Newborn

By Emma Lowe

Growing up on the rough streets of western Sydney, seventeen-year-old Helena Callahan has always been a fighter. Her philosophy is simple: be sly, agile, and never get caught doing something illegal. And that’s what her world was all about—breaking the law.

With no parents around, Helena is forced to sell her body to make a living. It wasn’t ideal, but it was how she survived after running away from home. Nothing ever seemed to change for Helena. It was always the same dauntless routine. At least that was until she is streetwalking one night and witnesses a supernatural murder.

Among being caught in a bizarre love-triangle, Helena is thrown into a new lifestyle that is surrounded by undead creatures, magical prophecies, and a compelling psychopath that she is bound to for an eternity. Now the cunning heroine is forced into a different kind of battle in order of survival. Only this one means war.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Emma Lowe
• Release date: Mar 31, 2016
• ISBN: 9781310582707

Book preview

Chapter 1

THERE I WAS, AT THE POLICE STATION. AGAIN.

I knew the protocol off by heart. They sat me down in a small, box-like room with plain white walls and scratched linoleum flooring. My gaze fixated on the scratch marks. It was almost as though a person went crazy in here and tried to claw their way out, like some kind of savage animal. At least that’s what I had imagined. As I glanced around the small room, the walls seemed to close in on me and the heated air from the vent grew thin. I tugged at the neck of my pleather jacket as I waited. I wasn’t overly fond of being caged or constricted, and the idea of trying to escape became more ideal by the second.

Helena?

The constable stood behind me, towering over me like a stalk, which caused his shadow to cast over the full length of the cubical-sized room. This made him appear much taller than he actually was. May I call you Helena?

"It’s pronounced Hell-lay-nah," I growled.

This wasn’t an easy thing to achieve considering how small I felt in comparison to his large build. In fact, it took all of my willpower not to break down and cry. Beneath my careless façade, my hands were trembling, but I knew that I needed to remain strong because there was no way I could shed a tear—especially not in front of these suits.

"Helena, said Constable Collins. This is your third offence this year. Not to mention you already have a very colourful record."

I rolled my eyes in response. I had a million witty comebacks lined up, but before I had a chance to respond, a good-looking cop entered the room. His blue uniform was pressed tightly to his muscular build, and I felt my lips part as I undressed him with my eyes. He looked more cut out to be an underwear model rather than an officer of the law. Up until now, it had been Constable Collins, Officer Garcia, and myself. Now, with this new edition, the room grew even smaller and ten times hotter. The man introduced himself as Officer Reed Faulkner.

He had sandy blonde hair that almost appeared dirty in the fluorescent lighting and deep blue eyes that held a sea of opportunities. Something in his demeanour told me that under that blue uniform was a beast dying to be unleashed from its cage.

Constable Collins cleared his throat. How old are you, Helena?

Seventeen, I replied honestly.

Since you’re underage, are you aware that your clients could be charged with statutory rape? he asked. There was disapproval in his tone.

Yes, I am. I smiled. But they aren’t.

Constable Collins shook his head, which caused his black, curly locks to sway around his hard facial expression. I hated to admit it, even to myself, but he was pretty attractive for an old guy. At least he was better than most of my customers.

Prostitution was illegal, but the laws varied from state to state and it often resulted in a hefty fine. It was as though Constable Collins read my thoughts as he handed me a fine that read: two thousand dollars. I felt my eyes widen at the sight of all those zeros. That’s more money than I would make in a week, I thought bitterly. Collins and Garcia also stated that this was my last warning, and made it crystal clear that once I was of legal age they wouldn’t go so easy on me. I wasn’t sure what that meant, exactly, but I figured it would involve an overnight stay in the slammer at the very least.

Officer Garcia and Officer Faulkner walked out of the room to grab some paperwork, which left me alone with Constable Collins. He sat at the table in the chair opposite mine. Much like the overly sterile room the chair was small and white. He placed his coffee down on the table and eyed me with a hard expression. I think it was meant to intimidate me. It didn’t.

Helena, this is only a fraction of what you will receive if you continue down this path. You need to stop this or you’ll never amount to anything. Do you want to spend the rest of your life like this? His tone was as firm as his hazel green eyes.

I ignored his judgemental gaze and wondered if there was any way that I could make this fine disappear. Collins didn’t seem like the corrupt kind of cop, but over time I had learned that even the most prudent of gentleman could be swung over by a pretty lady.

