Chapter 2
Thursday, November 3rd, 2038 &
Friday, November 4th, 2038

❝ 𝘐𝘵 𝘐𝘴𝘯'𝘵 𝘛𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘔𝘶𝘤𝘩 𝘍𝘶𝘯 𝘚𝘵𝘢𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘋𝘰𝘸𝘯 𝘈 𝘓𝘰𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘥 𝘎𝘶𝘯 ❞

"I think you're depressed," Lynnette said with a sigh, gently sweeping a strand of Evangeline's tangled bleached hair from her eyes.

"Oh, really? What gave it away?" Eva thought with a trace of sarcasm as she blew out a frustrated breath. Maybe it was the fact that she hadn't showered or even left her bed in three days. Or perhaps it was the collection of empty liquor bottles scattered across the floor, turning her room into a landscape of chaos. The place looked like a tornado had barreled through, leaving clothes and debris in its wake.

"I'm not depressed," Eva mumbled, pressing her face deeper into the pillow until her features were almost unrecognizable. She stared at the wall with a cigarette dangling from her fingertips, the ash accumulating until it spilt onto the carpet, creating a dull grey smudge. She snorted a weak attempt at a laugh. "You sound like my therapist."

Lynnette rummaged through the cluttered dresser, picking out clothes that might at least look clean. "So how's that going, anyway?" she asked without looking up.

"Therapy?" Eva replied, rolling onto her back with a groan, feeling every creak and pop of her neglected joints. She was only in her twenties, but her body felt ancient, worn down by too many nights without sleep and too many mornings without hope. "It's like talking to a brick wall. Except the wall has a clipboard and asks annoying questions."

Lynnette had been the one who'd first nudged Evangeline toward therapy, her concern growing as she watched her friend spiral after the shooting incident. The changes in Eva were stark; what was once a spark of life had dulled into a shadow. She'd become a recluse, shutting herself off from the world, her days blurred into one long haze of drinking and half-hearted attempts at sleep. Despite rarely leaving her bed, rest seemed a foreign concept, and the bottles that littered the floor testified to her steady decline.

Worse yet, Eva had begun to slip back into her old, dangerous habits. Lynnette knew what it meant when Eva started texting her ex-boyfriend—the kind of guy whose toxicity had no boundaries—and reconnecting with her former dealer. Eva had tried to laugh it off, claiming she was just picking up a little weed, but Lynnette sensed there was more to it. It was as if Eva was deliberately steering her life toward a cliff edge, and Lynnette felt powerless to stop her.

"It's therapy. What can I say?" Eva shrugged, taking a long drag from her cigarette before flicking it into her ashtray, which was already overflowing with butts.

Lynnette sat back down on the edge of the bed, her concern deepening. "Do you think it's helping?" she asked, her voice soft but insistent. She needed to know if there was any glimmer of hope, any sign that her friend was coming back from the brink.

Eva exhaled, the smoke curling into the stale air. "I don't think so," she said, her words empty, as if they carried no weight. It was as if she was caught in a fog, aware of her surroundings but lacking the will to navigate through them. Each day felt like a blur, a pointless repetition of the last, and the energy to change course was nowhere to be found.

Evangeline swallowed hard, the sensation like a jagged stone lodged in her throat. "I don't know, after I almost died," she began, her eyes fixed on the ceiling as if it held answers she couldn't find. "I just feel... nothing. I don't feel happy. I don't feel sad. I don't feel relief. I don't feel anything. Sometimes I wish the sadness would come back, or even the anger. Anything. Anything is better than this numbness. It's like I'm stuck in an endless loop where I can't breathe."

Lynnette looked at her friend, who seemed like a mere ghost of her former self. She reached out and took Eva's hand, squeezing it firmly, her soft fingers tracing gentle patterns on Eva's cold, dry skin. The contrast between their hands was striking. Lynnette's were smooth and delicate, the hands of an artist, a skilled architect who drew lines and designs with precision and care. Eva's hands, however, were rough, callused from too many hard falls and worn from gripping her service weapon—her line of work was unforgiving, and her hands told the story.

