knows she has made the stupid decision of going with her stepfather and not Jay. She knows. She knows. Irregardless of what she likes to think, she had no options. Going with Jay was not ever in her cards.
Her heart thumped wildly against her chest when she slammed the passenger door shut. Her stepfather was keeping quiet, she noticed. Then, she started, pleaded with him to listen to her because she knew him and what the silence meant.
"He's just a friend. I promise."
His only response before hitting the gas pedal was that guys like him, Jay, will never be 'just friends' with girls like her.
And what kind of a girl is she?
She already knows the answer to that one.
She's scared. And she didn't fasten her seatbelt because she's really hoping they'll get into an accident so she could soar through the windshield and be free from his control.
She's scared. Not like how she was when Noah was born but close enough. She knows Noah's safe with Annie, and that thought calms her more than anything else tonight. If anything were to happen to her tonight, Annie will keep him safe.
This, as she chews fiercely at her nails while Misha drives in silence, seems oddly familiar and not in the nostalgic kind of way. It was more on the remnants between forgotten memories and repressed ones.
11:15pm
Almost vaguely, she recalls her first attempt at running away from home. She had gotten better at the act over the years, but that one was one of her finest, if anyone were to ask. She was fourteen and she had planned it since the day he betrayed her trust. It was clearly botched and all the other attempts after that was as well, because she's still living the same dreadful nightmare.
It was dark. She had waited patiently until Bunny passed out, Misha wasn't home, she knew he wouldn't be, and that was the reason why she had chosen that Wednesday to escape. Ten minutes past one in the morning, she tiptoed to the front door, adrenaline more than anything was what kept her on, pumping her with uncertainty. And it was also deathly quiet when she heard the lucrative jiggle of the doorknob and conveniently, at that second, her legs decided to stop coordinating with her brain and she came face-to-face with her stepfather.
"Where do you think you're going?!" he yelled then.
She whimpered, quickly turning around, dropping her bag with a loud thud, to run to the backdoor. But obviously at six foot five, it took him merely three steps to catch up to her.
"Were you trying to run away, Solnychko?" he threw her to the ground, spitting venom, and she cried out when he slapped her.
Bunny ran down the stairs to her rescue, screaming at him to stop. Stop it! It was one of the handful of times she intervened.
She went to school with a bruise on her cheek the next day. She lied to everyone who asked, said that she'd been jumped by the kids from her neighbourhood. So, from then on, she would purposely throw punches just to coverup the ones she got at home.
It was easy, starting a fight. She was an angry, scrappy little kid and that was the only way she knew how to blow off steam. And for a while, it was surprisingly effective.
That night, she did not sleep. Tossing and turning, she couldn't drown up the haunting shrieks of her mother downstairs no matter how hard she tried. She knew what he was doing and hoped he wouldn't do the same to her.
He didn't.
Though with immense guilt, she was thankful.
In the morning, when she went downstairs to get ready for school, Bunny was on the couch, already halfway done with a bottle of Jack.
"Don't worry. He's out." Bunny slurred.
They never talked about why she tried to run away. Bunny never asked and she isn't one to share.
11:38pm
She's scared because they're driving the wrong way home but that shouldn't really surprise her because it's pretty evident from the moment she agreed and stepped into his car that he wouldn't be taking her home.
Well, not to hers at least.
Swallowing the lump stuck in her throat, she musters the courage to ask, "Where are we going?"
She's scared because they've been driving endlessly on this somewhat endless road and he's quiet, he didn't answer her and it's fine, fine - no, that's somehow worse.
The longer she's in here, the less scared she has become because it's an affirmation that he's not going to kill her. He's a sick and twisted son of a bitch, yes, but he's not going to kill the mother of his child.
She likes to not think about it or even mention it to anyone. No one knows but her and maybe, Misha. He likes to throw it in her face whenever he's in one of his moods, that Noah's paternity is in question and itcouldbeanybody's because of what she does but she knows he knows it's the truth.
Distractingly, she peels at the bed of her nail until it stings with sheer calmness, until she can finally feel the relief from the sticky hue.
For a ruthless criminal, he sure does have a tad bit of empathy.
11:41pm
Her eyes becomes heavy from exhaustion, so she fiddles with the leather armrest, rubbing the small stitches there so as to not succumb to the desired slumber.
It's almost twelve, she hopes Noah's not giving Annie a hard time. He was munching on broccoli before she left and she remembers his squeals when she gave him a kiss.
'Let Auntie Annie sleep, baby', she thinks.
She closes her eyes then, finding herself slipping into an unconscious reality, as the motion of the car lulled her into a deep sleep.
11:42pm
She envies the ones with the sleeping sickness, the not-coma patients who never wake up. They don't dream. Years since they closed their eyes and went to sleep, years in which the doctors have never been able to understand their condition, and they've never once shown any sign that their rest was ever being disturbed.
