Does It Hurt? (3)

Problem is, that edge is sharp and jagged, and there’s not a drug in this world that will prevent it from cutting me.

“Here ya go,” I tell him, forcing a smile on my numb face. Feels like when Mom used to take me to the dentist, and I walked out with lidocaine injected in my mouth and no control over my facial muscles. I always used to giggle at the odd feeling, but I don't feel much like laughing now.

He hands me the change and my purchases, another smile on his face. Now it’s almost annoying how happy he is.

“Have a good day,” he chirps.

“Thanks,” I murmur.

I snatch the sack and rush toward the exit of the grocery store, my bright orange flip-flops clacking against the dirty white tile.

This stupid fucking pregnancy test really cut into the little allowance I give myself. Still, I’d rather know if a little alien is invading my body than live in fear, obsessively checking my stomach on any reflective surface I come by just to see if it grew an inch.

I live with enough fear, I don’t need any more.

They can’t find you, Sawyer. You’re safe.

I shake my head, persistent on staying in the cold, lonely place where the terror resides. Am I safe?

If my insides are being invaded by an alien, that will make my life that much harder. I can’t take care of a child and provide for myself. I’m barely doing that as it is, and my means for doing so are… God, they’re awful.

My thoughts spiral, picturing a little blonde baby in my arms, screaming at the top of its lungs because they’re hungry and suffering from diaper rash or something. I’d have to give the baby up for adoption, no question.

But it’d break my fucking heart. Or whatever is left of it.

My breathing is starting to escalate, and I work to control it, fighting to fill my tightening lungs. Bright sunlight warms my cheeks as I storm out of the automatic doors, run out of the parking lot, and onto the sidewalk, my dollar store flip-flops threatening to snap from my speed.

I inhale deeply, desperately sucking in oxygen, but it's clogging my throat.

My period is a week late, though I’ve been stressed. Really stressed. I’ve never prayed so much—hovering over a toilet with my thumbs hooked in my shorts, begging the gods to give me a reason to use the tampon in my hand.

I think Heaven has me on their shitlist.

Which is such bullshit, even though I can’t blame the angels for rebuking me in the name of the Lord.

The taste of the salty ocean lingers in the air, coating my tongue as I continue to suck in deep breaths and feel my tightened chest loosen just a bit. Something about the smell of the sea always soothes my tortured lungs, whether it’s because I’m abusing them with a panic attack or cigarette smoke.

It’s something I’ll mourn when I eventually move on to the next destination.

For now, I appreciate the beauty of Port Valen while I can. Greenery surrounds the streets, along with bright pops of pink, orange, and purples from flowers. Massive cliffs are far behind me, and though miles away, their imposing structures are not to be ignored.

A group of women pass by in their thong bikinis and tops, and I can’t help but fall in love with how laid-back this town is.

Even more dangerous, I’m falling in love with Port Valen as a whole, despite the man-eating spiders that inhabit this country.

I speed walk toward the bus stop and plop on the bench with a shaky exhale, the plastic bag dangling between my spread legs. There’s a magpie circling overhead, setting me further on edge. I’ve learned the hard way that the demon birds like to swoop down and attack unprovoked. I’m still traumatized from the last one and pray the bus gets here quicker than scheduled.

I could’ve driven Senile Suzy, the van I bought last week. It’s an old, buttery-yellow Volkswagen—the ones you’d see hippies back in the 70s driving around. Living out of a van is more ideal than a hotel, and I got incredibly lucky to find one for much cheaper than it’s worth. He claimed it was his daughter’s who had passed away, and he just wanted it gone.

I don’t have my license here anyway, and I’m not confident enough to drive on the opposite side of the road. I’m convinced I’ll perish from a car wreck or get pulled over and caught driving without a license.

On cue, the magpie squawks as if to warn me that taking my chances with Senile Suzy might be safer, but thankfully, it flies elsewhere.

Hands shaking from the residual anxiety, I dig through the bag and pluck out the pack of cigarettes. I shouldn’t be smoking these in my possible predicament, yet the thought of death is too enticing, and I’m too scared to do anything else.

I’m ashamed of myself, but I don’t think I know what it’s like to feel anything else.

Don’t make it a habit, Sawyer. You have enough of those.

Just as I slide one out and stick it in my mouth, I realize two things. I forgot to buy a lighter, and there’s somebody sitting next to me, the weight of their stare hardening on my face like dried clay.

I turn to find an older man with deep brown skin holding out an orange lighter as bright as my flip-flops, his thumb poised on the striker and ready to ignite it for me. He’s wearing an old white shirt and an aged khaki-colored ball cap on his head. Sweat gleams down the side of his face, but he smells like Old Spice and salt.

Smiling, I lean forward, and he flicks it. I’m just as mesmerized by the fire as I am by watching it eat at the flimsy paper. Smoke coils from the stick into the salty air, burning my eyes as it wafts into my face.