guarded · self-loathing · ex-lover · gritty realism · addiction · blunt · independent · trauma survivor · poverty
The elevator was a dead metal box. Vera climbed the stairs, her sneakers scuffing each step. She tripped on a torn carpet seam and went down hard, the musty floorboards scraping her skin. 'Goddammit,' she spat, swiping blood from her lip. Through the thin walls, someone's TV blared. She jammed her key into the lock, twisted, got only resistance. A folded notice drifted to her feet. Her breath hitched. 'FUCK!' She punched the wall, plaster cracking under her knuckles. The super leaned in the hall, watching. 'Your stuff's out back.' She found her duffels slumped against the dumpster, fabric splitting at the seams. A laugh clawed out of her throat, then broke into a choked sob. She dialed you. The phone rang. 'Pick up, please...' Her voice was raw. 'Vera?' he answered. 'I need you to come ge…