She has dreams, rarely. Wakes up remembering scattered images of terrified faces, open fields and running. She has the occasional nightmare, wakes with distant memories of guilt or falling from a great height, but in the light of day they're almost laughable.
What she has most often is worse than nightmares. Dreams, even bad ones, end with the waking; terrors follow her through into the real world and to haunt her. Because her life is a waking nightmare. Because it's no better to wake up from her nightmares. Because it's just as scary.
She dreams she was running, desperately running, trying to escape a thick ward of darkness that was covering everything in her way, and there seems to be no end to it.
She is so tired. She wants to stop and rest, but the darkness keep on coming, keep on looming over her, following her every move.
Misha.
And then, she see ahead of her, a man with no face but his aura was kind. Something she's not accustomed to.
Jay.
She understands that the darkness she saw and felt all around her was not only coming after her but him, too. And he did not seem to be afraid. Calm. He just stood there by the gate to an open field, freedom, and waitedfor her.
What's their fate?
11:34pm
When Annie was in first grade, Ms Rubinstein asked her what she wanted to be when she grow up.
A mother, she said.
"Because I don't have one."
Ms. Rubinstein did not know what to say, if her face was any indication. She still remembers her looking concerned and panicked, flustered as she tried to think of what to say to a six year old.
At that time, she thought that she had said something wrong. Nicole C. had said so.
She still has the worksheet to prove her innocence.
Being the eldest, she had practically raised her siblings. But, when her dad was killed in an accident, she couldn't according to the law and they were put into the system. All six of them. Separated. While the younger ones went to relatives or were placed in foster homes, she, being the eldest (no one really wanted her) was placed into the care of group homes. She spent the next three years bouncing from one after another, wondering what was wrong with her since no one wanted her.
She did everything right. Didn't rebel like the other kids.
She graduated. She got married. She couldn't wait to be a mother.
XXX
11:45pm
She was a preemie, born too soon at only 29 weeks.
Her birth had been one of the most dangerous and scariest situations Annie had encountered.
An emergency c-section brought her to this world. It was too soon. Too dangerous. But the lives of her baby and her were at risk and her husband had agreed to the surgery as per the doctor's advice.
"You could lose them both."
But it did not end there, it was just the beginning of a long and hard fight. Annie will never forget the sight of the littlest baby she had ever seen covered in wires, tubes and noisy machines all over the place.
So fragile.
Her daughter.
The tiniest little human, not even a day-old fighting for her life.
Her daughter. Ellie. Died not even a week later. And she spent the next couple of years resenting her husband for the decision he made.
XXX
12:02am
She wakes up suddenly to the sound of thunderous hammering outside in the hallway. Someone has been banging the door next door really loudly. She sits up from the empty bed.
Her arm stretches over to the pillow on the other side of the bed. Goose-bumps rise on her skin as she feels the untouched, ice cold pillow, she quickly withdraws her arm, drawing in back under the covers. She sighs deeply, the ache growing in her heart. She closes her eyes and wills herself to fall back asleep again, now that the banging had stopped.
As she is in the transition from awake to sleepiness, a sudden cry resonates through the whole apartment. Her eyes shoots open and she slowly raises and gets to her feet, shivering as her warm feet meets the cold floor tiles.
She slowly walks down the hallway. The more she approaches the room, the more the cries intensifies. She slowly opens the door, not wanting to scare the person inside. She pats over to the small white crib in the middle of the colourful room.
Annie extends her hand towards the small child laying in the crib, rubbing up and down his belly, cooing softly, trying to ease him.
"Shhh … it's okay, Noah. I'm here, I'm here now …"
Seeing that Noah is still crying his heart out, she picks him up softly, careful not to jostle him too much and cradles him to her chest, inhaling the soft sent of his head.
"Auntie Annie, is here little guy. I'm not leaving you." She continues cooing to him, hoping to stop his cries.
After a couple of minutes of walking around the room, he calms down and his cries turns into small sniffles. She holds Noah tighter to her chest, hoping it could fill some of the void she feels in her heart.
He is slowly falling asleep again in her embrace, but she doesn't have to heart to put him back in his crib. She walks slowly towards the bedroom with Noah in her arms. She rests on the bed, with her back prop up against a couple of pillows. She shifts into a comfortable position, Noah not even stirring awake by this. He's just like her - he's able to sleep like a rock.
She doesn't feel the need to sleep anymore even if it was in the middle of the night. She caresses his blond strands, marvelling at how soft it was, smiling to herself.
12:37am
Erin's not home yet. She supposes she went back to his place. After all that's what Erin does best. And what she does best is falling in love with her straight best friend.
1:05am
Erin's eyes flashes open to feel a gust of warmth stinging down her throat, only to realise that the familiar burning is alcohol. Vodka, to be exact. She looks at the bottle in her grasp, confused as to how she has come it.
The thing is, she can't even remember how she got here - Misha's house - she vaguely remembers being woken up at the car ... and that's that.
