AFTERSHOCK E-Book

Saana Lahtinen

• Herausgeber: BoD - Books on Demand
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Seitenzahl: 271

Beschreibung

Genuine question: when does supporting your friend go too far? When she steals a sweater from a small business? -No. When she attacks her mother? -No. When she causes bodily harm that results in death? -No. When she cheats in rock, paper, scissors, and gets the window seat? -Yes, of course. That's where I draw the line.

Leseprobe

Content warning for violence + all events and characters are fictional. This is a rewrite of my first two works, so forget them and focus on this one. Thanks for reading!

Sisällysluettelo

Part I

Island Bender

September 18th, 2022, Ponta Delgada

September 18th, 2022, Lisbon

Caught Red-Handed

September 25th, 2022, Lisbon

September 25th, 2022, London

October 9th, 2022, London

October 10th, 2022, London

Tour in Northern Europe

October 10th, 2022, Stockholm

October 17th, 2022, Helsinki

October 19th, 2022, Espoo

Baltic Christmas

December 18th, 2022, London

December 22nd, 2022, Vilnius

December 23rd, 2022, Vilnius

December 23rd, 2022, Vilnius

Idol

January 8th, 2023, London

January 31st, 2023, London

Excuses, Excuses

February 10th, 2023, London

Girls Trip

March 14th, 2023, Málaga

March 14th, 2023, Gibraltar

March 15th, 2023, Málaga

Be Your Own Worst Enemy

April 11th, 2023, Lisbon

April 17th, 2023, London

It’s What Friends Do

April 18th, 2023, London

April 19th, 2023, London

Budget-Friendly Travel

April 20th, 2023, Paris

April 28th, 2023, Barcelona

May 4th, 2023, Cartagena

Offering to the Dead

July 5th, 2023, New York City

Part II.

Feeling Blue

August 24th, 2023, New York City

August 26th, 2023, New York City

Unlucky

August 28th, 2023, Walden

September 1st, 2023, New York City

Black Sheep of the Family

September 7th, 2023, New York City

September 15th, 2023, New York City

September 20th, 2023, New York City

September 27th, 2023, New York City

Eidolon

October 3rd, 2023, New York City

October 4th, 2023, New York City

October 8th, 2023, New York City

October 11th, 2023, New York City

October 17th, 2023, New York City

Cut from the Same Cloth

October 23rd, 2023, New York City

October 29th, 2023, New York City

November 2nd, 2023, New York City

November 9th, 2023, New York City

Part I

Something snapped inside her. The tiny control she had slipped away completely. She had unraveled and shown her true colors to the world, yet no one had paid attention. She sits at the front of the church, staring at the open casket where another woman lies. The corpse looks like a doll in her beautiful black and white attire. She’s not there anymore, the woman eyeing the lifeless being thinks to herself. The notes crumble in her tight grip. She’s going to hold a speech to honor her departed friend. She shouldn’t have the right; she knows that perfectly. The parents of the dead woman insisted on it, and she couldn’t say no. She needs to hold up this façade she created to protect herself. Play the part of a grieving friend.

The mother weakly walks over to the podium; she can’t look at the corpse—her face trembles. The first words take far too long to escape from her tightly sealed lips. At least, that’s what the woman sitting in the front row thinks. She’s jealous of her late friend; how did she get a caring and loving mother, and she got evil incarnate? The mother drops to her knees and begins to sob, my baby, my baby, she cries. Seeing the distraught mother doesn’t make her ashamed. It makes her embarrassed. Not of herself, she’s embarrassed by the mother’s reaction. The father jumps to his wife’s side and helps the poor woman. He walks her back to the bench, the same bench where the friend of her dead daughter sits. The mother clings to her bicep, which irritates the younger woman, but she places her hand on the mother’s head. A gentle gesture of comfort. She wants the older woman to stop with her loud wailing. The father finishes the sobbing mother's speech. She wishes she could say that the words the mother wrote for her dead daughter were beautiful, but she wasn’t listening.

Finally, it’s her turn. She gets up from the bench and doesn’t look at the other mourners. She stares at the podium while adjusting her suit jacket before starting her short journey. Halfway through, she can’t help but glance at the corpse; her dead eyes are wide open, staring deep into her damaged soul. The living woman blinks, and to her relief, the dead one stays dead. With her head tilted, she places crumbled pieces of paper on the podium. She’s not entirely present when she finally raises her head to meet the mass dressed in black. She becomes the preacher. She delivers her words with strength and hope. No one catches on to her masked deception. The dead woman can’t stop her, but deep down, the living woman knows that the corpse is boiling with eternal fury that she’s waiting to unleash on her when she one day closes her eyes forever.

