Chapter 60 Poet

Chapter 60 Poet
Chelsea

✦

I push open the door to my room and step inside, Livia giving me a small, tired wave before disappearing into hers across the hall. The click of her door closing is the final, sealing sound of a chapter I never wanted to read. I lean back against the wood, my eyes closed, just breathing for a moment.

Then I look.

The room is... nice. It's not a cell or a sterile hospital room. The walls are painted a soft, calming sage green. There's a sturdy wooden bed frame with a thick, inviting-looking quilt folded at the foot. A simple nightstand with a lamp. A dresser. Across the room, another door leads to a small, clean bathroom. It's cute, it's safe, and for the first time in days, it feels like a place I can actually breathe.

I walk to the bed and sink onto the edge, the mattress firm and supportive. I drop my head into my hands, my fingers tangling in my hair. The events of the past few days crash over me in a relentless wave—the club, the limo, Bagly's hands, the blood, the chase, the safe house. I try to process it, to sort it into neat little boxes in my mind, but it's all just a jagged, chaotic mess.

How long am I supposed to stay here? What happens next? The questions buzz in my head like angry hornets. But one thought rises above all the others, sharp and clear: Alex. I want to see him. I need to see him, to tell him I'm alive, that I'm safe. He must be worried sick. He's probably out there right now, looking for me, organizing search parties, talking to the police.

But the police. K's words echo in my mind. Some of the cops are on the payroll. It's a crazy, paranoid-sounding thing to say, but after everything I've seen, I believe it. It's unsafe to contact him. The thought is a lead weight in my stomach. To keep Alex safe, I have to stay away.

A soft knock at the door makes me jump.

I look up, my heart leaping into my throat. It's K, standing in the doorway of my newfound sanctuary. He's still wearing the all-black tactical gear, still wearing the mask that hides everything but those intense blue eyes. Under his arm is a neat stack of papers, and in his hands is a tray. The smell hits me first—roasted chicken, mashed potatoes, something warm and buttery. My stomach clenches with a hunger so sharp it's painful.

He comes in without a word, his movements silent and graceful. He sets the tray down on the bedside desk, and I get a proper look at the food. It's not just sustenance; it's a meal. A real, hot meal. There's a plate with a chicken leg and a scoop of fluffy mashed potatoes, a small bowl of steamed green beans, and a glass of water that looks like the most precious thing on earth.

"Thanks," I say, my voice barely a whisper.

He just nods, then holds out the stack of papers. I take them, my fingers brushing his. The contact is brief, but I feel that same jolt, that static charge that makes the hairs on my arm stand up. He pulls a pen out of the nightstand drawer and places it on top of the papers.

"Fill these out," he says, his voice a low rasp. "So we have it on file."

I look down at the top sheet. It's a basic information form. Name, age, address, emergency contact. My eyes burn when I see the line for Alex's name. I flip to the next page. It's blank, with a heading at the top: "Please recount, in as much detail as you are able, the events of the past few days."

I nod, my throat too tight to speak. I pick up the pen and then immediately set it down, reaching for the plate of food instead. I'm starving. I take a bite of the chicken, and it's so good I almost moan. It's tender and juicy, seasoned perfectly. I eat like I haven't eaten in a week, which, in a way, I haven't.

I can feel him watching me. His gaze is a physical weight, heavy and unnerving. I try to ignore him, focusing on the food, but it's impossible. When I'm halfway through the plate, he turns to leave.

"Wait," I say, the word popping out before I can stop it.

He stops, his back to me, his hand on the doorknob. He doesn't turn around.

I take a shaky breath. "What does K stand for? Is that just your name, or is it for something?"

His posture changes. I see his fist tighten by his side, the muscles in his forearm tensing. He doesn't answer. The silence stretches, thick and uncomfortable. I feel like I've overstepped, touched a live wire.

I rush on, my voice softer. "Can I... can I ever see you without the mask?"

He shakes his head once, a sharp, negative gesture. Then he opens the door, walks out, and closes it softly behind him.

I'm left alone in the quiet room with a plate of food and a stack of papers. I let out a long, shuddering sigh, the sound swallowed by the peaceful, safe walls of a place that might just be my prison.

The speed with which I demolish the plate of food should be illegal. I barely chew, just swallowing down bites of chicken and potatoes that taste like manna from heaven. It’s so good it hurts. I scrape the plate clean with my fork, then lick it, not caring how it looks. I grab the glass of water and drain half of it in one go, the cool liquid a balm to my parched throat. I can feel the nutrients, the life, seeping back into my cells. A profound sense of well-being settles over me, a deep, bone-deep relief that has nothing to do with safety and everything to do with a full stomach.

Leaning back against the pile of pillows, I set the empty tray aside and pick up the pen. My hand is a little unsteady, but my mind is clear. I start writing, accounting for everything. The club, the flashing lights, the feeling of Livia’s hand slipping from mine. The limo, the plush leather that felt like a cage. Bagly’s cologne, his damp hands, the cold dread that coiled in my gut. I write it all down, the details sharp and painful in my memory. I don't leave anything out. The campsite, the fire, the glint of the knife, the wet, choking sound Bagly made as he died. I write about K, the mask, the gunshots, the terror of the chase. I write until my hand cramps and the pen runs dry, filling pages with the story of my own personal apocalypse.

When I’m done, I just sit there, staring at the stack of papers. My life, reduced to ink and trauma. It feels so small, so insignificant. I think about all the bad things that happen in the world, the stories you read in the news or see in movies. You feel a pang of sympathy, a moment of horror, and then you turn the page. You never think it’s going to happen to you. You live in a bubble of assumed safety, a fragile illusion that can be popped in an instant. And then it does happen, and the world doesn’t stop. The sun still rises, people still go to work, and you are irrevocably changed, a secret keeper of a darkness most people can’t even imagine. It can happen. It did. It can happen again.

A wave of something else rises up, something that isn't fear or grief. It's a need to shape the ugliness, to find the words for the shapeless terror. My fingers itch for the pen. I flip the entire stack of papers over to the last, blank page on the back. I press the pen to the paper and let the words flow, not like an account, but a poem.

The world was a song I knew by heart,
Until the melody fell apart.
Now I live inside a borrowed room,
And try to navigate the gloom.
My shadow wears a stranger's face,
And moves with unfamiliar grace.
He saved me from a fate untold,
A story that will not grow old.
But safety is a gilded cage,
Turning life's most vibrant page.
I breathe the air, I drink the water,
And mourn the stranger's slaughtered daughter.
That girl who danced and laughed so loud,
Is lost within a terrified crowd.
Of one, myself, and all the pain,
That falls like acid, like a rain.

I read the words over and over, the rhythm a small comfort against the chaos. It’s not a solution, but it’s a truth. My truth. I set the pen down, the poem a final, stark testament on the back of my ordeal. For a moment, I feel something other than fear. I feel like a poet again.