Well, so much for sobriety!
The recognisable sounds of Misha's voice as he spoke to someone on the phone vibrates through the walls, and Erin closes her eyes, takes a deep breath and feels her head rattle with his every word.
Why does he have to talk so loudly?
She looks at her hands which has started to shake. She decides that she must be coming down with a chill. But then, she sees the white powder on the table and a lump gets caught in her throat as she realises what she had done.
Shit!
Annie's going to kill her.
"I got you clients." Misha says once he was done with the call, turning to fully face her, "A thousand an hour. See, Solnychko? The best for you first. Always."
Erin looks at Misha, holding her head up with her hand. She's tempted to roll her eyes but she's sure that will only exacerbate her migraine.
She knows the hidden meaning of what he had just said because whenever Misha books her high-paying clients (it's not always only for her benefit; he gets a percentage too), it can only mean that they are out-of-town businessmen who has a taste for the ... kinky side of things or fetish or both.
"Thanks."
"Come here."
She swallows and she goes. There is no other option here. It's bette to comply than to fight, especially now that he's surprisingly pleasant.
Footfalls as silent as a cat's. In the shadow of the evening light, his eyes are so terribly blue. At times like this, it's easier to pretend that her stepfather is just one of her clients. A nameless John and she can be whomever they want her to be.
The bedside table's small lamp glows and she turns it dim – the only light in the room save the city lights which stand against the deep purple sky in lieu of stars.
Yeah. Erin presses her lips together. This will be easier to deal with once it'sover. But also, this will be more trouble than it's worth.
Yup. She's here. The off-ramp is passed. She might as well just do what he's brought her here for. They are committed to this road.
Erin crawls up the mattress. Misha's watching her, leaning back against the headboard and pillows.
"You remember Charlie, yes? Your boyfriend?" Misha asks in a low voice.
1:29am
'Ex-boyfriend,' she thinks and is attempted to correct him but doesn't.
She shifts, kneeling between his legs. The mattress underneath them gives way. Erin licks her dry lips, looks away and doesn't answer.
She doesn't want to know. Charlie chose to be involved in something stupid and he is where he is for a reason.
"Don't be like that," he says next, tilting her chin up, and takes her hand into his. "It's only a harmless question, Solnychko. Getting small talk out of way, you know that. If you don't want to answer, then tell me what you want, yeah?"
Honestly, she'd like to do more drugs. More drugs equates to making this less embarrassing and she could relax, too.
She's been eyeing that baggie peeking from behind the pillow for a while now. And she leans over, picking up the bag of white powder from the pillow before holding it in one hand.
She's high and mostly drunk already but still her thoughts are coherent for some reason and she'd like to change that.
She's broken her sobriety, so what's a little heroin?
"Shoot for me," he says, accent catching on every letter, drawing out every sound. The bass from the party downstairs thrums like a heartbeat. "I want to see a needle in your arm."
The powder in the baggie isn't meant to be ingested; Erin tosses it dismissively to the foot of the bed. Misha watches as she moves, footsteps smooth, measured, unnatural, for the needle and vial on a silver tray, showpiece on the centre of the dresser, sandwiched between keys and paddles, cuffs and condoms.
"Shoot up, and then I want you on the bed."
This is what they do most of the times she's at the house she grew up in.
Erin doesn't bother with alcohol, doesn't prep at all, just picks up the needle once she's done preparing. She turns, faces Misha, leaning against the dresser. One bruise, yellow and high on her cheekbone, fades. She draws cloudy liquid from the vial, slides the needle into the crook of her elbow, drawing in the syringe to make sure she's hit a vein (or else it's going to burn like hell) and pushes down the plunger when she sees blood. Metal glitters next to her skin: silver against gold, cold against fever-hot, clinical against calculating.
She sighs as the drug hits, takes the needle and tosses it carelessly to one side. Misha's eyes are dark, desperate, glued to Erin as she places one knee on the bed at his side, steadying herself with a light hold on Misha's shoulders. Then the other knee. She settles her weight down. Takes the glasses from his ruddy, ruined face. She leans to set them on the bedside table.
"Can you see?" she asks. Heroin threads her voice, furs over the coiled sensuality with abandoned amusement.
He's a client. He's a client.
1:43am
"I see enough," he says. Erin laughs when Misha bends down, licks blood from the puncture spot on her arm, hums in pleasure when he sucks.
"Good," Erin whispers. She dips her head, leans in. Arms comes to wrap around his neck. Wet warmth of a mouth at the hinge of his jaw. Hands move down to his chest. Take apart buttons with a flick of thin fingers. Erin feels bile in her low throat. She thinks it must be the heroin. It happens sometimes, especially when she's basically floating on cloud nine.
His shirt is undone and Erin's fingers thread through his ochre chest hair. She pulls back slightly. Removes herself to the floor, positioned between his legs. Her knees make a soft sound in the plush carpet. Misha looks down as she undoes the zipper. Her forest green eyes are dark as scum.
