Chantal
I stand in the bathroom between classes, my stomach churning with a mix of nausea and indecision as I try to figure out what I’m going to do with myself.
I have to leave.
It’s crazy—drastic—but leaving campus seems like the only option that makes sense. I know that it’s my last year and finals are going to be right around the corner before I know it, but how am I supposed to focus on my studies when I just saw a man get murdered right in front of me?
I can barely fucking think, much less read a textbook. Forget about sleeping! How can I go on pretending as if everything is normal when I know in my gut that nothing is ever going to be normal again?
Staring at my reflection in the mirror, exhaustion and misery are etched across my face. My tawny skin looks unnaturally pale, and deep green circles lay heavy beneath my eyes. I look haunted, and that’s because I am. There’s no escaping the memory of what I’ve seen, no matter how hard I try.
As I wash my hands, splashing cold water on the back of my neck, my throat itches, and my bones ache, making me groan. Great. On top of being fucking traumatized, running around in the rain last night probably gave me the flu. Or, my screaming muscles could be from downing my bike. Either way, all I want is to go home. My body feels weak, but my spirit feels even worse as if my energy’s been stolen away right alongside my innocence.
About to step out of the bathroom, I freeze at the sound of a strange man’s voice saying my name. My heart pounds in my chest as the reality of someone being outside our classroom strikes me. Who could it be? Peeking through the cracked door, I see an unfamiliar figure conversing with Millie and another friend of ours, Amber. My gut clenches, telling me to stay put, so I do.
My heart races as I strain to listen to the conversation unfolding between Millie, Amber, and the mysterious man outside the bathroom door. Their voices reach me in hushed whispers, tinged with both suspicion and defiance.
Millie’s voice is laced with sardonic sass as she answers him. “And who are you, exactly? Asking after coeds out of the blue like this is giving hella Golden State Killer vibes, my guy. Not a good look.”
The man’s response is barely audible, but I catch a few words. “I… need to speak with her. It’s urgent.”
Amber’s voice joins the fray, sharp as she follows Millie’s lead. “Well, tough luck. We don’t know any Chantal.”
The man’s tone grows more insistent. “Please, it’s a matter of great importance. I assure you, I mean her no harm.”
My heart thuds against my chest. Who is this man, and what could he possibly want from me? The implications of my involvement in the murder case weigh heavily on my mind, fueling my anxiety.
Millie’s voice drips with skepticism. “Listen here, buddy. Anyone who feels the need to specify that they aren’t going to hurt someone is for damn sure looking to do some damage. So, I’m going to need you to turn your ass around and start reevaluating your whole situation before we start screaming.”
The man’s voice takes on a pleading note. “I understand your concerns, but time is of the essence. Chantal’s safety is at stake here.”
Amber’s tone turns sharp as steel. “Yours is about to be if you don’t get out of here. This is a private university—students and faculty only.”
Now, those are some forever bitches right there. If I manage to survive the impending sense of doom that seems to be looming ever closer, I need to remember to get Millie and Amber something nice. Maybe a nice bottle of Prosecco, something from off the top shelf.
There’s a momentary pause, and I hold my breath, straining to hear the man’s response, but his phone rings before he can think of a retort. He growls, frustrated, and turns to walk off a ways down the hall to answer the call. As soon as he’s out of earshot, I seize the opportunity to get lost.
I quietly slip out of the bathroom and tiptoe down the hall and toward one of the emergency fire escapes the older buildings on campus use. I slide open the window that faces the back alleyway behind the humanities building and peer out and down at the rickety fire escape that serves as the only means of emergency exit from this decrepit-ass building.
That’s the thing about old buildings—it’s all culture and character until a bitch needs to shimmy out of a risky situation. With my heart thudding in my throat, I make a split-second decision and push open the window even further, making room to maneuver myself onto the fire escape. I nearly wet myself when I feel the entire thing vibrate underneath my weight.
It’s started to rain again, and I descend the rusty stairs, making certain to keep my every movement cautious and deliberate to ward off the possibility of the entire thing crashing to the ground below. Fear of the staircase giving way spurs me on faster.
Each step produces a haunting creak, and I wince at the sound, praying that it won’t alert anyone to my presence, either Sr. Stranger Danger or anyone else who might be passing by and wondering what the hell I’m up to.
As I reach the final stretch of the descent, I go to release the ladder that’s supposed to lead down the last ten or so feet to the ground, and… it doesn’t move. I curse under my breath and try again, but the ladder is jammed, its rusty rungs refusing to budge.
Oh, come on!
Thinking quickly, I scan my surroundings for a plan B. My eyes settle on a metal pipe jutting out from the wall and leading to the alley below, yet another relic of the humanities building’s forgotten past as who-knows-what, a slaughterhouse, a paper mill?
Focus, Chantal.
I shake myself, envisioning sending my rattled nerves flying as I prepare to do something that my body has given me absolutely no indication that it’s capable of pulling off. Summoning every ounce of my core and upper body strength, I hoist myself onto the metal pipe, my palms gripping it tightly. With a mixture of fear and determination, I begin a slow and controlled slide down the pipe, my body suspended in mid-air.
My muscles strain against gravity as I all but will myself to keep all hundred-thirty pounds of me from a graceless but short plummet. The biting sensation of the cold metal and jagged rust scraping against my palms brings tears springing to my eyes, but I block out the discomfort, focusing solely on reaching the ground.
The improvised descent feels like an eternity, each second ticking by agonizingly slow, even though it has to only be a few moments. A bead of sweat trickles down my forehead, mingling with the rain-soaked strands of my hair.
Finally, my feet touch solid ground, and relief washes over me so hard and fast my knees quake. I release a shaky breath, grateful to have escaped that deathtrap of my own making unscathed. The old ladder remains stubbornly jammed above me, so I flip it a double birdy for catharsis alone.
With my heart still hammering, I take a moment to collect myself, my gaze darting around the darkened alley.
Why is someone looking for me? My mind darts back to the man I made eye contact with on the night of the murder—the one with pitch-black hair and piercing blue eyes. His face has left an indelible mark on my memory. It’s one I’d recognize in a heartbeat, and the stranger outside my classroom chatting up my friends is definitely not him.
In my mind, the only other person that leaves is the killer. Suddenly, I feel incredibly exposed.
As I jog toward home, where I can only pray Sr. Stranger Danger doesn’t come snooping around for me next, I keep a cautious eye on my surroundings. The man emerges from the building, dressed in a suit that seems more formal than threatening. Doubts creep into my mind. For all I know, he could be a faculty member merely making a legitimate inquiry.
It’s entirely possible that I’m jumping at shadows, seeing danger where there is none. Either way, I don’t slow down, and I don’t change my trajectory. If he really is with the school, he can send me an email like a civilized adult.
Until then, I’ll be doing the rest of my fraught contemplation from the relative safety of my own home.
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