Everafter Series 1 - Everafter by Nell Stark, Trinity Tam Read Free Book Online Page B

deep sleep. Once she had left for class, I collapsed back into bed and crashed for three hours, before being wakened by the burning ache in my throat.
    It was getting worse.
    Now I stared at myself in the mirror—at the dark bags under both eyes, at the gruesome stitches in my shoulder, at the fine tremor in my hands—and felt disgust. The fear was ruling me. It was taking me over and eating me up, because I kept feeding it. It was winning because I was letting it.
    No more.
    I went back into the bedroom and pulled a sports bra over my head, wincing as one of the straps caught on a stitch. My NYU sweatshirt was next, followed by a windbreaker. I limped to the front door and frowned at the cane propped against the wall nearby. I didn’t want to take it, but I was about to try walking a distance much farther than I had since being injured. Sighing through my teeth, I grabbed the cane, limped out the door, and made my slow, painful way down the stairs.
    I was afraid of two things: what might be causing this awful thirst, and the horrific memories that were waiting to resurface. I couldn’t do anything about the former until my appointment tomorrow. I could, however, do something about the latter. I could retrace what my steps might have been, willingly putting myself in the path of places likely to jog my memory. Willingly subjecting myself to the terrifying truth. But at least it would be my choice, my timing. At least I would be in control.
    I paused for a moment outside the red door of my building, leaning heavily on the cane. Stairs were a bitch. When I felt a little stronger, I took off limping down the sidewalk, past the familiar row of walk-ups. At the corner, I debated whether to turn left or right on Avenue D—there were stores that sold alcohol in both directions. Deciding on right, I hobbled past the 24/7 supermarket. Across the street, the projects rose into the sky like accusatory fingers. Hunching my shoulders against the dread that churned in my gut, I peered furtively down every new block, expecting at any moment to be bombarded by memories.
    I hated feeling this way. Alphabet City was my neighborhood. It was Bohemian still—wild and unkempt, queer and unapologetic. I loved it. Had loved it. Now, it frightened me.
    When I reached the first liquor store, I paused. No epiphanies, not yet. Would going inside help? Maybe. And we were out of Jameson anyway. I might as well make myself useful while out on this fool’s errand.
    The bell tinkled lightly as I stepped inside. The store smelled musty and a little dank, like an ill-maintained wine cave. I shuffled in the direction of the whiskey aisle, past the watchful eye of the manager on duty. His beer belly made me glad that I mostly stuck to the hard stuff.
    In the act of grabbing a bottle off the shelf, I looked around the store. It was familiar to me—I’d been coming here occasionally for almost a year now—but no dark memories stirred beneath the surface of my psyche. So much for taking back control of my life. Sighing, I limped up to the counter and awkwardly fished for my wallet. Maybe the Jameson would help my throat.
    “You’re back,” said the manager as he scanned the barcode on the bottle.
    I blinked at him. “Sorry?”
    “Did she say yes, or what?” He scoffed, taking in my battered appearance. “Or did she beat you up?”
    Realization struck. My God. This was the place. He had been working here when I had come in, two weeks ago. I could feel the blood draining from my face. How was it possible that this perfect stranger remembered a part of my life that was still barred to me? How many of the blanks could he fill in?
    “That night. Do you remember what I bought?”
    “Sure, yeah,” he said, looking at me as though I’d gone crazy.
    “Show me.”
    Shrugging, he came out from behind the counter and led me halfway down the champagne aisle before pausing to extract a bottle two-thirds of the way up the shelf. “J Schram. 1999.”
    He held