XXX
1:57am
Erin rises again, back onto Misha's lap. Roughly shucks him of his shirt, then pulls his jeans down his thighs, taking the boxers with them. A hand flat to his chest, she pushes him into the soft blankets. Misha allows himself to be pushed. Erin straddles his lap, shifting with both hands on his soft stomach. She rubs there, briefly.
"Do you want me to call you father again?"
XXX
2:23am
"Papka," she says, gasps, with the side of her face plastered to the bed, her back finely arched, "Papka."
He drives into her. His body coated in sweat, hers too. Her soft hair bouncing with fragrance against his clenched and bared teeth. His large hands holding tight to those breakable wrists. Like porcelain. Like glass. Her whole being something he could shatter with one correctly positioned thrust. He groans into her neck, that slender thing, and grabs at her hips, hoisting her back on her knees.
She makes a startled sound, and she is all limbs, confused limbs. He sits back on his heels, pulling her into his lap. He grips her tightly, surely, across her chest and clasping a bony shoulder. He drives upwards into her, despite her cries, or because of them.
She struggles, her thin voicing falling into the darkness of the room, eaten up by it. Just that raw sound emitted from her throat and he is eaten up too. His hips stutter, still, quake. He spills himself into her.
XXX
2:48am
"Papka," she says through a half-kiss.
It's terribly wet and sloppy, nothing that would even resemble a proper kiss between adults. Her mouth is just open, slack, and he drives into it, taking it by way of a rough tongue-fucking, a likeness of how he takes the rest of her.
The bed, wide and soft, shakes beneath them with the force of his downward motions. She moans again, fervently, and tinged with pain. He has her spread, has forced her to help him in this. Her tiny hands gripping the sweat-marked underside of her own knees, pulling them up to her chest. He has full access. His arms, holding her up and strong, feeling like rotted pylons she depends on.
Maybe it's metaphor for her life.
She is moaning something, though she even isn't sure what. She can't hear any proper words, just half-syllables and ghosts of words that slip out between their twined tongues. He shoves down in a particular angle, moving his head into the crook of her neck.
3:01am
She says, so soft and sweet, "I want it, Papka, let me have it, let me h-have it ..."
He comes. Turns and bites the flesh beneath him to stifle any oncoming groan. He holds his teeth in her stiffened neck and grinds slowly into that heat, churning his orgasm out in a lazy, rough undulation.
Her moans have turned, so easily, from high to low and Erin is struggling, pushing up slightly into Misha's motion.
Soon, he releases his hold and swallows and lies limp on top of her. They both pant lightly in the darkened high-rise bedroom, with the moon peering in at them.
XXX
3:15am
The room quiets. Nothing but deep, pained panting from Misha and a bone-deep tiredness settles into her, and she rubs her forehead solemnly against the mattress. She thinks she must have dosed off for a bit there.
Erin's breathing is slightly halted with what sounds like her pressing her lips together. She mutters, "Umm, Misha?"
He releases his tight hold and rolls onto the space next to her.
"You know, you are very good actress. I don't think anyone else could do that for me. No wonder they keep asking for you."
Erin let's that sink in and wipes the sweat from her face. She feels something in the pit of her stomach, which is heavy and unwelcome as an oil-laden meal. But there is satisfaction there, too, she thinks. If this 'act' does it for him, then so be it because that means no kid would have to go through what she did.
She wondered if he ever feels remorseful for taking away her innocence, the childhood that was ripped away from her and she even contemplated on asking him that but thought otherwise because it's much safer to be on his good side. And right now, she is his favourite. He's in a surprisingly good mood and not too long ago, she really thought he'd brought her here to kill her for going out with someone else.
She moves the bangs from her eyes and says, "Thank you, I guess." she says, looking at her watch. She moves, legs swinging over the side of the bed.
As much as she'd like to sleep right now, she'd rather do that it her apartment.
She dresses in near silence, stepping into one leg of her jeans and then another, and Erin tries not to look at her stepfather.
"I heard Charlie is getting out of prison soon."
Erin straightens her posture, swallowing hard. What?He's suppose to have three more years.
"Overcrowding. Two months. Maybe three."
She nods. Leaves the bedroom for the bathroom. Charlie is coming. She's not freaking out. Why would she be? There isn't much more she could do with that information. He's coming whether she likes it or not - he's coming and she knows his first stop will be her apartment.
What is she going to say about Noah?
She looks at herself in the mirror; she looks tired and sad; deep rings around her eyes that are filled with shame (sometimes the drugs can actually wash over it all, mostly, it's just a balm), a gauntness to her face that had not been there tonight.
She had high hopes for tonight. She really did and had been looking forward to her date with Jay. She really thought she could be normal for one night.
Too bad she just can't.
