Page 1 of Time Traveling Space Bastards

F ocus that telescope, Mrs. Peterman. Catch my long, blue hair that you hate so much. I’m hoping you see me sneaking out of the fire escape of your neighbor’s apartment and hate me so much, you just want me gone. I don’t need you calling him or the cops.

Because I couldn’t explain myself. Not in any way that made sense. There was nothing wrong with the guy I was leaving. He was sweet, supportive, funny, and easy to look at. We got along great and Damon would probably make someone an amazing partner one day.

I just had massive commitment issues, and I didn’t need anyone looking that hard at me. Not boyfriends and definitely not cops. My IDs and social security numbers were all fake. They belonged to some boy who died when he was five, but was the same age as me. The person I bought them from encouraged me to go with a girl, but I just vibed with the name.

Baxter Holmes was just a badass name. It was much better than the one I was given at birth, but I didn’t want to be that girl anymore. I’d planned to run and go no contact for as long as I could remember.

Tonight was the anniversary that started all the bad shit in my life. I’d been gaslit, medicated, and bullied over that night because everyone insisted I was making up stories, but I knew what I saw. It was fucked up, but it happened.

So, it was a combination of things that had me sneaking out of the fire escape of a frankly really great guy after he’d fallen asleep with the intention of ghosting him after. We’d been dating for two months and I hadn’t told him a damned thing about my past.

He'd started asking and even the most patient person was bound to get irritated if they knew someone was keeping secrets. I wasn’t going to lie and give him a sunshine and roses story. Best to just cut my losses and run. But yeah, this was my pattern. I’d been in enough therapy to know that.

Today also seriously fucked with my head. It hit me as soon as the clock on the nightstand hit midnight. It was the weirdest night of my life and I knew what the story sounded like, even at seven-years-old, but it was real.

I could see Mrs. Peterson’s shadow behind the sheer drapes of her window. She’d been watching me climb out of the window and scale the fire escape. She was a busybody who spied on everyone and called the cops over everything. Mrs. Peterson called a few times if she didn’t like the look of the driver if someone was ordering delivery.

I had a few things on my side. Dispatch was used to Mrs. Peterson, her telescope, and her constant phone calls, and so was the local police station. They weren’t going to come flying in their squad cars with the lights on. I’d known Damon two months, and he told me all about her. She called at least twice a week and there was never a crime going on. This was a fairly safe neighborhood.

Parking was a bitch, though. My car was about a block away. I knew Mrs. Peterson was watching me through her telescope. I threw up both middle fingers and grinned. I pulled the hood of Damon’s hoodie over my head and started walking towards my car.

Because I always left at the two-month mark and stole a hoodie to remember them by.