K. Bromberg - Bend

Someone stitched my head.

I withdraw the hand.

Beautiful saved me. He stitched me back up.

No, no, no! Oh my God! That’s not what’s happening here, Harper! He’s working for them! He has to be, how else would he get my phone number? And why was he following me in the first place?

I silence the inner voice. I can’t stand it right now. It needs to just go away and let me react. Things need to be simple. If ever there was a time to rely on instincts, this is it.

And the simple truth is, that guy attacked me, kissed me, and insinuated he was going to have sex with me. He works for them. I know this. I’m certain of this. I’m not sure what kind of game he’s playing, but I’ve met a few of the hunters growing up. He’s definitely one of them. All cocky, charismatic, and calm. He seemed very sure of himself.

Didn’t he?

But why didn’t he kill me? Or take me back?

I look around for my phone and spy it on the table next to the pills. I scoot across the bed and grab it so I can search my messages. But when I open the log, there’s nothing there. Empty. Just as it should be. No one ever messages me. No one has this number.

But… he did message me. He asked me… damn. I can’t recall what, but I jumped off the pier when he asked me something and then I walked home, panicked when I got the message—the one that’s not here—and I took the pills and went to bed to ride it out.

But… I look down at my clothes. I’m wearing a pink tank top and white boy short underwear. I smell my skin. Nope, no trace of the ocean. I smell like soap. I must’ve taken a shower.

And changed the sheets?

Because there’s no sand in the bed. None between my toes. The shorts and sports bra I was wearing should be on the floor where I usually throw them when I undress, but they’re nowhere to be found.

I laugh as I get up and pad over to the kitchen to start some coffee. “I should get high on Ativan more often. Apparently stoned Harper is a neat freak.”

Or…

Beautiful came in, cleaned me up and stitched my wound, clothed me, changed my sheets, and did the laundry. I laugh at the thought.

Or…

God, I hate the incessant sub-vocalization of my mind. Why can’t it shut up?

Maybe I imagined the whole thing? Maybe there was no man on the pier? Maybe I took the pills and all that stuff was nothing more than an over-sedation fugue.

I really need to get out of this house. How long can one person talk to themselves before it’s considered a pathology? I have no idea, but I’m not into finding out. Maybe that guy was a dream, who cares. If he was here to take me back, I’d be back. I sure as hell wouldn’t be standing half naked in my kitchen making coffee.

Screw the coffee. I need to go somewhere. Anywhere. I check the time to see how long I was out and it’s seven thirty. On cue, a rumble erupts from my stomach. I haven’t eaten all day.

I grab a pair of cut-off shorts from my dresser, slip into a fresh bra, and shimmy into a white tank top. Hair is never more than a pony-tail, so I just smooth it over and pull it up.

My feet find my flops by the door, I grab my key and head out.

I stop by the mechanical room to drop off the key and pick up some cash. Just ten bucks. I have about eight hundred left to my name, but it’s hard to care when all I want is ten dollars and my stomach is beginning to hurt.

Since there are only four people who live in this building, the chances of me bumping into them at any particular time are low. I love that, because right now everyone is the enemy. I appreciate people when I need something. Like the guy at the Mexican place where I’m headed now. He gives me food in exchange for money. So I appreciate him for his taco-making skills.

But I don’t want to know his name and I don’t want him to know mine.

I want nothing to do with anyone. I just want to hang out in my strange state of limbo and chill. I’ve never talked to my neighbors. I know what they look like, I keep an eye out for weirdness, things that go against the grain. Different is bad. I like same. Same is good.

Except for the beautiful man.

There was no man. I dreamed that whole thing. Jumped off a pier! Ha. What a stupid move. But dreams are like that. You jump off piers all the time in dreams. And seriously, I will have really fucked up if he is real, because I gave him my name.

I walk down the sidewalk that leads out to Fifth Street, open the gate, and steady myself to join the world.

