Attest (Centrifuge Duet Book 2)(10)
“Make yourself at home, but be aware that I have your every move monitored. You do not have my permission to leave here. I’ll be back tomorrow morning to discuss our first move. Toodles.”
After a dismissive wave of her hand, the window is raised in one swift motion, and B speeds off down the road. It takes a second for her instructions to sink into my head, but when they do, I spin on my heel and face the house that she says is mine. It has the old money look that this end of town is known for, yet it’s fresh and homely. The smell of the ocean hangs in the air, a salty reminder that I’m free that increases my eagerness to check out the interior of the house.
As luck would have it, I get the right key first go and the door slides open with ease. The hallway is sparsely, but stylishly furnished, as is the living area that I pass by on my way to the back of the house. I end up in the kitchen, pulling open the refrigerator to find it stocked with fresh food. The pantry is full. I grab a pack of biscuits, tearing them open and shovelling them into my face as I explore the rest of the house.
One quick circuit later and it appears that I am indeed alone. I savour the rest of the biscuits as I take a second look around to double-check. The master bedroom, ensuite, and walk-in-robe, plus the laundry and the back foyer that leads to a small courtyard are empty. They’re devoid of any signs of another person and I feel the tightness in my chest that has been my constant companion since I was locked away leaving as the fact that I am one-hundred percent by myself dawns on me.
My chest might feel looser; however, my skin feels like it’s crawling with bugs as the deafening silence of the building encroaches on my psyche. This is the first time I’ve been truly alone in more years than I can count. Being surrounded by people was something that comforted me until the option for true solitude was removed by my imprisonment. Sure, I had a cell to myself, but I was never truly by myself in it. There was always the chance that a guard was going to come through the door, and the sounds made by the other prisoners never ceased. Prison is not a place where anyone is ever alone.
I’ve discarded the empty biscuit packet and am moving through the bedroom to the bathroom before I’ve made a conscious decision to do so. The need to end the silence, to wash away the layer of filth that has coated me since I was locked up is overwhelming. Ripping open the velcro of the soft tennis shoes the state provides, I toe them off my feet before stripping the garish orange overalls off in one swift motion. I let the coarse material fall into a heap over the shoes, then flick the tap in the shower so the water can heat up.
As I wait, each inch of my skin vibrating with the need to remove all traces of the prison, my attention is drawn to my reflection in the glass of the shower recess. My hair is short, its natural curls lost to the mandatory buzz cut all inmates are forced to have. Growing my hair out suddenly becomes paramount so I can reacquaint myself with the old me. My body appears wider and more defined than before. Testament to the weights I lifted to fatigue my body and, in turn, my mind so I could escape the endless thoughts of revenge that consistently taunted me.
The changes to my hair and my body are hard enough to swallow; yet, it’s the sharp edges of my face that steal my notice and set my teeth on edge. I’m thirty-two. Not old by anyone’s standards—especially someone who was previously complimented on their lack of aging—but that’s not the story my face tells any longer. The angular cheekbones, the muscle that constantly works in my jaw, the defined crease between my eyebrows from squinting to re-examine a world I once thought was just, age me well beyond my true years and make me appear angry. Gone is the jovial teacher who once found satisfaction in making the world a happier place. Instead, a menacing man with hatred in his eyes peers back at me.
Fog from the hot water covers the glass. It pulls me from my useless scrutiny, hiding from view the man I barely recognise. I adjust the temperature and step under the water. Closing my eyes, I brace one hand against the tiles and try my hardest to ignore the urge to reopen them, so I can maintain a visual on the bathroom door. I guess old habits die hard when you’re used to warding off unwanted advances and attacks during your daily allotted shower time. It takes a moment to convince myself that I’m alone, and once I manage it, I concentrate on the water as it cascades over me. It instantly relaxes my body, although my mind refuses to stop racing.
Minutes pass—how many I don’t know. I take my time, imagining layer upon layer of caked on scum washing off me. I visualise it circling the drain, fighting to remain, before it loses the battle and is swept into the sewers below to be washed out to sea and reborn as clean water. This analogy stirs a glimmer of recognition in my brain and true peacefulness seeps into my psyche.
This freedom, however fleeting and bogged down in promises of murder it may be, is my chance at rebirth. I have endured hell and managed to come out the other side alive. In prison, I learnt that desperation is a key driver of change. The challenge now is to use that change to get myself out of the desperately shitty situation I’m currently in.
Preferably without the blood of innocents on my hands.
With this resolve flooding my veins, I grab the shampoo from the shelf on the wall next to me. A familiar scent invades my nostrils once I’ve flipped the lid and I step back out of the water, my mouth hanging open as I take in the contents before me.
On the shelf stands a bottle of body wash that’s the same as the one I used pre-imprisonment—just like the shampoo that I hold in my hand is the same. There is a brown loafer hanging from a hook attached to the side of the shower caddy, once again the same as what I used before. A sick sense of déjà vu is clawing at me and I drop the bottle onto the shower floor.