"It's going to be alright," Lynnette said, her voice steady, though Eva couldn't tell if she truly believed it or was simply trying to comfort her friend. She hoped it was the former, but her instincts told her otherwise.

Lynnette brushed Eva's matted hair with careful fingers, attempting to untangle the knots. "Are you excited to go back to work?" she asked, her tone light as if trying to lift them both from the dark place where Eva's confession had taken them.

Eva would have felt embarrassed if she could still summon the energy to care. Instead, she replied bluntly, "No." She let out a dry, cynical snort. "All I'll get is that patronizing look, the one that says, 'Oh, I'm so sorry you almost died.' And everyone will treat me like a fragile little thing, watching my every move, scared I might break."

She dragged her hands down her face in frustration, her palms scraping over her tired eyes. "I just need to feel normal again," she muttered, though she wasn't sure if that was possible anymore.

Lynnette kept brushing her hair, gentle but determined. "I think going back to work, even with all the pity and coddling, might be good for you," she said. Eva knew she was probably right, but that didn't make it any easier to accept. If anything, it only made the hollow feeling in her chest grow heavier.

"When's the last time you ate?" Lynnette asked, her eyes scanning Eva's hollowed cheeks and the dark circles beneath her eyes.

Eva opened her mouth to answer, but Lynnette cut her off. "And no, dry cereal doesn't count," she said, with a pointed glance at the collection of empty Cheerios boxes discarded across the bedroom floor.

"I dunno, Thursday maybe," Eva muttered, trying to remember if she'd eaten anything more substantial than whiskey-soaked cornflakes in the past few days.

Lynnette's frown deepened as she sighed. "Alright, I'm going to make us something to eat. Just stay put until I'm back," she said, giving Eva a brief, forced smile before heading out of the room.

Lynnette was a good friend, the kind you don't often find in a world as harsh as this. She'd met Evangeline eight years ago, back when Eva was struggling with her drug addiction, her mother's death, and a string of toxic relationships. Despite the tumultuous years and Eva's erratic behaviour, Lynnette never wavered. She was a saint for sticking by Eva's side through the mess, the meltdowns, and the madness.

There were times when Eva lashed out, blaming Lynnette for things that were nobody's fault but her own, and times when she was too high to even remember Lynnette's calls. Yet Lynnette stood firm, offering a steady hand when Eva stumbled. She was the first person to visit Eva in the hospital, the first person to call when things spiralled downward.

Eva knew she didn't deserve someone like Lynnette. It felt unfair that someone so good, so genuinely kind, should bear the brunt of her worst moments. But Lynnette never complained; her patience seemed boundless, her loyalty unwavering. In a world that felt increasingly cold and hostile, Lynnette was the flickering light in the darkness, a reminder that not everyone is out for themselves. Eva was lucky to have her, and she knew it. She just wished she had the strength to show it sometimes.

Eva pushed herself off her bed with a groan, her joints protesting with every step as she made her way to the bathroom. The floor was cold beneath her feet, sending a shiver through her body. Once in the shower, she let the warm water cascade over her, washing away the grime of days spent in bed. Her muscles loosened under the steady flow, and she exhaled deeply, her tense posture softening as she finally let herself relax.

She reached for the shampoo bottle, a fragrant blend of fruit and coconut, squeezing a generous amount into her palm. But just as she was about to lather it into her hair, the bottle slipped from her grasp, hitting the porcelain floor with a loud, jarring crash. The sound pierced the air, echoing like a gunshot, and instantly Eva was transported back to the rooftop where she nearly died on August 15th.