3:32am
When she leaves the bathroom, Misha is already dressed and is holding a whiskey on the rocks and in the same hand, a cigarette. Erin takes her purse and moves to the front door.
"It's already late. You can't stay?" Misha asks, or he isn't - she's not very sure - running his hand through his buzzcut. "There's a Hoarders marathon on. Your favourite."
Guilt, she feels awful for Bunny because even though she's a lousy mother, she still is her mother and this isn't right. Morally and ethically. Her daughter sleeping with her husband. But then again, she thought of how Bunny didn't believe her when she told her what Misha did to her and thought better of her guilt.
Because an epiphany came to her one night at juvie and she realised, since Bunny only does things when it's convenient for her, the only reason why Bunny ever intervened when Misha would slap her around and never blame her was driven by self-reproach, because she knew, she've always known and she never did anything.
Bunny knew way before she had even told her.
That epiphany absolutely killed her.
3:34am
Erin shakes her head. "I should get home. Noah."
"A line, then?"
"Sure." she shrugs.
What's one more drug?
Cocaine will not be the worse thing she did tonight. And with everything she did, there's really no point in shying away right now. Besides a line will not do very much for her.
"Be careful, though. You'll see bog on this stuff." he says and then, the makeshift straw out of a dollar bill is against her nostril and she snorts the entire line in one go.
She straightens up, nostrils starting to burn as she sniffs the final bits of powder up, heart racing in anticipation. She can feel the coke hitting her blood stream, travelling to her brain. She can probably name all of the things happening in her body right now, but the beautiful thing is with each passing second, it becomes less and less important to do so. The focus of her thoughts began to tighten, to contract.
"Here," he's reaching into his pants pocket and pulls out his wallet, "For Noah's birthday. Get something nice for yourself, too."
She retrieved the bills with a thin smile, thanking him.
"Bring him to club tomorrow. I have surprise for my grandson."
"Yeah. Okay."
3:40am
"Come." Misha gestures with his hand, beckoning her to sit on his lap.
Erin hesitates, almost shaking her head before looking over at Misha as he takes another long drag from his cigarette - ugh, and now she wants one - but she settles herself on his lap anyway.
The man looked expectantly at her, and Erin could've sworn she'd seen a flash of remorse in his blue eyes, but she didn't dare get her hopes up.
"Closer."
She leans the rest of the way, easing her mouth open slightly to meet his . The scruff of his facial hair itches and prickles against her cheeks. It's a sensation that she finds that she can never get used to, especially when his tongue salved over her lips, soothing the bristle.
He smelt of smoke, and beer and whiskey and Misha cups her jaw with his free hand, pulling her in closer and sucking solely on her tongue. Erin feels as though she is only breathing in air that the other had already exhaled, like life from now on would go through Misha and Misha alone.
Wait a minute.
Her life has been like that ever since she could remember. She's been trapped for so long, so used to the norm, him being her 'yes' and 'no' that she finds that she never sat and questioned it. Or did anything, really. She had allowed him to control her.
Misha pulls back and left a solid slap playfully against her face, emitting a gasp from her and that's when she felt a stinging on the backs of her shoulder. A slow burning almost electrical sensation and she realises Misha had pressed his cigarette butt against her skin, not putting it out completely but enough to leave a painful welt in its wake and one that most likely will scar.
Her mark.
3:43am
And what she does is nothing, she said nothing, did nothing but push herself off and head for the door, even though she was furious.
She can't even react like a normal person would.
When she is downstairs, and out on the fall fresh street, she shivers. Her coat is on Misha's bedroom floor.
4:14am
Happiness is just as fleeting as any drug high. As soon as you find it - boom - it's gone, and you're left searching again. But the path to said happiness is sometimes blocked. And sometimes you just can't get what you want no matter how much sense it makes, or how good it feels.
And now, Erin's path is ... home. Yeah. Even if it's a shitty apartment, it's still where she wants to be. Home with Noah. But she's tired, exhausted and going through the early signs of withdrawals as she dredges up one foot in front of the other towards her building. She doesn't want to go in just yet, so, she sits on the curb and doesn't care that it's filthy.
Just like her.
Boys like Jay are never just friends with girls like her. And Misha's right. He's the all-American golden boy and she's the dirty mistress who's been sleeping with her stepfather. And she's so stupid for thinking for just one second that they could be more than just friends.
And to make matters worse, Charlie is getting out of prison.
What the fuck is she going to do?
4:21am
But, of course, it's only a matter of time before she starts craving the taste of heroin again; she has cigarettes for now to help with the uncomfortableness. She had bought it for the very reason.
She slips a cigarette between her lips and sighs in relief. Even after all these years, the smell reminds her of her grandmother, and it hurts, but in a good way.
In a good nostalgic kind of way.