Island Bender

September 18th, 2022, Ponta Delgada

I can’t remember the last time I woke up with a hangover this bad. My head is pounding, my mouth is dry, I’m nauseous, and my memory is hazy. I haven’t opened my eyes yet, but I hope to be in my hotel room. The cold air hits my skin, which is not covered by the blanket, and gives me goosebumps. I can feel a gust of wind enter the room, which causes the curtains to move, letting sunlight hit my face. The light violently lands on me, and I rise so fast that my head pounds worse. Slowly, I open my eyes. It’s too bright, and I can’t see well until my eyes get used to the light. Oh, thank God, I’m in my hotel room. I sigh in relief before looking around the room. Shit, I can’t remember why I caused such a mess. The sunlight peeking through the long black curtains gives me a clear view of scrapped notes scattered all around the floor. My clothes are everywhere, empty wine bottles here and there. Finally, I drag myself out of bed to inspect the notes on the floor. I can recognize my handwriting even if I have written these drunk. All the notes had the same things written on them, so I sighed and collected all of them off the floor. I threw them in the trash, which is now full of paper. I wonder what the hotel staff think of me after they clean my room.

I go around the room collecting my clothes and empty bottles of wine. The last bottle is on the desk near my open computer, and my heart drops briefly. I’m going to kill someone if I’ve splattered wine all over my device. The bottle is sticky, and I gag at the feeling. After throwing the bottle away, I wash my hands twice and use a godly amount of hand sanitizer. It smells like alcohol, and that makes me feel more nauseous, but when it starts burning my hands, I forget all about my nausea. The burning sensation lasts for a few seconds. My hands are red, dry, and full of small cuts. Oh, yeah, the computer. I forget about my hands and run to the desk, almost slipping on spilled wine. The bastard opens, and a draft pops up. The draft is the blog post about visiting the Azores. I look through it, and my chest feels tighter with each word I read. I understand why I got hammered yesterday; this thing I wrote is a sack of shit.

The hair on my head feels dirty. I can’t stand it. I want to pull my hair out. I walk inside the bathroom with my head bent to avoid the hair touching my neck. “Fuck me,” I curse once realizing that I need to take my white tank top off. “Jesus Christ, goddammit!” I undress fast as lightning and jump in the shower. Turning the water on is confusing, and at first, the water is cold, but at least my hair is wet, and it doesn’t bother me anymore. When the water turns warmer, I calm down. The water around me doesn’t feel real, but then again, when has anything felt real? My mind is blank; I don’t know how long I’ve stood in the shower. Maybe I should get out, I feel like I’ll pass out soon.

I wipe the fogged mirror with my right hand to see my reflection. I wash my hands again; it stings. A white towel is wrapped around me, my brown hair looks almost black when wet, my face is less puffy, and my pupils are so dilated that you can barely see their honey-brown color. I touch my cheeks, inspect my eyes, anything to feel more like a living being. I dry my hair, brush my teeth, and leave the bathroom to choose better clothes: a light blue collared blouse, black widelegged trousers, and a white skin-tight shirt. Favorite clothes and a good hair day make me feel slightly better about today. All my hopes for a better day are crushed when I remember that I need to fix the sack of shit I wrote yesterday. I curse under my breath while opening the computer. The page pops back up and I almost throw up in my mouth. I read through it while correcting spelling mistakes, rearranging phrases, using different words, deleting paragraphs, and moving the photographs I took. Correcting my creation takes almost two hours. It looks much better. However, something is still bothering me. I can’t put my finger on it. I read it again and again and again and again, yet I can’t figure out what the problem is. I start getting angry, fuck, I’m so angry. My frustration is eating me alive.

