Chapter 36 The Place I Survived
Violet
I almost don’t go.
That’s the thing—I’m full for once. Actually full. Thai food sitting warm and heavy in my stomach, the good kind of heavy, the kind that makes you sleepy instead of hollow. Camille’s car hums beneath us as we turn onto the familiar street, and for half a second I consider telling her to keep driving.
But if I don’t do this tonight, I’ll keep finding excuses not to.
And I’m done letting places have power over me.
“There it is,” Camille says, slowing the car.
The building squats at the end of the block like it’s embarrassed to be seen. Three stories of peeling beige paint, windows clouded with grime, one flickering light over the entrance that’s been flickering for as long as I’ve lived here. The sidewalk out front is cracked like a bad smile, weeds pushing through as if even they’re trying to escape.
I swallow.
“Wow,” Camille says flatly. “She’s… charming.”
“That’s one word for it.”
She parks, kills the engine, and looks at me. “You okay?”
“Define okay.”
She snorts. “Fair.”
We get out. The air smells like wet concrete and cigarettes. Somewhere down the block, someone’s arguing. Somewhere closer, someone’s blasting music with too much bass and no rhythm.
Home sweet hell.
The front door sticks, like it always does. I shoulder it open, the familiar creak screaming our arrival. The hallway inside is dim, the carpet a sad gray-brown that might have been beige once, stained with years of neglect and God knows what else.
Camille wrinkles her nose. “Is that mildew or despair?”
“Both,” I say. “Heavy on the despair.”
My apartment manager’s office sits just off the lobby, door open. He’s there, perched behind his desk like a spider that’s learned how to wear a human face. Mid-fifties. Too many teeth when he smiles. Always watching. Always listening.
Mr. Hensley.
The man who’s ignored every maintenance request I’ve ever made.
The man who once asked if I “really needed” my locks fixed.
The man who’s suddenly standing when he sees me.
“Violet!” he says brightly. Too brightly. “I was just thinking about you.”
I stop dead.
Camille’s hand twitches at her side.
“That’s… unsettling,” Camille murmurs.
I force a polite smile. “Hi, Mr. Hensley.”
“Please, please,” he says, waving a hand. “Call me Greg.”
I’ve never called him Greg.
“I won’t,” I say.
His smile tightens. “Well. What brings you by this evening?”
“I’m moving out,” I say.
Just like that.
His eyes flick past me, then back. “Tonight?”
“Yes.”
“Oh.” He clears his throat. “Well, that’s… sudden.”
“Life’s like that,” Camille says cheerfully. “Sudden. Unforgiving. Occasionally fatal.”
I shoot her a look.
She grins.
Mr. Hensley—Greg—laughs nervously. “I’m sure we can discuss—”
“I’m not discussing anything,” I say calmly. “I’m here to get my things.”
He studies me for a moment, something calculating passing behind his eyes. Then he nods. “Of course. Of course. Take all the time you need.”
That’s new.
I don’t comment on it. I just turn toward the stairs.
My apartment is on the second floor. Third door from the left. The lock sticks like always. The door groans open like it’s protesting the audacity of my return.
The place smells stale. Old air. Old dust. Old memories.
Camille steps in behind me and looks around.
“Oh my God,” she says softly. “You lived like this?”
I shrug. “It was cheap.”
The walls are thin. The furniture mismatched. Everything secondhand or donated or bought because it was all I could afford. The couch sags in the middle. The table wobbles. The curtains are faded from too much sun and not enough care.
My room is worse. Smaller. Claustrophobic. A mattress on a frame that squeaks if you breathe wrong. A dresser with one drawer that won’t open unless you swear at it.
Camille drops her bag. “Okay. We’re not taking any furniture. Agreed?”
“Oh, absolutely not,” I say. “None of this is coming with me.”
“Good,” she says. “Because if you tried to bring this into my house, I’d stage an intervention.”
We get to work.
Photo albums first. The only things I’ve ever really protected. Camille handles them like they’re fragile glass.
“These are… actually kind of beautiful,” she says quietly.
“They’re all I had,” I reply.
She nods, doesn’t push.
Clothes next. Not many worth keeping. A few dresses. Some sweaters. Work clothes. The rest can burn for all I care.
Camille holds up a faded hoodie. “This one’s seen some shit.”
“That one stays,” I say. “Sentimental.”
“Of course it is.”
She pauses, glances around. “You sure you’re okay leaving all this?”
I look at the bare walls. The scars where posters once hung. The carpet worn thin by pacing.
“Yes,” I say. “I don’t want any of this following me.”
It doesn’t take long. Two boxes. A bag of clothes. A couple of books. My life, condensed.
When we step back into the hallway, boxes stacked in Camille’s arms, Greg is waiting at the bottom of the stairs.
“Everything all right?” he asks.
“Yes,” I say. “You can dispose of everything else.”
His eyebrows jump. “Dispose?”
“Throw it away,” I clarify. “Donate it. Burn it. I don’t care.”
“And the charges—”
“Send the bill,” I say, pulling out my phone. “Here’s the address.”
I give him Camille’s address.
He writes it down, hand shaking just slightly.
“That’s… not your address,” he says.
“It is now,” I reply.
He looks up at me, something unreadable flickering across his face. “Of course.”
Camille leans in. “Don’t worry, Greg. We’ll be watching the invoice very closely.”
He swallows. “Naturally.”
As we head for the door, Camille mutters, “You notice how he didn’t argue?”
“I did,” I say.
“Creepy.”
“Very.”
Outside, the night air feels cleaner. Lighter.
Camille loads the boxes into her trunk. “Well,” she says, slamming it shut, “congratulations. You’re officially free from this dump.”
I look back at the building one last time. The flickering light. The cracked windows. The place I survived.
“Yeah,” I say softly. “I think I am.”
We get into the car.
As Camille pulls away, I don’t look back again.