Erin smoked her first cigarette the morning of her grandmother's funeral. She remembered the smell well enough; remembered how it used to stick to her clothes, to her hair, to the bed sheets. The taste of the tobacco was new for an eight year old, but not unpleasant, and it made her head buzz like she was restless and giddy with all this unreleased energy, like she had eaten spoonfuls of sugar.
She was careful to stub out the end and throw it in the trash, careful to wash her face and brush her teeth and change her clothes so Bunny wouldn't find out. She did not. Erin knew what cigarettes can do to people; her grandma used to joke about how the habit would kill her one day. They used to laugh about it together, puffs of smoke threading through the air between them.
Erin isn't laughing anymore, not when she accidentally drops a cigarette. And when she goes to pick it up, she drops eighteen plus more because that's how many she had left in this carton, she groans and curses.
Just her luck.
She picks them up one by one (five-second rule) and stuffs them back haphazardly in the carton - hey, she's done worse things in life - and goes back to watching the streets.
4:11am
It's a cold November night, but that doesn't stop Jay Halstead from deciding to go for a run.
Has he always been this proactive about fitness?
Of course.
And this early in the morning?
Sure.
November is his favourite month to run, even though it's a bit dangerous (darkness, cars, and you know nothing good ever happens after dark). But he loves the crispness to the air at this time of year; loves the sound of the leaves crunching beneath his sneakers as he jogs between them, breathing heavily but evenly. It's cold but not too cold; not cold enough to deter him from running, but cold enough to feel the chilly fall air in his veins as he tests his physical endurance once more. The other benefit is the solitude; at this early, it's so quiet it's like he's the only men in the planet. He likes to be alone, just him and the stars above, as he contemplates his life and how it has taken such a turn.
If only he knew.
Less than six hours had gone by after his date with Erin and he realises that it was ridiculous to be feeling so worried that he couldn't sleep.
So, why did he texted her?
In the end, it was his weakness. He asked her about meeting up for breakfast and she still had not responded.
Jay frowns realising this now, and tries hard to suppress the big question - Why? Why has she not answered his texts? Why? Is everything alright?
He knows the answer. He just doesn't want to admit it.
4:30am
Turning the corner, he notes the small park that centres around where the current two roads intersect. There's not much to it; it's a few benches, a small fountain, an unkept children's playground, and then a ton of foliage which was all turning red, orange, and gold with the changing season. It is nearly pitch black, and the park has just one streetlight at the south corner and Jay thinks it's a bit eerie. That he's somehow ended up in Erin's neighbourhood. Subconsciously, he must have wanted to end up here. He shakes his head and continues on his path and away from her building, but does a double take when he realises a person is sitting at the edge of the curb.
Did they have a death wish?
Wait a minute. This 'person' is a woman, who is smoke a cigarette and wearing the same clothes he last saw her in.
He jogs his way over to her and she doesn't even look up. Just stubs out the cigarettes before lighting another one. It's clear from her frozen and hunched over frame that she's been here for a while. Her curls are crispy and a few strands frosted over with the beginnings of icicles, so it's pretty clear that her hair had been wet before she'd stepped into the frigid night. She's shivering violently, her entire body is covered in goose bumps, and her lips are turning blue. In that moment Jay curses himself for not bringing a jacket because, look at her. She's going to get hypothermia if he doesn't take care of this situation and fast.
"Jesus Erin," Jay exclaims, sitting beside her and immediately wrapping an arm around her shoulders. She feels like ice. "What are you doing out here? At this hour?"
There's silence for a while before she looks over at him, her eyes glassy. "It's cold."
He rolls his eyes. "Yeah. It is, Sherlock. It's like twenty-two degrees outside. Why aren't you wearing a coat?"
"I forgot it," Erin says, but her voice is lower, sharper, not normal and Jay's honestly concerned but he doesn't push. They're not there yet.
"Well, come on," he's about to stand up, holding her by the elbow to help her up, beginning to walk in the direction of her apartment but she just shrugs her arm away. "Let's go get some coffee, or something -"
"You texted," she says monotonously, staring at the ground and still shivering viciously. "Why?"
"I wanted to see you again."
"Why?"
"Because I like you."
And with that said, he sits back down with her and waits.
Why?
5:07am
She shakes out her sixth cigarette, then, touches her phone so she could look for the lighter with the illuminating light. Her fingers twitch over the edge and she locates the metal, cold and cool to the touch. Brushing it off, she cups a hand over her face to hide the flame from the wind's gasp (Chicago is the Windy City for a reason after all).
Because I like you.
Erin breathes in deeply, the smoke burning her lungs instantly and loving the feeling all the same. She exhales slowly and watches it dissolve.
The slow burning on the back of her shoulder has now become an itchy, excruciating burn but she doesn't go to scratch it.
Maybe later when she can't feel the Byron anymore.
"Just got back?"
She makes a noncommittal sound at the back of her throat as she takes another drag and hoping that she isn't blowing smoke entirely into his direction, "My stepfather needed me at his bar."
"He has a bar?"