In a split second, the soothing warmth of the shower transformed into the searing heat of blood pouring from a bullet wound. Her breaths came in ragged bursts, each one growing shorter and shorter as if her lungs couldn't hold the air. Panic gripped her chest, squeezing her heart like a vice, and her vision swam with disorienting flashes of memory. The steady shower stream became a torrent of red, each droplet like a fresh wound, and her hands began to shake uncontrollably.

The sudden onset of nausea hit her hard, like a punch to the gut. She staggered, gripping the shower door with such force that it nearly ripped off its hinges as she flung it open. Eva stumbled to the sink, her grip tightening on the cold porcelain, before she gagged violently, vomiting up the remnants of last night's Jack Daniels. The acrid sting of stomach acid burned her throat as she heaved, her eyes red and bloodshot from the strain.

Finally, she steadied herself, gasping for breath, the shower still running behind her. Water pooled at her feet, seeping into the bath mat, as she tried to regain her composure. Her skin, slick with water and sweat, reflected the stark bathroom light. It took her a moment to realize she was shaking not just from the cold, but from the raw fear that coursed through her veins—a fear she had hoped to keep buried, far away from the safety of her own home. But the mind has a way of breaking down those walls, and in an instant, she was back on that rooftop, fighting for her life.

Eva's head snapped up when she heard soft knocks at the bathroom door. "Ang, are you okay?" Lynnette asked, her voice gentle, a calming presence in the midst of the chaos.

Eva took a shaky breath and replied, "Yeah, I'm okay. I'll be out in a second." She spat into the sink, trying to get rid of the lingering taste of vomit, wishing it was as easy to rinse away her anxiety.

After dressing, Eva carefully changed the gauze covering the wound on her collarbone, a constant reminder of how close she'd come to dying. The doctors had marvelled at her survival; technology and a mystery knight with a tourniquet were the only reasons she was still breathing. One doctor mentioned that if the bullet had been a few inches higher, it would've shredded her vocal cords. Eva often thought that might've been a blessing—her sharp tongue usually landed her in trouble. Perhaps a vow of silence wouldn't be such a bad idea.

As she left the bathroom, she saw that Lynnette had set two plates on the coffee table, the enticing aroma filling the room. She motioned for Eva to join her, and the warmth in her eyes was a welcome sight.

Among Lynnette's many remarkable qualities, her cooking was at the top of the list. The meals she prepared tasted like home, each bite invoking memories of happier times, enveloping you in comfort like a cherished embrace. Lynnette had a way of making everything feel better, even on the darkest days. It was a talent she seemed born with, a gift that transformed food into a balm for the soul. Eva couldn't help but feel a pang of gratitude—Lynnette was one of the few things in her life that felt consistently good.

They made small talk while they ate, with Lynnette handling most of the conversation while Eva mostly asked questions. After all, what did she have to contribute? The past month had been a monotonous cycle of sleeping, drinking, going to therapy, and staring into the void, just thinking. Talking about it out loud made Eva feel even more depressed as if putting words to her life made it all seem more real and more disheartening.

"So," Evangeline started, twirling her fork around the plate, not particularly hungry after her recent bout of nausea. "How are things with my sworn enemy?" she asked with a hint of playful mischief, causing Lynnette to roll her eyes with a small chuckle.

"David is fine," Lynnette replied with a smile, trying not to laugh too hard with a mouthful of food. "I really wish you'd stop calling him your 'sworn enemy.'"

"He stole my wife from me," Eva teased, her lips curving into a gentle smile. "He's lucky I haven't reported him to the feds yet." David was Lynnette's boyfriend, and while Eva pretended to dislike him, it was all in good fun. Deep down, she knew he was a decent guy, but she still thought that no one was quite good enough for her best friend.

After they finished eating, Lynnette sighed and stood up, grabbing her bag. "I have to get going," she said, brushing off her pants. "But remember, I'm always here if you need me, Angie." She squeezed Eva's shoulder, her touch both reassuring and affectionate.

"Love you," Eva replied, her voice soft and a bit sappy—the most genuine emotion she'd shown in a while.