I keep staring at the screen, wanting to break it. It’s ridiculous how hard it is to control myself. Was it ever that serious? I thought to myself before forcing myself to upload the abomination I had just created. It was always that serious. I feel far from relieved. I want to delete everything I’ve written and disappear from the face of the earth, but I can’t do that. Violently, I slam the computer shut and curse to myself. Why did I slam it? Am I a teenager who can’t control herself? I’m twenty-five, and I act like a child. The chair almost falls backward as I get up and open the curtains. The light fills up the room, and my eyes land on the bed. The bed is messy; blankets and pillows are everywhere. One pillow is on the floor, and I crouch down to put it back on the bed, but I also see my phone under it. My phone is dead, so I charge it enough to be able to use it. For the first time this morning, I acknowledge the time; it’s 12:53, and my flight back to Lisbon leaves in two hours. São Miguel is a small island, I’ll by no means miss my flight; however, I’ve never been caught off guard like this. Where do I start packing? Oh, fuck, I should’ve checked out of my room already.

I pulled out my suitcase and handbag and dumped all my personal items on the bed I had made in a hurry. I folded all the clothes and placed them in my suitcase. I raid the bathroom looking for my toiletries and separate the liquids before stuffing them in my suitcase with my clothes. I gather all my electronics, passport, wallet, notebook, and sunglasses. I look through my bags too many times to count because I’m convinced my things will disappear when I’m not looking. “Mariana, that’s fucking stupid. Just– just leave it be. What’s the worst thing that could happen?” I say it out loud. I wasn’t supposed to say it out loud, but I needed to convince myself. I’m frozen in place, looking through my bags, I can feel my frustration growing with each second. Okay, okay, okay, okay, I close my eyes and try to breathe. I have everything with me; I would’ve noticed if something was missing. I looked through everything, and I’m all good. Slowly, I take a few steps backward with my eyes closed. I’m fine, everything is fine. My eyes open again. I stare at the bags and fight the urge to start going through them again. Carefully, I take my handbag and suitcase before walking to the door. I wrap my blouse around my right hand to use as a barrier between me and the handle. It’s an awkward maneuver.

…

An hour and fifteen minutes before my flight leaves, I’m sitting in the backseat of a taxi. I stare at the ocean, wondering what creatures swim in the deep. I wish I were a shark, an orca, or a dolphin. I could just swim around and eat things. My pleasant thoughts are interrupted by my phone vibrating loud enough to hear. I pulled it out of my bag. Oh, I forgot to check my messages this morning. One message from my mother. God, I hate her.

Não atendas quando ela ligar: When are you landing in Lisbon?

I don’t respond to her. If I do, she’ll appear in my apartment with that damn spare key I was dumb enough to give her. I’ve set clear boundaries with her, yet she still crosses them all the time. Whatever, I scroll down further to see more messages. I’ve received some texts from my best friend, Aloisio. Oh, great, he must’ve been drunk last night as well. Now that I think about it, when isn’t he drunk?

Aloisio: I can’t find the fhking thinggs

Aloisio: im fhucked i cant find thm

Aloisio: whad do u think aboyt the weather there

What the hell is he on about? Aloisio, the drunk, is supposed to pick me up from the airport since he’s been staying in Lisbon for a long time.

Eu: can you come to pick me up from the airport??? or are you too hungover???

I send that jackass a message. He had better wait for me at the airport, or else I’d throw him in the Tejo River. I’ve known Aloisio for almost seven years; we met in Spain. Both of us studied at the same university there and majored in foreign languages. I don’t have siblings, so he’s like a younger brother. He’s a pretty well-known author, and he has a big problem with alcohol. Fun facts, I guess.

Aloisio: jesus i’m coming to pick you up, i just can’t drive :p

Eu: great thanks

Eu: don’t be late, i swear to god if you’re late i’m never speaking to you again

Aloisio: ok damn i’ll be there on time

He better be there on time. I sigh and look through other notifications. Likes, comments, and shares on photos from the Azores. There’s nothing too interesting until my eye catches a familiar username; harpoon.98. This motherfucker has liked every single one of my posts. This user only started following me in July, and it’s currently September. It makes me uncomfortable, but what can I do? Nothing.

I’ve been working in tourism for my whole life, but I only started gaining popularity as a travel blogger two years ago when the pandemic started. I was a tourist guide in Southern Spain but lost my job and moved back to Lisbon. I had to live with my mother when I was unemployed; that was complete hell. I started writing about previous travels, places to visit in Lisbon, etc. I guess people liked my writing, and it didn’t take long before I had a new career.

