Page 36 of Shamed
Shortly after finding out about the colossal mistake I had made—irrevocably ruining Jacob’s life—I moved out of the nice penthouse I was living in, quit volunteering at the shelter, as well as my job at Dad’s company, and cut myself off from everyone I was ever in contact with.
Dad, and surprisingly Mom, tried contacting me several times before I sent them each one last message saying I needed a fresh start and not to worry about me, then changed my number. I had already withdrawn a bunch of money from my savings and started paying for everything in cash so they couldn’t track me through my spending.
I spiraledhard.
After a couple of months of hating myself and barely eating, I made myself get a job atTease.
I stay hidden in the slums of the city, in places where people I know would never visit. Except Dylan, apparently.
The shower calls to me as soon as I walk through the door, and I’m quick to strip off and get in, scrubbing away the night while being careful of my arms.
Once out, I wipe my hand over the dewy mirror and lift my eyes to stare at myself.
Self-loathing stares back at me, like it always does.
Life-ruiner. Coward. You disgust me.
With those thoughts in mind, I open the drawer and pull out the blade.
CHAPTER TEN
Jennifer
It’s a little before noon by the time I drag myself out of the warm cocoon I made with my blankets, a shiver wracking my body once my bare toes hit the ground.
Early October mornings in Chicago generally feel chilly, but it has been unseasonably colder this year. In this apartment, it feels closer to frigid with cool air seeping through everycrack and crevice, including the old windows which look like they’re a few strong gusts away from falling out.
I quickly find a baggy sweater and throw it on over my tank top, along with some socks, then with a yawn, make my way into the kitchen to put the kettle on.
I take one step into the tiny U-shaped kitchen and let out a yelp, jumping back and lifting one soaked foot.
“Shit.”
Mouth twisted, I peel off the drenched sock while staring at the puddle that has formed on my kitchen floor. A quick glance up reveals the source of the puddle, with a couple of droplets hanging precariously from the ceiling, ready to fall at any second.
Brown stains the surrounding area, telling me it’s been a problem for some time now, though it hasn’t leaked like this since I moved in almost two years ago. Obviously, it’s gotten worse over time, finally breaking through.
I hobble over to the window, trying to keep my bare foot from touching too much of the cold floor, and peek out the foggy glass. It looks like the rain switched to snow sometime during the night, which is pretty uncommon this early but not unheard of. Right now, it’s undecided on what it wants to be, leaving slush that instantly melts when reaching the surface.
Shivering again, I return to my room to change into even thicker socks before grabbing a few towels from my bathroom to throw onto the floor.
I wonder if Clint—the owner of my apartment, as well asBuds!, the cannabis store downstairs—will have a bucket down there to catch the droplets.
I briefly consider asking him about getting the roof fixed, but the little voice inside my head that’s always sure to put me in my place tells me this is just another way I should be punished.
Steam rushes up from the kettle as it boils, the condensation probably making the curled chips of paint on the cupboard above even worse. I pour the hot liquid into a slightly chipped mug that says “Someone From Canada Loves Me,” which I found at the thrift store, then add a splash of milk after the tea has steeped.
Leaning against the counter, I hold the mug between my hands to warm them up.
I don’t need to be atTeaseuntil five, so I take my time drinking my tea, letting the warmth soak into my belly while making a mental note of what I need to get done today.
Bucket, hair dye. .. and I think I would like to stop at the private investigator’s office I pass by every day. There’s a crack in his window and half of his sign is peeling off, but I’m hoping it means he’s not the type of person to ask too many questions.
After downing my tea and finishing a piece of toast, I throw on jeans, boots, and a jacket, pulling the hood up as I make my way downstairs.
A little bell signals my arrival when I push through the door, and the three men in the store all turn to face me.
“Uh, hi. Is Clint here?”
