Blood bubbles up as his lips try to form words.
“Souris?” he asks, eyes filled with wonder.
“Aninyeh,” I correct, so close our noses nearly touch.
I have seen plenty of horror movies where the villain leaps up at the last moment. I wait until I see him pass into death, and when he is gone, to hell, I curse him to an eternal life where he is sold like a slave and chopped up into a million little pieces, over and over again. Forever.
I finally tear my eyes from him, noticing his carton of noodles is splattered with blood. I pull over the carton that was meant for me. I suppose this was his payment to me, his gift for helping him rid himself of the inconvenient woman. I open the carton, inspecting its contents. I sniff the food, finding it unremarkable.
I remain on top of him, using him like a piece of furniture, while I eat. The congealed noodles are cold, not dissimilar to gooey worms. It is the worst thing I have ever put in my mouth—maybe not the worst; there was the ear of the guard at the Compound. I toss the mess between the newly dead Monsieur Robach and the bags of dead American.
In the bathroom, I wash his blood from my face and hands. I rinse the taste of those noodles and Monsieur’s blood from my mouth. I search the basement for any articles of clothing I can change into, and in a box, underneath a workbench, behind some plastic containers, I find the clothes I arrived from Kumasi in: a pair of white Keds sneakers, a pair of jeans that are slightly too big, and a sweatshirt with a My Little Pony character on it.
With the scissors in hand, I walk up those elusive stairs. I push open the door into the dark kitchen. Monsieur’s keys hang on a wooden key rack, and I pluck them off. His black leather wallet is on the counter, and I take it too. The air that greets me when I walk through the front door and close it behind me is cold, pure, and crisp. It is a wonderful smell. It smells like freedom.
It is in the driver’s seat of his car that I nearly break down, the events of the night rushing at me like poltergeists. I am bone tired but cannot believe I am alive and Monsieur is not. I cannot believe I have escaped. I cannot comprehend that I am alone for the first time since this horrible nightmare began. There are no guards. No weeping girls or screaming ones. No murderous psychopathic killer making me his pet dog. There is just me.
However, now is not the time to loiter, because I cannot tempt fate and allow one of his neighbors to see me. I will not be recaptured, and I must leave from this place. Monsieur’s car is a manual shift, and while I do not know much about driving, Uncle Daniel taught me the basics in one. So I manage as best I can and flee in Monsieur’s car.
I drive until the car runs out of gas, managing to follow the signs heading toward the city. The car makes it nearly to Paris before it rolls to a stop. I leave it stranded by the side of the road and walk the rest of the way. There is a coat of Monsieur’s in the car, more money in the pockets, and in his glove box a hunting knife. I rifle through his wallet for anything I can use. Credit cards are out. They will only bring questions I cannot answer. There are bills stuffed in the wallet, thankfully. Not much, but enough.
I take it all, even the coat, which I abhor wearing, but I am no idiot. It is freezing out there. The walk in this cold, strange land lasts forever before I finally see city lights. Every time cars pass, I run from the road, hoping no one sees me. What if Monsieur’s people have found him and are looking for me? What if the authorities? Or Paul? Those questions drive me into the shadows to hide.
In Paris, I spend several nights in the streets, sleeping in alleys cloaked in darkness. I shy away from populated areas. No one sees the dirty, crazy-looking girl roaming the streets. She is but a ghost with her hunting knife at the ready, the scissors too. They are my trophies.
Newspaper tell me I have spent six months with Robach. The time with him and at the Compound has conditioned me for these cold, often wet nights wrapped in whatever I can find next to steam vents to keep warm. I do not go hungry, knowing about the currency from my studies with Papa.
I live off hot black coffee and sandwiches with delicious meats piled high in them. Soon, my money will run out, and I will need to figure out how to get more. But that is a thought for another day. Because while life on these unfamiliar streets is hard, it is infinitely better than where I have been.
37
AFTER
“Nena!” Elin was breathless.
Before she greeted her sister, Nena double-checked that the attendant hired for Elin’s evening dinner closed and locked the door behind her. Even here Nena stayed on high alert, always making sure the security measures remained in place.