I reach my door and nearly shove through it to get inside, convinced Brent followed me and is right behind me. Though I didn't see a single soul, it still feels like someone was right on my tail the entire way home.
Only when the door is shut and locked do I throw myself against it and release a heavy exhale.
I'm incapable of feeling relieved when I'm in near-constant danger, but at least I’m not alone in that office with Brent, possibly on the brink of being assaulted again.
That… that's honestly all I could ask for at this very moment. That, and to not have been followed home by one of those creeps.
Another exhale, and then a sob is bursting free. I slap a hand over my mouth, yet it's a hopeless attempt to contain the outcry.
Soon, I'm overcome with them, and I'm no longer capable of standing. I slide down the door, my shoulders shaking and chest heaving as wail after wail rebounds against my palm.
Tears stream down my cheeks in rivers, and for the longest while, there’s no thought behind my agony.
I'm not even sure why I'm crying anymore. Because of what could've happened? Or because I have to start over once again? Maybe it's because no matter how hard I try to get my feet firmly beneath me, they always get kicked out.
I just… I can't take this anymore.
I don't want to die, but I don't want to exist. And I wish with every ounce of my soul that I was never born. That I had never been brought into a world so cold, violent, and full of heartache.
And the worst part is that even though I feel dead inside, I'm painfully aware of how alive I am. I dread every night when I fall asleep because I know I have to wake up again and do this life for another day.
I just don't want to be here. That's all I want.
The sobs wane, but the tears are constant. Snot leaks down my nose no matter how hard I sniff, and eventually, my butt begins to ache from sitting on the unforgiving tile for so long.
Forcing my eyes open, I glance around at my abysmal home. The small cube of stained white tile around the front door transitions into a thin brown carpet. The walls are freshly painted white, though it doesn't bring much light into the dark room.
Unlike the house I grew up in, it doesn't reek of cigarette smoke, body fluids, and grime. It's just old. And it's the nicest home I've ever had. But it's still not mine.
Which is why I kept it bare, save for the standard furniture that came with it. No decorations. No personality. No… life.
Sighing, I wipe away the tears and force myself to stand. Group therapy isn't until later, but they usually set out a tray of sweets beforehand. At this moment, a chocolate brownie is the only thing I have to look forward to.
I blink away the residual wetness in my eyes, then peek through the eyehole to ensure no creepy ex-bosses or cousins are outside. Once I'm confident the coast is clear, I unlock the door and swing it open. Something black and sturdy clinks to the ground, and my heart instantly drops.
A journalist found me. Or a stranger that’s planning on reporting me to the police. Different scenarios shuttle through my brain at lightning speed. Where they saw me. If they're waiting somewhere for me.
How long do I have to escape? Or is it too late?
It feels as if I'm having a heart attack as I shakily bend over and grab the card. It's metal, which surprises me first. Then, I flip it over to find the word Legion in bold, gold-foiled letters. Below is a phone number and nothing else.
No real name. No job title. Nothing.
But they look really fucking important.
Heart in my throat, I glance around suspiciously, still seeing no one, but not trusting that in the slightest. Other apartments surround the shelter, and the street is directly to my right. There are many places for them to hide.
Quickly, I retreat into my apartment and slam the door shut, relocking it again. Then, I distractedly make my way to my bed and slump down on the edge of it.
What the fuck is Legion? And what could they possibly want with me?
For a good five minutes, I argue with myself. To call them or run like my life depends on it and hope to God this Legion never finds me again. It doesn't look like a business card for a journalist or government official. And part of me is aware that if either one of those people found me, they'd be knocking on that door, not leaving me some obscure, ominous card.
Plus, it's incredibly fancy. It screams money.
I'm fairly confident a cop or news reporter doesn't make this much cash. Not enough to justify wasting it on a card, anyway.
I growl, growing irritated with myself. Without further thought, I slide my prepaid flip phone out of my back pocket, dial the number, and press call before I can talk myself out of it.