"Love you too. See you later," Lynnette said, giving Eva a bright smile before heading out of the apartment.

As the door closed behind Lynnette, Eva felt a wave of loneliness, like a familiar blanket wrapping around her. She sat there for a moment, staring at the empty plates, wondering why it was so hard to let herself feel. The little bit of warmth Lynnette left behind seemed to fade too quickly, leaving her in the cold silence of her own thoughts.

As soon as Lynnette was out the door, Eva reached for the bottle of scotch she kept tucked away in her cabinet, her secret companion. The cork came off with a soft pop, and she poured a generous amount into a glass. Bringing it to her lips, she let the amber liquid slide down her throat, feeling the familiar sting and warmth spread through her chest. It was a sensation she craved, the one thing that could momentarily cut through the numbness.

Alcohol was one of the only things that made Eva feel something—like a brief commercial break from the drudgery of her life. After a few sips, the world seemed a little less bleak, but she knew it wouldn't last long. As the glass emptied, she reached for the bottle and filled it again, watching the scotch swirl in the light before taking another sip.

There was one other thing that could offer a similar escape—sex. It wasn't as risky as drugs, and it was a hell of a lot better than staring at the ceiling. As Eva scrolled through her contacts, she knew she was about to make a bad decision. But with Lynnette gone, there was no one around to stop her, and her judgement had never been the best. So she pressed call.

The phone rang. And rang. It rang for so long that she almost gave up, but then, finally, a voice answered.

"Eva?"

"Hi, Dex," she said, her voice steady, but with an edge of uncertainty. The sound of his voice stirred something within her—familiarity, maybe, or just the knowledge that he was as screwed up as she was. Whatever it was, it was enough to pull her back from the abyss, if only for a little while. She wasn't sure where the night would lead, but right now, that hardly seemed to matter.

By the time Dexter arrived, Eva was well into her second bottle of whiskey. He leaned against the counter, watching as she downed her drink, her throat hardly resisting the burn of the amber liquid. Dexter's eyes lingered on her for a moment, trying to decode what she was feeling. She could almost hear the gears in his head turning. "Let me know when you've got it all figured out, dude. I'm still working on it myself," she thought wryly.

"I'm surprised you called," he said, clearing his throat as he reached for a glass. He filled it from the decanter she slid over to him with a casual shove. "You and me both," she replied with a faint smile.

Dexter was Evangeline's ex, if you could even call him that. They never really defined what they were to each other—partners, lovers, or just troublemakers. Things ended because they weren't good for each other. Compatibility wasn't the problem; they simply brought out the worst in each other. Their relationship was like fire, burning hot and fierce until it threatened to turn them both to ash. But sometimes, the allure of that heat was too much to resist.

Eva had known calling him was a mistake, but sometimes she needed the chaos to remind her she was alive.

"So, how have you been?" Dexter asked, taking a sip from his glass. His eyes never left her, scanning her face for clues she wasn't ready to give.

"I've been," Eva said, her response as vague as it was honest. Sometimes it was easier to give a non-answer than to explain the tangle of emotions she was barely keeping under control.

"Why did you call?" Dexter pressed, his voice low and direct.

"What do you want me to say, Dex? That I'm lonely? That I miss you? That I need you?" Eva laughed, but it was a hollow sound. The truth was, all of those things were true, and it scared her.

"But you did, didn't you?" Dexter smirked, his smile laced with the same charm that had drawn her in so long ago. "Even just a little?"

"You wish," Eva shot back, grinning into her glass as she took another drink.

They sat in silence for a moment, a comfortable awkwardness settling between them. Dexter's eyes drifted over Eva, noting the changes in her appearance. "Wow, you've really let yourself go," he commented, a light chuckle escaping his lips.

