A Bought Heart

Isabelle

Rain drags itself down the bar windows in slow, crooked lines as I step outside and pull my coat tighter around my body. The cold bites straight through the fabric, sharp and awake. The streetlights blur in the wet pavement, turning the asphalt into a mirror of broken gold. At night, the city feels different. Quieter. Cleaner. Like it's holding its breath. But it's also darker. Thicker. The kind of dark that hides things.
I slide my hand into my bag and let my fingers wrap around the cold metal of my pepper spray. It's always there. Ready. So am I. Lately, I can't shake the feeling that I'm never really alone. No matter where I walk, no matter how empty the streets look, it feels like eyes are on me. Watching. Measuring. It's probably the lack of sleep. That's what I tell myself. Still, I check the reflections in every window I pass.
I don't have a car — can't afford one — but my parents' house is only a ten-minute walk from the bar. Two streets left. I know this neighborhood better than I know myself. I grew up here. I learned which alleys to avoid, which corners echo too much at night, which shortcuts are safe. Two more streets.
Then I see it. A shadow in my peripheral vision. Just a flicker. A shape where there shouldn't be one. I don't turn my head. That's rule number one. Don't show fear. Don't show awareness. Instead, I take out my phone and pretend to scroll. My heart slows on purpose — controlled, steady. In the black reflection of my screen, I see him. A man. About two meters behind me. Walking when I walk. Matching my pace.
My thumb hovers over a fake contact as if I'm about to call someone. My other hand tightens around the pepper spray in my bag. The rain starts falling harder now, drumming against the pavement, masking footsteps. Good. I turn the corner. His steps stop. I feel it more than hear it. I slow down slightly and glance back as if I'm just checking traffic. There's another man now. Taller. Broader shoulders. They exchange a look — subtle, quick — then start walking toward me again.
Shit.
The street I chose is a dead end. Brick walls. Closed garages. No open doors. No lights in the windows. I calculate in seconds. Distance. Timing. Wind direction. I keep walking until I hear their pace quicken. That's when I spin around.
The moment they step into the light of the streetlamp, I spray. A sharp hiss cuts through the rain as the mist hits the man on the right straight in the eyes. He screams — loud, raw, animalistic — clutching his face. Before the second one can react, I drive my knee up hard between his legs. Not a kick. A strike. Focused. Intentional. He folds instantly, choking on his own breath.
Adrenaline makes everything sharp. Bright. Slow. The first man stumbles toward me blindly, so I swing my bag with all my force. It connects with his temple. A heavy thud. He collapses onto the wet pavement. The other one is on his knees, hands between his legs, swearing through gritted teeth. Neither of them is getting up anytime soon. I don't wait. I run.
My boots splash through puddles, breath burning in my lungs, hair sticking to my face. I don't look back. Not once. By the time I reach home, I'm soaked through to my bra. My hands shake as I unlock the front door. I slam it shut behind me and turn the lock twice. Then once more, just to be sure. Silence. I lean my forehead against the door and let out the breath I've been holding for the last five minutes.
Shower. I need a shower. I need the smell of rain and fear off my skin. But then—voices. From the kitchen. Low. Urgent.
I move down the hallway slowly, my wet clothes leaving small drops on the wooden floor. The kitchen light spills into the corridor. I stop beside the door and listen through the small crack. "We don't have another choice," my father says. His voice sounds older than it did this morning. "If we don't do this, we'll never be safe again."
My mother's voice breaks. "But Antonio... we can't just ask this of her. She's our daughter."
My stomach drops. Ask what?
I push the door open. "What's going on?"
They both jump. They didn't hear me come in — the rain must have covered the sound. My mom sits at the kitchen table, hands wrapped around a mug that's long gone cold. Her eyes are red, mascara smudged underneath. She's been crying for a while. My dad stands by the counter, jaw tight, hands braced against the edge like he needs something to hold him up. He looks scared. And frustrated. And guilty. Like I just caught him doing something he can't undo.
For a second, no one speaks. The clock on the wall ticks too loudly.
Then he looks at me — really looks at me — and I see it. Whatever they're about to say, it's already decided.
"Sweetheart," he says quietly, "we need to talk."
And in that moment, standing there dripping rainwater onto the kitchen floor, I know my life is about to split into before and after.