The restaurant is busy so I just get right in line, pretending to look up at the menu as I wait. I don’t eat here often, it’s too close to home to be a regular. But when I do, I get the same thing every time. Asada tacos, a side of rice, and a tea. Fifteen minutes later I have my greasy bag of food, some napkins and a plastic fork. The tables outside are full, so I head down to the beach to eat on the steps that line Pier Plaza. I pick a space against the wall and get settled. I come here every night for the sunset. The city put in these stadium-like concrete steps for sunset and volleyball-watchers.

Sitting here at sunset and waking up with the sun on the pier, those are the two constants in my life at the moment. The two things I can count on to keep me sane. It’s only eight right now, so I have a little wait for the sun to set.

I scarf the food. Once I start, I can’t stop. It’s like I haven’t eaten in days.

I’m just about to shovel the last forkful of rice in my mouth when my phone vibrates.

My heart thumps. Once. It’s a giant thump that almost sends me into another panic attack, but I calm myself and reach for the phone, a small stream of light leaking out from the screen on the concrete seat next to me.

‘Tacos on the beach. Check.’

I stand up and whirl around, just as the phone vibrates in my hand again. I ignore it, still searching. He’s not here on the steps. I hop up on the concrete barrier that partitions off the various seating sections and scan again.

How would I even know him? I don’t know his build, or his gait, or his height. I know his eyes. And the touch of his lips, the dance of his tongue. And none of that is helpful from a distance.

My phone vibrates again so I jump down and check the screen.

‘You only see me if I want you to.’

‘But you can see me any time you want?’ I text back.

‘I want to know you, and I always get what I want. BTW, I love the shorts, Harp.’

My hand flies to my chest, as if to protect my heart from the immediate hurt that floods me when I read the name. Harp. How dare this man insert himself into my life and pretend like he’s got a right to know me. How dare he interrupt my routine, take me out of the bubble of comfort that I’ve wrapped myself in.

I grab the remains of my dinner, jog back up the steps, and dump it in the trash. Then I jaywalk across PCH, feeling a little like Frogger in the rush-hour traffic, and turn the corner at Fifth to walk home.

See? See, Harper? This is why you stay the fuck inside.

I half walk, half jog all the way back to my gate and then let myself in the back. God, that thing is not very secure. Anyone can come up and pull that stupid piece of rope. I find my key and let myself into the apartment, closing the door behind me, locking it up tight, and then lean back against it so I can slump to the floor.

This guy is a creep. He’s stalking me. Watching me, taking note of what I’m wearing, what I’m eating. My phone vibrates behind me and I jump.

I’m going to have to go to the police. There’s no way this can be anything but bad. No way. I will have to go to the police. What if he’s not one of them? What if he’s just some crazy rapist?

Another vibration.

I pick up the phone and turn it over to read the messages.

‘What day is it?’

What?

‘Do you even know?’

I huff out some air. ‘Wednesday,’ I text back.

‘Better check that calendar again, Harper.’

No nickname this time. Why? He saw my reaction out there on the beach? How? How could he know the name was what made me react?

‘Day, Harper. I hate having to ask you to do everything twice.’

I check the date on my phone, but that’s no help. I never keep track of the date. So I go into my calendar app and my eyes almost bug out of my head.

Friday.

Well, that explains the line at the Mexican place. And my hunger. I was asleep for three days.

‘I’m waiting.’

He can wait all he wants. He’s playing a game with me and I just quit.

‘Do you remember the bath I gave you after you took the pills?’

I can’t remember shit, a common side-effect with Ativan when you take too much. And someone had to stitch my head, change me out of my clothes, clean me up, wash my saltwater-soaked garments, and put me to bed.

That someone really was him.

‘I enjoyed it. Every second.’

The tears fall down my cheeks as I consider the implications of what he’s telling me. I message back. ‘I’m reporting you to the police for rape, asshole!’

Rape.

She has got to be fucking with me. It makes me laugh, but seriously, this girl, after everything that’s happened, thinks I’m a rapist?

I’m two yards away from her building door, but I take a little detour out to the alley to think this through.