"Wow, you're such a cunt," Eva retorted with the same cadence, even mimicking his chuckle. "At least I have an excuse," she added, her eyes locking with his as if daring him to challenge her. But Dexter just shook his head, and for a moment, they shared a look that was both a reminder of what they'd had and a warning of why it could never be again.

The two of them talked for a while, carefully avoiding any mention of Eva's near-death experience. It was the kind of topic everyone seemed keen to discuss, eager to offer their best wishes or dive into the gory details. But Eva was tired of it, tired of rehashing the trauma as if it were some kind of campfire story.

"So," she said, leaning against the counter with her glass in hand, the whiskey loosening her words. "Let me read your palm." She was pretty drunk by this point, her cheeks flushed with alcohol.

Dexter raised an eyebrow, a line creasing between his brows. "Um, sure." He held out his palm, trying to look interested. "You know how to read palms?"

"No," Eva deadpanned, taking his hand in hers. "Of course, I know. Why would I offer to read your palm if I didn't know how?" She fought back a smirk, but her tone carried just a hint of sarcasm.

"How'd you learn?" Dexter asked, his voice tinged with scepticism.

"Lyn showed me once," Eva replied, focusing on his hand, tracing the lines as if they held some hidden truth.

Dexter rolled his eyes at the mention of Lynnette, an almost reflexive response to Eva's frequent praise of her best friend. She noticed, but ignored it, instead pushing his fingers back to make sure his palm was flat. He had that look on his face—the one he always got when he didn't see the point in something but went along with it anyway.

Eva let her thumb glide over the creases and lines on his palm, pretending to read into his future. The act of pretending had its own kind of magic, a playful escape from the harshness of reality. It wasn't about actually believing in palm reading; it was about the closeness, the way it allowed them to touch without crossing any lines. Even in their chaos, moments like these could feel almost normal.

"First, let's take a look at this one," Evangeline said, tracing her finger along the uppermost line on Dexter's palm, just beneath the fingers. "This is your heart line. It's all about love and attraction." She glanced up to see him nodding, his attention seemingly fixed on her words. "Yours is quite gridded, which means you might have a flirtatious approach to love, and you might fall for people easily."

Dexter grinned. "Did you really need to read my palm to figure that out?"

Eva gave him a clipped "shh" in response, her eyes narrowing playfully. "Gridded heart lines are often found in intensely creative types—musicians, writers, that sort of thing. It can also mean you're driven by deep emotions, but let's be real, it's just a fancy way of saying you're a hopeless romantic." She added a soft chuckle, then moved on to the next line.

"This one," she continued, dragging her finger along the line that started at the edge of his palm under the index finger and swept across towards the outer edge, "is your headline. It's supposed to represent how you think—your learning style, communication, and intellectual approach. It can also indicate whether you lean more towards creative or analytical thinking." She paused, tapping her forehead lightly as if to emphasize the point. "A scientific or artistic mind, you know?"

Evangeline knew Dexter was a musician, so it wasn't a stretch to imagine which way he leaned. His headline was more erratic and crooked than she'd seen in most people. Though she didn't mention it out loud, she knew what that meant—a mind that worked in a kaleidoscopic way, seeing the world from angles that others couldn't. It wasn't a bad thing, not by any stretch. If anything, it made him unique, if not a bit unpredictable.

"So what else does my palm say?" Dexter asked, his curiosity piqued despite the scepticism in his tone.

"Well, it says you're a bit of a rogue, but we already knew that," Eva replied with a smirk. She leaned in closer, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "It also says you need to get me another drink because this fortune-telling business is thirsty work."

Dexter laughed and shook his head, pouring her another glass of whiskey. "Is that part of your reading?" he asked.

"Absolutely," she replied with a wink. The night was turning out better than she'd expected. It was good to have a bit of fun, to feel like she was in control of something, even if it was just the lines on someone's palm.

