I’d rather walk naked through the Arctic.

One day, he’s going to break the bedroom door down, and my makeshift barricade won’t stop him.

I swallow. “I’m okay, thank you.”

Why do these men need to be coddled when being turned down? Why do I need to be polite when they’re the ones who started it? Can’t I just say ‘no’?

Sorry, I’m alright, thanks.

Thank you for your offer, but I’ll have to decline.

Please don’t touch me—because you can’t simply say don’t touch me.

I hiss through my teeth when he fists my hair and yanks my head back. “You’re going to stop saying no very soon, slut.”

I bite my tongue to stop myself from lashing out.

When she wants it, she’s a slut.

When she doesn’t want it, she’s a slut.

The biggest insult men like him can muster is telling a woman exactly what he thinks she is: an object that can be debased to the holes she has.

Fuck him. Fuck him. Fuck him.

And fuck Roman for leaving me here to deal with all this shit.

Marcus shoves me away as if I was the one who infringed on his space. I yelp and right myself before I lose my footing. My lungs fill with air, but it feels more like razor blades. And because I don’t have a choice, I have to smile at customers and go about the rest of my day pretending I didn’t just get assaulted. I have to live with this acceptance. I’m angry, but this is how my life is for now. I will get out eventually.

I used to think I was weak because of the stutter in my heart or the way it never feels whole. I thought I was defective somehow, like when God was making me, he shipped me off without putting me together the way he should.

It took losing Roman to realize I’m a survivor in my own way. Because this is what survivors do: they keep walking even if the sun is blazing or the sky cracks with lightning and rumbles with thunder. One foot in front of the other until, eventually, you can’t walk anymore.

My heart is still broken, but I’ve let the shadows take up the empty space and gave it a name: Rage.

The phone rings, and I groan internally. I fumble with my mandatory work apron until my fingers wrap around the indestructible plastic brick. “Good afternoon, Barfoot’s Hardware Store; how can I help?”

Silence.

“Hello?”

I know this game. No one is going to respond.

“Are you there?”

Nothing.

I shake my head and hang up. I’ve gotten a call like this almost every day for months. I don’t hear any breathing like in the movies, nor weird static. Just silence.

Whenever I consider snapping at whoever is on the other side, I think better of it. With my luck, it could be one of Marcus’s buddies trying to mess around and get me in trouble. So, I smile without my eyes and talk softly even when I want to throw up in my mouth and scream.

My own phone starts buzzing in my pocket. “Jeremy, is everything okay?” I say, answering the phone and checking to make sure no one is in the store.

“Yes.” The speaker crackles with his sigh. “I’m doing my twice-daily check in.”

I heard from him this morning when he wished me happy birthday and promised to make me breakfast once he's back. “Have they been feeding you properly? Are you warm enough? That teacher has stopped giving you a hard time, right?” I ramble on.

“Just like I told you yesterday, yes.” His disinterest in this conversation is clear. “I’m fifteen, not five. I can take care of myself.”

It’s the biggest lie I’ve ever heard from him. If it weren’t for me giving him my food portions and bedding, he’d be both starved and cold. Nor would he have a life if I didn’t do most of his work in the shop. Or deal with Greg’s belt on his behalf, and help him with his homework, and make sure he has clothes on his back.

He’s fifteen and completely oblivious to everything I do for him. But I wouldn’t change any of it if it means he laughs along with friends as he walks home, and he goes to sleep without bruises, not worrying about what the next day brings.

I refuse to end up like Millie, completely dead inside. But I refuse to let Jeremy grow up thinking he doesn’t know what it feels like to be safe and loved.

I clear my throat. “What did you do today?”

That question seems to change his tone. “They made us do woodwork, so I made you a birdhouse. I painted it white so you can draw something on it. We also went—”

“Yo, Jeremy, pass the drugs,” someone yells in the background.

“Shut up, man, I’m talking to my sister,” Jeremy hisses at one of his friends, who bursts into a fit of laughter. “We went—oi, fuck off.” I pull the phone away from the loud shuffling noises that go on for a solid ten seconds. “I’ll call you later,” he pants like he’s just been wrestling someone.

“Yeah, okay. Let me know if you need anything, alright?”

“I’ll be good, I’ll—dude, I’m gonna beat your—” The line goes dead.

I shake my head and continue stacking the shelves. Nothing else of note happens as the hours roll by. Every day that passes seems to take longer than the last. When closing time finally arrives, I clean up, lock the door behind me, and pull the gate down to prevent any break-ins. Then, autopilot kicks in, and my legs take me home.

I pull my coat around me tighter. My feet are aching, and my back is killing me. The last thing I want to do is make dinner for Millie, Greg, and Marcus, but this is my life. I can hear my bed calling for me all the way from here. But even after everyone’s plates are piled and tomorrow’s lunch is made, I still have a commission waiting for me.

I’m behind on one of my character arts, and I kick myself every time I put it off. It’s the only joy in my day, but sometimes I’m too tired to even breathe, let alone draw. It started as a passion project, and now it seems more like a chore on top of everything else.

The sound of scuffed boots, followed by movement from the corner of my vision, snags my attention. I whip my head around, my heart pounding in my ear. A hooded figure decked in black follows from one hundred yards away, partially illuminated by the flickering streetlamp. His stature looks familiar. A customer, maybe? That doesn’t make this any better.

I walk faster as my pulse ticks up a notch. I know better than to zone out walking home at night. I’m too scared to turn around and alert whoever’s behind me.

What if I’m being dramatic? What if we both happen to be walking in the same direction? But alarm bells are going off in my head, and my gut tells me to sprint. Still, there’s that nagging voice in my head, though, saying, what if you’re imagining it?

Just like I’ve imagined the feeling of being watched every day for the past who knows how long. Or how my clothes are disappearing—like I couldn’t find my favorite shirt two weeks ago, and my good jeans have mysteriously vanished. Even things I swore I put away find themselves on the top of my table.

I fish my phone out of my pocket. I have no one else to call but the police, and they wouldn’t get here in time. No one would. I’m on my own for this one. The reality of my helplessness has me picking up my pace as I thread my keys between my knuckles.

The sound of footsteps behind me grows louder. Whoever is following me is quickening, matching my pace. That’s my answer. I’m not overthinking. I break into a run, and so does he. Heavy boots pound down the pavement behind me, and I push myself faster.

No, no, no. I’m not ready to die.

Why was I so stupid? Why didn’t I notice him sooner?

Another set of steps joins the first pair, and I push myself faster. Two people are chasing me. Two. I don’t make it far before my lungs burn from exertion. Not once do I turn around to check how close they are. I don’t exercise enough to trust that I won’t lose my footing.