15
SCAR
Ileaned forward, touching my head to the steering wheel in front of me.
She was late. In all the days I’d spent watching Irina like a creep from the shadows, I’d never seen her arrive at Fresh Start any later than the ass crack of dawn. But that hour had long since passed, the sun risen, and young kids were dropped off with the daycare employees while their parents went to school or work or wherever they spent their time.
Still, there was no sign of the woman who made the organization run like a well-oiled machine. No sign of her trademark red lipstick adding a shock of color to the space which could have felt authoritarian.
Snatching my cell off the passenger side seat, I dialed her number and pressed it to my ear. I had no right to be watching for her at work, no right to call her after the things I’d said to her the night before.
All I needed was to see her one more time, to watch her paste on her happy face and know that she would survive and thrive just like she always did. To remind myself that I was just another inconsequential man, and that she would be better off without me.
The phone rang in seemingly endless repetition when she didn’t answer, until eventually her voicemail picked up. I ended the call without leaving a message, knowing I couldn’t exactly fault her for not answering my calls.
I wouldn’t have either.
Fuck.
I tossed the phone back onto the seat, shifting the SUV into drive, and pulled out of my spot in the lot. Heading toward Irina’s apartment came too naturally, something that I never should have done, but I still needed to see her.
The drive was short despite the traffic, since Irina had clearly chosen her apartment for the proximity it offered to the workplace that she valued so much. I drove around the lot until I found her car, then parked in the empty space next to it, staring at it in confusion.
A glance up to her windows confirmed her bedroom curtains were still pulled closed, and she always opened them when she woke up in the morning.
Was she sick?
I needed to let her go—needed to stay away—yet I found myself shoving my phone into my back pocket as I threw open my door and stood from the car. I clicked the lock button on my key fob as I made my way toward the building, slipping inside the front door when someone left with as much ease as I had the night before.
She needed security, a doorman, cameras, and alarms. Instead, she lived in a place with nothing to protect a woman who looked like her, who men would use and abuse and take advantage of at the first hint that they could get away with it.
They’d take all of her light and snuff it out, twisting her into something dark and damaged like Cesca. She deserved better.
She needed to be safe and sheltered from the horrors of the world.
I took the stairs two steps at a time, rounding the corner to her apartment. I banged the heel of my hand against her door when I finally reached it, the sound echoing through the hallway as I pressed my ear to the wooden surface.
There was no movement on the other side, nothing to even signal that she was home.
“Irina! Open the fucking door!” I ordered, rapping my knuckles against it loudly enough that her neighbor next door opened his door to glare at me.
“Maybe she’s not home,” he suggested, crossing his arms over his chest. My silent glare sent him back into his apartment, leaving me to bang on the door one more time. “I swear to God, I will break it down, Butterfly.”
Nothing.
I groaned my frustration, reaching down to test the knob before I kicked the door in and had to deal with having a new one installed.
It turned in my hand, unlocked, as dread filled me.
Jesus. Fuck.
I shoved it open after a moment of fear froze me, erupting into action as I reached for the gun strapped to my side. I pulled it free, quickly moving through her apartment and clearing the main space before I headed to her bedroom at the end of the hall. I ignored the pulsing urge to call out to her, to yell her name and force her to respond now that I was in her space.
If anyone had hurt her and happened to still be hanging around, I couldn’t risk them doing something desperate.
I stepped into her bedroom, my gaze snagging on her prone form lying sprawled across the bed. She was fast asleep in spite of all my banging on the door, completely unaware of my presence as I cleared her master bath to make sure no one else was in the apartment with us.
It wasn’t until I stepped back into the bedroom that I spotted the bottles of pills on the nightstand.
Everything went quiet. My ears rang, and that organ in my chest, which I refused to believe still functioned, stopped.
“Butterfly,” I murmured, stepping closer to the bed and staring down at her intently. Her chest rose and fell with steady, reassuring breaths as my heart jumped to life anew.
She was fucking alive.
A fresh scab rested on the inside of her thigh, a small trail of red against her perfect skin. Another hurt marked into her flesh, but this one was different.
This one was my responsibility, and it threatened to consume me alive.
I pulled open the nightstand, finding a knife in there and shoving it into my pocket. I’d clear out her kitchen knives if I had to. Find some way to stop her from hurting herself just to feel. There were other ways, better ways.
I scoffed. Like letting your buddy beat the shit out of you in a boxing ring?
I had no right to judge her for what she did to feel alive.
I sat on the edge of the bed, watching her chest to reassure myself before I turned my attention to the bottles on her nightstand. The first was a commonly known sleeping aid and the second an antidepressant. Tucked inside the drawer were a half dozen other bottles, from anxiety medication to vitamins.
She had an entire pharmacy at her disposal, and I didn’t have the slightest idea why anyone thought she needed medication. She was perfect exactly as she was.
I closed the drawer, determined to do more research to come to a better understanding of why she had the struggles she did. I lost track of how long I watched over her, waiting for that inevitable moment when she would wake up.
Eventually, it happened. Her eyelids fluttered like the wings of a butterfly as she opened them slowly with a groan. The moment the sunlight shining through the gaps in her curtains hit her face, she jolted upright in a panic.
“Shhh,” I said, encouraging her to lie back. Her attention snapped to me, her lips pressing together tightly as her anger rose.
“What are you doing here?” she asked.
“You didn’t show up for work this morning. I was worried about you, Butterfly,” I answered, standing from the bed and moving to grab a washcloth from the counter of her bathroom. I ran cool water on it, returning to the bed and pressing it to her forehead to help with the headache that I was sure was brewing between her eyes, judging from the way she pinched them closed.