Dexter watched Evangeline as she paused, her brow furrowing as she thought things through. He was patient, his eyes tracking the motion of her finger as it returned to his palm, tracing a new line—the one that stretched from the edge near his thumb and curved toward his wrist. "This is your lifeline," she explained. "People used to think it predicted how long you'd live, but that's not really true." As she spoke, her finger brushed against a thin scar on Dexter's palm, a reminder of a night they both would rather forget. It was the result of a cup he'd thrown during one of their more heated arguments, shattering on impact.

Eva caught herself and quickly moved on, not wanting to dwell on the past. "And finally," she said, trying to maintain her composure, "not everyone has one of these—I don't—but you do." She traced a line that ran beneath his ring finger, ending at the curve of the lifeline. "This is your sun line. It's supposed to represent love or heartache." She finished with a flourish, ready to pull her hand away, but Dexter's fingers closed around hers, keeping them in place.

"I've had my share of that," Dexter remarked with a casual shrug. "But, you know, when you're feeling sorry for yourself, you look around and see people who've got it worse. Makes you feel a little guilty for complaining."

Eva's voice softened, her tone more serious. "Don't feel guilty for feeling sorry for yourself, Dex. Just because others have it worse doesn't mean your heartache isn't real. It's personal. It's yours." She met his gaze, her eyes steady, trying to convey that she understood.

The silence between them grew heavier, the past hovering just out of sight as if neither of them wanted to acknowledge how close they were to old wounds. Yet there was also a strange comfort in their shared history, in the knowledge that even with all the chaos and the pain, they could still share a moment like this. A moment where the touch of a hand and a few spoken words could break through the noise.

Dexter gripped Eva's hand gently, his eyes locking with hers in a moment that felt like it stretched on forever. There was a vulnerability in his gaze, a question he couldn't quite put into words. Eva held his stare, her breath catching as she felt the pull of memories, the tangled emotions they shared.

Then, without warning, Dexter leaned in, almost pulling Eva into an intense kiss. The suddenness of it made her heart race, her senses overwhelmed by the bitter taste of whiskey on his lips. It was an intoxicating mix—familiar yet forbidden, sweet yet tinged with something darker. In that instant, Eva knew this was a bad idea. But she wasn't about to stop herself.

She let herself get lost in the kiss, her fingers entwined with his, gripping him tighter as if to anchor herself against the tidal wave of emotions. It was as if time stood still, the world outside fading into a blur. She could feel his urgency, the heat between them igniting something primal, something she hadn't felt in a long time.

Despite the rational part of her brain screaming for her to pull away, the rest of her refused to listen. It felt too good to resist, too right to deny. As Dexter's hands found her waist, Eva leaned into him, knowing they were stepping onto dangerous ground but unable to turn back. The line between past and present blurred, and for a brief moment, all that mattered was the kiss.

☆ ☆ ☆

The morning sun streamed through the curtains, sending streaks of blinding light into Eva's eyes. She groaned, instinctively throwing an arm over her face to shield herself from the brightness. She shifted her body, hoping to escape the invasive glare, but as she rolled over, she bumped into something solid.

Dexter was lying next to her, sound asleep.

Eva froze, her heart dropping into her stomach as the events of the previous night came rushing back. She closed her eyes and let out a whispered curse, "Oh fuck." It was supposed to be just a drink, just a moment to reconnect with an old friend. Now she was lying in bed with her ex, her head spinning from a hangover and the sudden realization of what she'd done.

She slowly lifted her arm from her face, glancing at Dexter, who was breathing steadily, his expression calm and content. There was something unsettling about how at ease he looked, considering the chaotic history they shared. Eva felt a mix of regret and resignation. She knew this wasn't going to be a simple walk back to normalcy. It never was with Dexter.

Carefully, she slid out of bed, trying not to wake him, her feet finding the cold floor with a soft thud. She needed a moment to collect herself, to figure out what the hell she was going to do next. As she crept out of the room, the sun's rays seemed more blinding than ever, a harsh reminder that some things are impossible to hide from.

— 𝗩𝗮𝗹