Torn

The rain comes down in relentless waves, drowning the city in a haze of silver and shadow. Ellen runs, head down, shoulders hunched against the cold, the weight of her bags dragging at her frame like anchors. She clenches her jaw and keeps moving.

Her sneakers have filled with water somewhere back there, but it hardly matters now. Everything is already soaked. Headlights smear across the street and bleed into wet tarmac. A car hits a puddle and sends a wave straight at her legs. Ellen lets out a sharp, breathless laugh, one of disbelief and sheer exhaustion. She is used to this. The way the universe likes to prove that however bad things get, there are still lower depths of hell to visit.

Figures watch from the shadows. A man smoking in a doorway glances up from his phone and blows smoke from his nose. She hates it. She doesn’t want to be seen. Not like this.

The bus shelter comes into view on the far side of the park. Plastic roof. Metal bench. Flickering bus sign. A bus pulls in, its air brakes hissing. The doors open with a swish, then a thud.

Ellen pushes harder. She judges the distance and the route. Too far. Straight on to the junction, then right. She isn’t going to make it in time. She needs a shortcut. She pushes through a hedge dividing the park from the pavement. It is too dark to tell what kind it is, but the branches are thorny, clutching at her like a thousand tiny claws. Come back inside, it seems to whisper.

She tears free, but her holdall snags. She yanks hard. She doesn’t have time for this. The claws lose their grip and the bag comes flying free. Ellen sprints across the park. Waterlogged grass spits at her with every step. Her lungs feel lined with broken glass, each cold breath cutting deeper than the last. She is going to make it. Only just.

The squelch of grass gives way to the slap of concrete. She skids to a stop at the open bus door. The driver looks down at her, silently judging the rain-soaked mess before him.

Ellen fumbles for her phone, yanking it from her back pocket. A cracked screen glows through a fine mist of droplets as she taps it against the ticket reader. Her pulse hammers against her ribs. Please. Please, let there be enough.

The machine beeps. A second passes. Then it chimes again. The screen flashes green.

Relief hits her so fast it nearly buckles her knees. She staggers down the aisle, fingers locked around the suitcase handle, past tired faces and the occasional curious glance. She doesn’t care. She has a seat. A dry seat. She collapses into it and lets the bags fall where they land. The bus is warm. She presses her forehead to the glass and breathes. The engine hums. Rain streaks sideways across the window. For the first time since leaving Tod’s apartment, her chest loosens.

Then she sees it out of the corner of her eye. Bright pink. She leans closer. Fabric pokes through a tear in the side of the holdall. The hedge. The claws. Her stomach drops. She tugs at the fabric until a pink sock slips free. Her gaze snaps to the aisle. Another sock lies on the floor. She turns back to the window.

Across the park, scattered through the grass, trail her clothes. Shirts. Socks. Underwear. Everything she owns, marking her path like evidence.

Someone laughs. It is quiet and unkind. Ellen’s throat tightens. “Oh God.” She lurches upright, heart slamming against her ribs. “Stop,” she gasps, her voice barely a whisper. Then, louder, raw with panic, “Stop the bus. Please.”

Heads turn. The driver grunts, muttering something she can’t hear over the rush of blood in her ears.

“Please,” she says again. “I need to get off.”

The bus hisses as it slows, brakes whining. It lurches to a stop and the doors swing open, spilling the smell of rain-soaked pavement inside. Ellen shoves past knees and bags, gripping armrests for balance as she lunges for the exit. She barely touches the pavement before the doors hiss shut behind her. The bus pulls away and disappears into the night.

She runs back through the park, across sodden grass, snatching clothes as she goes. Her fingers are numb. Mud soaks her knees. She takes off her coat and positions it inside the holdall, jamming it against the rip. The wind slices through her cardigan straight to the skin. She doesn’t care.

By the time she reaches the bus shelter again, she is drenched beyond saving. Her jeans cling to her legs. Her hands shake violently. Her hair drips steadily onto the pavement. She drops onto the metal bench, chest heaving, arms clamped around a bundle of wet clothes in her lap. Wind screams through the open sides of the shelter, rattling the plastic panel behind her.

For a moment, she just stares at the pavement, blinking rain from her lashes. Trying to breathe. Then, with a shuddering inhale, she pulls out her phone. Her hands shake as she taps the screen, her vision swimming as exhaustion finally catches up with her. She knows what she will see before the numbers even load.

And there it is. Her balance.

The ache in her chest collapses inward. The bus ticket has taken the last of her money. There is nothing left.

A wet laugh slips out before she can stop it. Of course. Why not?

She drops the phone into the damp heap in her lap and drags a shaking hand through her rain-soaked hair. She needs a plan.

She squeezes her eyes shut, leans her head back against the cold metal frame of the shelter and breathes out. Then the idea comes. She can go back to work. The day shift will be starting soon at the bar. It isn't a permanent solution, but it is something. She can dry off, use the toilets, wring out her clothes, maybe steal a few seconds under the hand dryer just to feel warm again.

And if she is lucky, if fate decides to show mercy for once, she can talk her way into another shift. She needs tips. Cash in hand. Enough for food. Maybe even a cheap motel if the crowd is drunk enough and careless with their change. It won’t fix everything, but it will get her through one more night. And right now, that is enough.

Ellen pushes herself upright, muscles screaming in protest. The bar isn’t far. Thirty minutes, maybe less if she cuts through the side streets. Her legs feel like lead. She forces them forward anyway, one step at a time.

Because what else is there?