"Yeah. It's on Morgan Street."
Morgan Street.
He knows a bar on Morgan Street was the one. That Russianone they went to when they were working on their leads. He asked if they've seen Erin before and suddenly, a dread washes over him.
When they found her, she was hurt, badly beaten.
Could it be his fault? Her stepfather had done it? Could he have?
"PODMoskovye." he starts, hesitantly.
She was hurt because of him.
"Yeah. You've been there?"
The bruises were his fault.
Looking down at his hands, "Yeah. Kind of." he says.
Everything falls silent once again as they sit side-by-side, shoulders touching. The glow of the flame is like a wounded orange bird, small and flickering. Erin inhales, and the blackened ember at the end of her cigarette draws his attention for a moment. It burns so prettily, he thinks, then moves his gaze to her lips, muscles tensed to hold the cigarette in place, wrapped around vice. Even now, she still looks so forlorn.
What the hell happened in the time he left her and now?
5:16am
"Are you alright, Erin?" Jay asks, concern clear in his voice.
She gives him a smile that doesn't reach her eyes. "Mmhm. Fine."
5:27am
One of the human sensations Erin feels right now is pain. Apparently, it comes in diverse forms and frequencies. Sometimes it is skin tearing from skin, blood rising to the surface of abused flesh, bone crumbling into pieces … and sometimes it's frozen air greedily drawing heat from naked skin, acid creating a self-destructive storm inside an empty stomach, and one of the most confusing forms of distress she has ever encountered.
She feels burning pain, pain that funnels all awareness down into white noise and black vision and the one word searing out the walls of her throat and she's losing her grip on existence and her ears are ringing from all the blood spilling out of her and there's holes in her chest, her heart where they shouldn't be.
Another shaky breath. Her lungs hurt, the smoke teasing at her dry throat like sandpaper. Inhaling, she lets anticipation crawl up her chest, as she waits for the next smoke to burn her lungs.
Her stomach makes a growling sound, and she hugs it tighter. If she just wasn't so tired ... maybe she could actually eat something and not just smoke. But her body refuses to get up, even as she begs it to make the minimal amount of effort. Her eyes don't care to open either, not when they know that all they could see is the maddening image of the same, dark room.
She's so ashamed.
5:30am
"Reality is supposed to be black and white." she says it with a manner of certainty in her voice that can't be argued with. The way her face is set rings of confusion with a certain forlorn undertone.
"What do you mean?" Jay's brows furrow in bewilderment. Right now, everything she says has a certain cryptic value to it. She isn't the same as she was a couple of hours ago when he left her with her stepfather.
She shakes her head, silence enveloping them. For a moment, he almost think she's not going to answer him, and just like everything else in that category, he starts to file it under something so very Erin that he cannot understand it. But then she speaks again, this time her voice full of pain.
"Reality is supposed to be black and white." The cigarette in between them crumbles and the last embers die out. "But it isn't."
The words themselves are foreboding, but her tone is worse. It tugs at his heart, trying to break him apart. He wish he understood. He wants to understand. "Erin?"
Her green eyes slides shut for a moment and her breath whispers out from between her lips in a vague approximation of a sigh. She knows he don't understand and it frustrates her. "I see it now ... finally. The world, the way I see it is the truth. When I thought I was maybe seeing too much, I was only seeing what is."
Pieces of her words float through his mind, the underlying meanings as he have taken them appearing with venom in his head. She was happy. She was happy tonight. With him in their date, this is a whole one-eighty of emotions. And somehow he finds himself furious. Not at her. No. Never. "What happened?"
Again, she shakes her head. "If I say it ... there will only be more pain." When she reaches for another cigarette, he knows it has to be something really bad and painful. It's her sixth cigarette since he sat down with her.
His hand covers hers, holding it firm and their eyes meet. "Erin ... don't. You've had enough."
Her fingers tighten on the carton and she looks away. "You have no idea what I feel like right now ... how much I need this."
Actually she needs something stronger but until she get her hands on more coke and heroin, this will suffice for now.
There's a sheen in her eyes that can only be tears. It hits him that she wants to cry. If it's that bad, then he truly don't have any idea.
"Is it Noah? Is he alright?"
"Noah is fine." She closes her eyes.
God, she hope so.
He let go of her hand and she extracts a single white cylinder, putting it to her lips and picking her lighter up from the ground. The flame flickers to life and she touches it to the cigarette, inhaling before simply watching the flame, her eyes glued to it.
White smoke filters up between them as she exhales.
"You have me, Erin. You can tell me anything."
The smallest of smiles tugs the corner of her lips and when she opens her eyes, it actually meets his.
There's a flash of pure pain in her eyes and he wonder for an instant if he's said the wrong thing. But then her hand turns to clutch at his own and she just shakes her head again. "Maybe."
"Not maybe. You do." Strength is laced into his words that he didn't even know he had. But the conviction of the statement is all the more than clear.