“Miss, we’re here. 12€, please.” The taxi driver’s voice snaps me out of my thoughts. I look for my wallet, find it, and pay him. I get out of the car with my bags. The sun is still shining, but the wind has gotten stronger. It hits my face and somehow makes my raging hangover feel better. It’s refreshing, and the wind carries the smell of the ocean with it. It fills my lungs, and it feels like the wind is healing them from the damage of the occasional cigarettes. I need to check my bags. I forget all about the wind as I move my hands without realizing it. I have everything; I can see my wallet, passport, keys, phone, charger. I tear my gaze from the bag, and then I look inside the bag again. Back, away, back, away, back, away, back, away. Someone bumps into me, and that makes me stop checking the bag. He doesn’t apologize. He just walks away. I stare at his back as he walks further away from me. An image pops into my head where I run after him, tackle him, and try to smash his head on the pavement. I rub my face aggressively; this is not normal. The man interrupted me, and now I have to start again.

It took an embarrassing amount of time to get inside the airport. I’m certain that everyone saw me struggling outside. When someone looks my way, I’m certain that they’re looking at me. I can’t show my face on this island ever again. Each sound feels louder than normal, my limbs feel heavy, there’s an irritating pressure on my chest, it’s hard to catch my breath, and my vision moves in slow motion. I don’t know how I made it through security without looking suspicious. I sit near the gate because I’m convinced that boarding will start without me noticing if I don’t sit there. I space out. Thankfully, my sunglasses are on, so people don’t notice me staring at them. Finally, boarding begins. Thank God, I booked a first-class seat so that I could board first. I booked a window seat. I always book one. I put my suitcase in the overhead compartment and pushed my handbag under the seat in front of me. I try to get comfortable, but that’s an impossible task. The plane isn’t fully booked, and I hope that no one will come to sit next to me. With my luck, a man stopped in my row, the same man who had bumped into me outside the airport. My blood begins to boil; it’s his fault that I made a fool out of myself. He sits in the middle. The man is quite tall; he spreads his legs, and his left leg touches my knee. I try to move my legs away from him; I don’t want our limbs to touch for the whole damn flight. No matter how much I try to get away from his legs, I can’t. The weak touch of our limbs feels too overwhelming, and it fills my being with fury. I grip the fabric of my pants with both hands to stop myself from actually attacking this man.

They announce boarding to be completed, and the jackass sitting next to me hasn’t moved to the empty aisle seat. The man turns his head to look out the window, and I can sense him eyeing me in the process. When he looks my way again, thinking I wouldn’t notice, I grab his head and dig my thumbs into his eye sockets. Blood is splattering all over me, yet he isn’t screaming in pain because, in reality, I never hurt him. It’s a challenge not to injure him. The plane soon departs, leaving the archipelago behind. The biggest island, São Miguel, looks so green. I’m mesmerized by the sight. Once the island is out of my view, I slump back in my seat. The seatbelt feels too tight, so I loosen it. The man’s legs are too close to me. He’s backed me up to a corner. His elbow on our shared armrest spills into my side, and I can barely move without touching him. There’s an itch in the back of my throat that spreads to my brain, making my fingers twitch. I want to scratch that itch, but the only thing I can do is soothe it. The stewardess walks to our row with her drink cart.

“Would you like anything to drink?” The bleach-blonde woman asks.

“I’m good, sweetheart.” The man winks at the poor woman who has to endure bullshit like this on the job. Once, when I still worked as a tourist guide, I was holding a walking tour. After it ended, an older man wanted to ask me questions he hadn’t had the chance to ask during the tour. I was tired and I didn’t give a shit about his curiosity, but customer service being a part of my job, I obliged and asked him what he wanted to know. He placed his hand on my shoulder, I felt it moving closer to my neck and then backward to my shoulder. He was trying to find my bra strap. So, yes, being a woman in customer service is shitty.

“Yeah, I’ll have a gin and tonic, please,” I say to the stewardess. She smiles and makes me my drink. My hangover won’t be too happy with me, but at least I’ll be calm enough to not start a bloodshed and get detained halfway through this flight.

