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But Fake Porscha is right. I peered out the window at the top of the stairs when I managed to drag myself out of the basement, and it didn't look like we’re in town. I didn’t even see her car outside, the one she got all excited about when we were still running from the prison. My legs protested once I started moving, dragging myself around after laying down for weeks, and everything still hurts from where I tore out all the medical equipment.
The IV, the catheter, all of it was painful to remove, but I don’t think I’ll ever look at a hospital bed the same again.
Fake Porscha clicks her tongue. “You’re not in great condition.”
“I haven’t walked in six or seven weeks and my hydration was mostly handled through the fucking IV,” I snap. Her voice sounds like it’s coming from behind my shoulder, but when I look into the mirror, there’s no one there. I keep talking anyway. “I need to eat, but not too much that it makes me sick. Bandage the wound best I can. Clothes are a definite must. Then I’m taking all her shit and getting the fuck out of here.”
Instead of responding, she starts to hum somewhere nearby, so maybe my brain is agreeing with me for once. I choose not to question it, hastily wrapping the wound with a clumsy bandage job. Then I gather up all the extra supplies I think I can manage to carry and begin the slow, painful trek out of the bathroom.
I catch my reflection in a mirror as I’m leaving the room. There are heavy bags under my eyes and the skin on my face, a horrid ashy color, droops. I look like a drug addict except I don’t get to enjoy the high that would numb the throbbing pain in my leg.
I’m also nearly naked—and as surprised as I am that I haven’t lost more muscle mass, I still look like an absolute lunatic: bleeding leg, standing in a rundown bathroom, wearing nothing but boxers. There are people out there looking for me, and the second anyone catches sight of me like this, I’ll stand out like a flare in the dark.
“Clothes,” Fake Porscha reminds me. I can only nod in agreement. I don’t know why Porscha would even have clothes my size, but I’ll look. Even just a coat would help.
If all else fails I’d take back my prison jumpsuit over walking around like this. I didn’t see any neighbors when I first looked out from the top of the stairs, and the bathroom window is tinted too dark to see much of anything. I turn with my bundle of supplies and head onward through the strange little house, hoping Real Porscha doesn’t walk through the door anytime soon.
I know if I didn’t have a stab wound and six-plus weeks of lying tied to a bed working against me, I could take her easily. But she’s erratic and unpredictable – I find myself hoping that something will happen to her on her outing that will keep her away.
The door at the end of the hall isn’t locked, which is nice. It swings open easily, and I barely step in before my feet skid to a halt. This is a bedroom, but it looks like someone pulled it out of a horror movie.
There’s an old bed up against the far wall but it’s only an old rusty metal frame and a discolored mattress. Dark stains mar one whole side and it’s no secret to me what made them. I’veseen enough dead bodies to know what blood looks like, even old blood. There are no sheets and I wonder if they were used to roll the body in for transport or even burial.
My nose twitches in disgust the longer I stare. Did Porscha sleep in here? All this time, I wondered where we were and how Porscha managed to find a vacant property. Maybe she stole it by reverting back to her comfort zone: killing.
Stepping into the room I drag my gaze around. I don’t see a body, but there are more stains on the floor near the bed. Clothing is strewn about nearby, wrinkled and stained. Nothing smells bad, so I’m assuming whoever died was either moved quickly or it’s been a while.
It doesn’t really matter to me either way. If the person is dead, they aren’t going to mind if I help myself to their stuff. Dropping my collection of things on top of the bare dresser, my eyes laser in on the closet.
I don’t know if there’s going to be anything in there for me, but I’ll take an extra sheet if I have to. Something needs to be between the wound in my leg and the elements if I’m going on the run. My boxers aren’t in good enough condition to protect me at this point.
Shaking my head and letting out a small sigh, I make my way to the closet. Inside I find clothes hanging that are covered with a layer of dust. It doesn’t matter to me how out of date these clothes are, and tugging out a pair of pants I’m pleased to find the clothes belong to a man. Dropping the jeans I dig around until I find something softer in the in-closet organizer, pulling a pair of sweats free. That’ll be more forgiving on my skin and easier to stretch since these look a little small.
As I assemble the outfit, I glance around the room again. If killing the person didn’t result in all the chaos in here, then Porscha did a number on the space for reasons unknown. I don’tknow why or how she picked this place, but the missing owner must have someone caring that they are missing, right?
When my gaze moves to the door, I start talking to myself. “Porscha’s a maniac, isn’t she?”
“Aren’t you as well?” Fake Porscha asks, appearing on the other side of the bed. “At least he has clothes, hmm? They might not fit great but at least she didn’t get rid of them.”
Digging around again I randomly choose a shirt and shake it, sneezing a couple times as the dust flies around me. It’s snug when I slip it on but I don't have time to be picky. This will have to do.
I look down and notice my leg is still bleeding slightly, thin lines of blood dripping from under the bandage. I’ll need to put more pressure on it when I get the chance but I’m running out of daylight.
It takes a little time to locate the socks in the dresser and find a pair of shoes in the back of the closet. The tennis shoes are too tight so I opt for flip flops, although I know they’ll be harder to walk in.
Too much time is passing. I give the empty room a salute as I walk out of the room, once again apologizing that this poor person ended up a casualty of Porscha’s insanity.
Fake Porscha is quiet now, but she lingers like my shadow as I move through the house. I have a duffel bag slung over my shoulder that I found in the dead man’s closet and threw the medical supplies into. I continue moving until I locate the kitchen.
It’s small and mostly empty, and I wonder if Porscha even eats here. Looking in the fridge nets me some bottles of water and on the counter I find a box of granola bars, some crackers, and a loaf of bread that I shove into the duffel.
I’m not sure what my plan is.
If someone recognizes me, I’ll go back to prison. Back to a cell. Waiting to die. Or I can run, wounded, and hope that I get somewhere before the wound gets me. Maybe I can disappear into the Florida swamplands and start somewhere fresh, living off of the land.
Neither idea is appealing. Running means pretending to be someone for the rest of my life. I can’t be Alastair, and if I don’t return to Citrus Grove how will I contact Jo and Vinny? I’m not sure if they would want to see me yet again, but they are the only people I can imagine finding a place to call home with anymore. Running away like a coward destroys that chance.
My fingers dig into the counter for a moment. I’m discounting my foster brother Emeric, but I don’t want to screw up his life again. Before I even got caught for the kills, the Franks took Emeric away. They were supposed to care for both of us, but they chose Emeric because he was less problematic. He wasn’t yet eighteen, so he was whisked away with them across the country while I stayed in Citrus Grove.