Page 6 of Slaughter
Charity didn’t believe me, but she let it go.
The farmers’ market thrummed with the low murmur of voices and the sweet tang of cut fruit drifting on the breeze. Saturdays always meant chaos—boxes thumping on pavement, the sticky sting of morning sun on my neck as I pulled taut the white tablecloths. Charity and I moved with practiced rhythm, arranging lotions up front where sunlight would catch their pastel labels, stacking soaps into pyramids that threatened to topple every time someone brushed past, grouping candles by scent until the air seemed layered: vanilla, sandalwood, citrus. My fingers felt numb, cold despite the warmth, the way they sometimes did when I had been up all night. Three years of this. I could set up blindfolded, but today it felt like moving underwater.
Faces blurred as people drifted in and out, their chatter blending into a distant hum. I smiled when expected, but themuscles in my cheeks ached. The lavender lotion for dry hands—Faith’s favorite, though she never came to the market anymore. The peppermint soap for headaches—I remembered the time Charity pressed it to her temples after finals, eyes squeezed shut. Vanilla candles for relaxation, though lately, I wondered if anything could actually unwind the knots inside me. My hands moved on autopilot: bagging purchases, counting out change, brushing fingertips against paper and skin, cold coins sticky with sweat. Every transaction left me emptier, like each customer was taking a little piece of me along with their soap.
There was a hollow inside me. A deep space I couldn’t fill. Sometimes it throbbed, like pressing on a bruise. Sometimes it was just quiet, a dull ache behind my ribs that made it hard to breathe. I remembered last night: lying in bed, the ceiling fan spinning slowly, the air tasting of dust and regret. No tears, no real sadness. Just nothing. Just emptiness so thick it muffled even my thoughts.
Charity watched me from across the booth, her eyes flicking up every time the crowd thinned, worry etched in the crease above her nose. During a lull, she leaned in, her voice a whisper pressed between the lemon soaps. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” My mouth felt dry, lips cracking as I forced the word out.
“Hope.” Her tone was gentle, but her hand on my arm was firm, grounding me.
“I’m fine, Charity.” I glanced at the soaps, rearranging them again just to avoid her gaze. The lemon bars looked crooked; I straightened them, fingers trembling.
“You’re not fine. You’ve been weird all morning. Actually, you’ve been weird for weeks.” Her voice was soft but insistent, cutting through the noise.
I busied myself, rearranging candles, trying to remember if I’d sold more vanilla or sandalwood last week. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Is it Angel?”
My hands stilled, the waxy surface of a candle cool under my palm. “Why does everyone keep asking me about Angel?” Angel, a brother in the Diamondback MC, always steady, always watching. He had been hanging around for months, part of the motorcycle club that built businesses all around town and a bar down on Main. Safe, dependable. The kind of guy I was supposed to want.
“Because he’s been chasing you for months and you keep pushing him away. And I don’t get it. He’s nice. He’s interested. He’s patient. What’s the problem?”
I didn’t answer. I wanted to. I wanted to say I was grateful, that his attention felt flattering or comforting. But the emptiness inside me pressed heavier, like a weight I couldn’t shift. Angel was all of those things. Nice, interested, and patient. He was good-looking, steady, with a job at the club, and everyone said I should be happy he noticed me. He treated me well, never rushed, never demanded. Everything I was supposed to want. But I didn’t want him.
And I didn’t know why. The hollowness grew sharper, scraping at the inside of my chest, making me want to run and hide and curl up somewhere dark.
“There’s no problem,” I said finally, voice softer. “I just... I’m not ready.” My words felt brittle, like glass about to shatter.
“For what?” Charity pressed, her concern wrapping around me tighter than the apron strings on my waist.
“I don’t know.” My throat closed up as the answer slipped away before I could catch it.
Charity stared, searching my face. “Hope, that doesn’t make sense.”
“I know.” I looked away, blinking fast, trying to focus on the candle labels instead of the emptiness gnawing inside.
“Then why?”
“I don’t know, okay?” The words shot out, sharper than I had meant. A couple of customers glanced over. I shrank, lowering my voice. “I don’t know why I can’t just say yes. I don’t know why I keep pulling back. I just... something doesn’t feel right.” My fingers curled tight around a candle, knuckles aching.
“What doesn’t feel right?”
“I don’t know.” My voice, barely a whisper, caught between us.
She sighed, shaking her head, eyes soft but tired. “You’re impossible.”
Maybe I was. Maybe that was the only truth I could hold on to right now.
My diner shift started at two. I changed in the bathroom, trading my farmers’ market clothes for a uniform. Black pants, white button-up, apron that still had a coffee stain from yesterday that wouldn’t come out no matter how much I scrubbed it. My feet already hurt from standing all morning at the booth, hawking homemade goods to tourists who mostly just wanted free samples. But I needed the money. The booth did okay on weekends, but not great. Never great enough. Waitressing filled the gaps, paid the rent, and kept the lights on.
I clocked in at 2:03, grabbed my order pad, and hit the floor running. The lunch rush was winding down, but there were still enough tables to keep me busy.
I was refilling coffee for a table of truckers—the kind who had been coming here for years, who knew my name and tippedin crumpled singles—when I saw him walk in through the glass door.
Angel.