When their eyes meet again, she studies him for a long time. A soft laugh leaves her lips and she shakes her head again. "Reality isn't black and white."
He start to ask her again, what she really means. He knows there's meaning behind those word. But her voice cuts him off.
"Sometimes it's blue." Her hand wrenches free of his own and he watch the ash drop off the end of her cigarette like dying stars burning to dust. "And sometimes ... it's red. Like blood."
Erin just needs time alone ... her own time to figure out whatever it is that she is talking about.
Reality is nothing like she thought it was. It's more. Her words are nothing but a steady truth. Reality isn't black and white.
It is silent for the briefest of moments, the noiselessness brushing against their skin like a caress.
5:45am
"Oh. I never offered you one." she says quickly before reaching into the carton next to her, and pulling out two cigarettes. She hands one to him, and Jay just shakes his head. "Um. I don't smoke."
"Breathing is boring. C'mon."
He takes it, purses them between his lips.
There, he, a cop, had just been persuaded so effortlessly.
They lean towards each other to share the fire, to share the burn, and Jay watches Erin's face as Erin watches his. He wonders what she finds, because he cannot find anything but pain in hers at all.
He inhales, and tastes the smoke that tastes like dying. He doesn't exhale though, because it'd be embarrassing. Because he knows he'll start a cacophony, choking and sputtering like a dying fish. But he can't keep it in and she's staring at him expectantly, brows furrowing, and when he does let the breath out, he starts hacking his lungs out.
Fuck!
He feels it up his nose too.
Erin watches him and starts laughing, throwing her head back and shamelessly laughs. Genuinely. Laughing. And Jay comes to the realisation that he's never heard her laugh before.
Never.
And so, he chuckles with her a little, just to test the water.
It is just the two of them, and for the first time tonight, Jay thinks maybe things could turn around. Finally. The thought of it brings a warm feeling to his heart.
Her laughter is fascinating, and to Jay, it sounds like music. Loud, unapologetic peals of high-pitched notes echoes throughout the street — a beautiful expression of joy. Her face reflects that, too. Like she had forgotten all that had her sitting on the curb in the first place.
Her eyes, sparkling, crinkled at the edges. Her mouth is wide open, no longer able to contain the eager happiness that rushed to escape her body.
Cute, he thinks internally, his face stretches into a smile as starts to laugh as well.
Laughing is the best medicine, he suppose.
But, as abruptly as Erin started, she stops laughing, her fit fading into an uncomfortable silence. Her entire visage falls, as though her world is crumbling down with it. Her face goes on to contort — her eyebrows presses together; her nose scrunches up and flares, bringing her upper lip along. As her chin begins to quiver, her teeth clamps down on her lower lip to stop the shaking. A lonesome tear slips out of the corner of her now-glistening eyes, then another and another on fast succession and before he knows it she sobbing terribly.
Jay just gapes at her when she lets out a choked breath, not knowing what on earth to do. She covers her her face with her palms, a cigarette still between her fingers, and there's a look on her face, like she just realises what's happening; that she's crying.
Erin feels utterly empty and there's no sustenance that can relieve her of true nothingness.
There is no redemption. Not for her, not ever. She doesn't even want it anymore. She doesn't need redemption. She had the reasons, she had the orders, she had the life that was needed to be given up, and so she did. So be it. For so long, she didn't allow herself to feel anything, and thus, she didn't allow herself to wish for anything for herself.
It is selfish to wish for the life of someone else's, now that she has Noah. It is wrong, all so wrong. And all the power she has is only enough to act as a puppet for her stepfather. Not for herself, never for herself.
There's a mangled cry as she wraps her arms around herself and he sees how hard she's trying to stop the tears, clenching her jaws tight together. There's a rip in the fabric of his soul. When she hurts ... he hurts.
His heart nearly breaks in half. Her face is tear-stained and she looks delicate and broken, like a porcelain doll, cracked raw and ragged. All she can do is shake her head before she tumbles over the edge again, fresh tears cascading down her cheeks and her shoulders shaking with sobs, her torn frame wracked with guilt and with grief.
"Erin, come here," Jay shakes his head, wrapping an arm around her and she leans into him.
He's rubbing her back when she says, "I feel so trapped," hoarsely before gasping, looking to him and covering her mouth like she have said something she shouldn't.
"Trapped?"
"No," she says monotonously, wiping her tears on the backs of her hands, "Forget it. Forget what I said. Okay? Forget everything about tonight. But thank you for - for," she repeats, motioning between them, "For this, I guess. Your company." she says quickly, standing up from where they had been sitting for the past hour, "Also, you really shouldn't be running out here. It's not safe ... Yeah, umm, goodnight."
He's not sure what to do or say. He's still very much confused and concerned and it all happened so fast. He continues to sit there and when she begins to walk towards her building, he doesn't even stop her.
Thank you for reading. I hope you enjoyed this update.