18+ | Eva French relocates from sunny Florida to the gritty streets of Detroit, seeking a fresh start. But her new beginning takes a dark turn when she experiences a traumatic assault on her very first night in the city. Haunted by the incident, Eva...
Oops! Questa immagine non segue le nostre linee guida sui contenuti. Per continuare la pubblicazione, provare a rimuoverlo o caricare un altro.
Eva French
The morning sun, an unwelcome golden intruder, filtered through the timeworn blinds that draped haphazardly over my window. Its languid rays warmed my skin, coaxing me to wake up and confront the light. I lifted my hand slowly and held two fingers above me, creating a lined shadow that shielded my eyes, playing with the shadows on my skin.
As tears traced silent paths down my cheeks, I couldn't help but question if this ritual of morning sadness would persist throughout the entirety of my existence. I wondered with a dull ache of desperation if I were doomed to cry every single morning for the rest of my life. Was I really doomed to feel like this forever?
The people in this city seemed like strangers from a distant world, a place that was foreign to me. My knowledge of them remained limited, as I rarely left my house since the first night here. I didn't need to, though. I found an uncanny ability to discern the nature of this worn-down urban landscape without direct interaction. A silent observer, I absorbed the essence of the neighborhood through my surroundings and the scents carried by the breeze.
Each house on my street had parched and yellowed grass. It was an unspoken struggle. Perhaps no one could afford to leave on a sprinkler, or they simply did not care enough to have a manicured lawn amidst their busy lives. Dilapidated buildings, their windows shattered and frames weathered, punctuated the urban landscape sporadically, serving as a reminder of the government's apparent disregard for aesthetic appeal. Graffiti, a cacophony of colors and expressions, adorned brick and concrete walls, telling stories of resilience and defiance against the harsh backdrop of its surroundings.
I don't consider myself spoiled or arrogant; in fact, I am certain that I am not. The town in Florida I relocated from may not have been a paradise, but the frustration I harbored for my current surroundings had created such a deep-seated resentment, causing me to absolutely hate everything and everyone around me.
I did not belong here. The way people dressed, spoke, and walked—I hated it all.
The only place I had grown somewhat accustomed to was the bodega and the park that was on the way, both nestled conveniently along the route from my house. It was a short walk to get there—easy to get to, easy to leave from. I was content with the routine and security they provided and I had not attempted to go anywhere else while my Mom was at work.
Before she left that morning, my mother tasked me with picking up a few essentials for the house. Despite being aware that some of the items she requested might not be available at the bodega, I hesitated to venture beyond my familiar path. The prospect of exploring other parts of the neighborhood held little appeal, and I found myself reluctant to step outside the comfort of the routine I had carved out for myself.
The young man who worked the cash grew not to feel like a threat and I decided I did not mind him. While I couldn't say I felt entirely at ease, at the very least, I was not scared to be in his proximity. His short, shaven black hair and bright brown eyes projected an image of warmth that contradicted the tough-looking tattoos adorning his arms.