September 18th, 2022, Lisbon

I almost threw up when the plane landed, but I was intoxicated enough to not care about that. I should not have drunk that much on the plane. The airport is full of travelers, and it’s hard not to bump into others. In my case, it’s even harder since I decided to get drunk. I try to pretend to be sober to avoid any unnecessary runins with security. Finally, I reach the terminal exit and walk through the crowd waiting for their loved ones. I scan –or try to scan the area looking for Aloisio. It takes a while to spot the motherfucker outside smoking. Great. I push through rowdy tourists and exit the building. The air is still; it feels suffocating compared to the air in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean. God, I wish I was still on the island. “There you are,” Aloisio says when he notices me. “Good to see you.” We hugged; he’s one of my only friends that I hug. He stubs the cigarette, and I notice how god-awful he looks right now. His jet-black hair is messier than usual, his face lacks any color if we don’t account for the dark purple bags under his eyes, and his pale blue eyes look glassy.

“You look like shit,” I blurt out. “Seriously, man, what the fuck did you do last night?” He rolls his eyes at me.

“You’re one to talk. You look like you’ve been busy. Are you drunk?” He laughs, and I can only nod.

I’ll be honest; I’m a little ashamed of myself for drinking so much. Aloisio takes my suitcase and with his free hand, he gently takes hold of my wrist and pulls me with him. When we reach his car, a white small car –I don’t know what kind of car it is, he turns to me and says: “I had to get Tobias to drive.” I hate Tobias with a burning passion. I don’t understand why someone like Aloisio would associate with him. He’s condescending, arrogant, and annoying. I’m sad that Aloisio isn’t with Cecilia anymore, she was a nice girl. What these two dumbasses have going on is not healthy, my best guess is that they’re just using each other for something.

I’m glad that I’m still drunk because I couldn’t have dealt with Tobias today sober. I climb in the backseat; I sit behind Tobias so that I can see Aloisio better. I choke Tobias to death with his seatbelt. “Mariana, when were you thinking about going back to London?” Aloisio asks me. I’m grateful that Tobias can’t understand Portuguese, now he won’t interject with unwanted opinions. “I’m not sure yet. Do you wanna catch the same flight?” He nods eagerly. I can hear an annoyed sigh coming from the driver, he can’t understand what we’re conversing about. We don’t pay attention to his pathetic hints about changing to English.

The car ride went smoothly because Tobias kept quiet even after we changed back to a language he could also understand. He’s like a spoiled overgrown child. Once we reached my apartment building, I jumped out of the car. I can see the red bridge that connects Lisbon and Almada, there are boats underneath the bridge. The water is calm, and you can barely see small waves. The sun is shining down relentlessly, I can feel hair sticking to the back of my neck. It’s driving me insane, so I walk in front of the nearest car that’s coming down the street.

“Do you need help with carrying your bags?” Aloisio asks me. He’s teasing me, he knows that I can carry one suitcase up to my apartment. My apartment is on the fifth floor and there’s no elevator in the building. I guess I could ask him for help, I don’t feel like carrying my suitcase up anyway. We enter the building and begin to walk up the old worn wooden stairs. I’m in good shape, but the still air and my drunkenness make the walk worse than usual. Thank the stars I don’t have asthma.

My hand is shaking slightly as I try to put the key in the lock. Finally, after a few tries it slides right in and I get the door open. I’m relieved to be home, but that feeling disappears when I see my mother sitting in my living room. I can’t fucking believe this woman. When she sees Aloisio behind me, she raises her arms happily and goes in for a hug. “Oh! Good to see you.” She hugs him tightly and Aloisio gives me a look that screams ‘Help me’. “Good to see you too, Paula.” He says when she finally lets go. This woman greets someone else before her daughter, I don’t hold it against him because I couldn’t care less about my mother, still, it’s strange.

“What are you doing here? I’ve told you a million times to tell me before just showing up at my apartment.” I sigh and she huffs angrily like I just offended her. This always happens; I express my disappointment at her disrespecting my boundaries and she gets mad at me like I’m the bad guy.

“You and these ridiculous rules, Mariana. I’m your mother.”

“Ridiculous rules? Are you fucki–”

“So, how are you, Paula?” Aloisio, perceptive as usual, managed to stop a screaming match just by giving attention to my mother. He’s like my guardian angel every time my mother is near me. “Oh, aren’t you sweet,” she warms up to him instantly. “Well, I’ve been doing good, oh! I’ve spoken with the priest–” I tune her out when she starts talking about religion. I know my mother prefers Aloisio over me, she always wanted a son, but she got a daughter instead. She’s reminded me of that every single day of my life. She also likes to blame me for her husband, my ‘father’, abandoning us. She should blame herself, drugs, and a younger woman named Teresa for him leaving to buy milk. He moved back to Spain when I was six years old. My parents didn’t divorce because of my mother’s faith. I don’t understand why someone like my father respected my mother’s wishes. “Hey, I need to go. See you soon?” Aloisio pokes my shoulder to get my attention. He closes the door behind him leaving me at my mother’s mercy. I wouldn’t be surprised if this woman drives me to suicide or murder.

Caught Red-Handed

September 25th, 2022, Lisbon

The airport is packed with people. I’m trying to find Mariana, but it’s like looking for a needle in a haystack. I’m already late because I spent the better part of the morning looking for my notes. I don’t know where they could’ve gone. I’m anxious and desperate to find them. I need to find them, I’m on a tight deadline. When I’m walking through a group of people, someone grabs my shoulder tightly. “What took you so long?” It’s Mariana.

“My bad, I needed to find them,” I say. She raises her eyebrows in surprise and asks: “Wait, you haven’t found the notes?” I shake my head and bite the inside of my lip. I don’t have time to write new ones unless I beg and plead with Lydia, my literary agent, to give me more time. She’s going to kill me once she finds out. Mariana pats my arm before she gestures for me to follow her to the security line.

“I mean, this is bullshit, I know where I put them, and the next day they’re gone.” I rant while putting my bag on the tray.

“What did you do that night?” She asks and takes her belt off.

“I– I was drunk,” I admit. “But I was in a bar with Tobias and when I got home, I think I passed out the moment I hit the couch.”

“Uh huh, well did you ask Tobias?” She shows her boarding pass to the security staff before throwing it on the tray.

“I did. He said that he didn’t know what I was talking about,” I tell her before walking through the detector. Mariana follows me and asks, “Haven’t you told him about the notes?” I nod at her, and she looks confused.

“You’ve told him about the notes, but he claims you haven’t. Suspicious if you ask me.” She looks at me, and I nod. Mariana looks sorry for me. All I can do now is gather my courage and call Lydia, hoping she doesn’t send a hitman after me.

…

The flight to London was delayed by two hours, so Mariana and I are sitting at an overpriced airport bar. I’ve already downed two drinks; Mariana is starting with her second one. The notes bother me, but at least the alcohol has gotten rid of the irritating pressure all over my body. Mariana is mumbling something about routines. Right now, I have zero clue what she’s referring to. I stare at her zoning out; she doesn’t notice and continues to talk. “Time for rock, paper, scissors.” She snaps her fingers in my face to get my attention. The one who wins gets the window seat. “First strike?” I propose, and she agrees. Rock, paper, scissors. Mariana has a rock, and I have paper. I won; the window seat is mine. With a defeated sigh, Mariana curses and goes back to drinking her beer.

When we were allowed to board the plane, I noticed that most of the passengers were British tourists returning from their vacation. A few of them are badly sunburnt. The plane is booked full, so we have to share our row. Mariana and I take our seats, and a slightly tipsy gentleman comes to sit on the aisle seat. He’s loudly speaking on the phone. “Oh, Christ, I think he might be a problem,” Mariana whispers to me. She looks uncomfortable having to sit next to him. “Maybe, do you want to switch seats?” I ask Mariana. Her eyes light up, but she shakes her head. “You won rock, paper, and scissors,” she laughs. “Wouldn’t be fair if you had to sit in the middle.” She’s right, and I did win. Rules are rules. Mariana shows me unreleased photos of her latest trips: the Azores, Sicily, and Crete. “You could be a professional photographer.” I compliment her work. She thanks me for my praise.

The plane finally departs. Mariana fell asleep, her head resting on my shoulder. Now that my travel companion is sleeping, I’m left alone with my thoughts. What the hell do I do about the notes? I should’ve started writing the first draft already. It took me months to put together a good storyline. There’s dread looming over me, the notes are personal, and I haven’t edited them yet. I haven’t let anyone read them, I haven’t even told my literary agent or Mariana what I’m writing about. I just asked Lydia to trust me, but I think this is the last time she does that. I can taste blood in my mouth, fuck, I must’ve bit the inside of my lip again. I continue to bite my lip, currently, it’s the only thing keeping me calm. The universe seems to pity me; I see the stewardess coming with her drink cart.

September 25th, 2022, London