With a crooked smile, I leaned forward and placed my elbows firmly on the table. My chair squeaked a little as I shuffled forward, and strategically pushed out my chest. I was wearing my work clothes, which consisted of a short black skirt, fishnet stockings, and a black pleather jacket, with—what might as well be—a red bra underneath.

I allowed my jacket to fall open slightly and Collins’s stared a little before he glanced away. His lips parted and I had noticed his eyes grew wider at the sight.

I put on the sweetest, most seductive smile I could manage and fluttered my lashes at him. Are you sure there’s absolutely no way these charges can vanish right before my eyes?

Helena Callahan, I’m twice your age! He scowled.

"Hey, big boy, I didn’t say anything. Don’t jump to conclusions. I was only asking if there’s anything I could do to drop these charges." I bit on my lip seductively.

Constable Collins looked like someone had sucked the wind right out of him. He stared at me incredulously before he raised his hand from underneath the white table. For a moment, I thought he was about to flip me off, until I noticed the gold band around his marital finger.

I’m a married man, he said. But despite his words, I didn’t miss his gaze drop lower, leaving my eyes to stare down my blouse.

Oh, I’m sure you are. I smiled mischievously.

*****

The next few hours dragged on. Officer Garcia returned with the paperwork, and I answered a million questions, before they finally let me go. I had a theory that officers made this process as daunting as possible, in hopes that people like me would loathe it so much that we’d miraculously become law-abiding citizens.

As I made my way home, I crossed my arms over my chest and tugged my jacket around my body as tightly as I could manage. Even in Australia, winter was cold and unforgiving. The night air was chilly against my skin and I knew that I had a long walk ahead of me. Usually, I was homeless, but I currently had a place to stay. It was located in a small, dangerous suburban area, toward western Sydney. It was the type of neighbourhood that you didn’t want to be found walking in alone after midnight.

With a deep sigh, I turned the corner and noticed a silver Commodore pull up next to me. The man behind the wheel rolled down his tinted window a fraction, and then stuck his arm out just enough to call me over with a not-so-subtle hand gesture.

Clearly, I was his first hooker.

I exhaled sharply, creating a wave of smoke with my heated breath. I wasn’t in the mood for work, but with a two thousand dollar fine sitting in my pocket, I needed the money.

As I strutted toward his car, I allowed my jacket to fall open and propped up breasts so they sat plump in my red bra. I didn’t even look at him before I leaned down and muttered, Eighty for oral, two hundred for sex.

How about just a ride home?

I recognised the voice instantly. It was the cop from the Police station—Officer Faulkner.

Am I in trouble? I smiled meekly.

I think I’ll let it slide, just this once. Get in.

Assuming that I couldn’t get into much more trouble, I jumped into Officer Faulkner’s unmarked car. The interior had leather seats and the strong scent of his cologne was lingering in the air. For a few moments, we sat quietly. Only the sound of my teeth chattering filled the silence. Without another word, Reed turned on the heater and removed his police jacket, before he handed it over to me.

Thanks, I mumbled as I wrapped his heavy jacket tightly around myself, using it as a makeshift blanket. It wasn’t until I was covered that I noticed the full haven of his scent. It was intoxicating, reminding me vividly of wild herbs and spices, along with a pinch of cinnamon, and vanilla, all mixed with a citrusy burst.

Where to? he asked.

I shook my head to wake myself from the daydream I had been falling into and swiftly gave him my address. Well, I gave him the address of a house a few streets away, because I figured my boyfriend would lose his temper if another man drove me home. He was aware about the work I did, not that he approved. Ironically, however, it was how we met, and therefore I couldn’t exactly hide it from him. The only agreements that we’d made on the matter was that I shared the money, used protection, and never dared to bring a client near his home. And no doubt he would presume Reed was a customer and not an officer of the law.

After driving a few blocks in silence, Reed glanced toward me. Want the radio on?

"Uh, sure." I shrugged.

The soft, soothing hum of country music filled the car. I glanced over at him, my eyebrows tugged together as I inwardly judged his music choice. It wasn’t that I had anything against this genre of music, but he looked to be in his mid-twenties, and I had expected something a little more, well, badass. As I eyed him, I noticed that he appeared kind of stiff. His piercing blue eyes were locked on the road and both hands were placed perfectly in their ten and two position, as he sat upright in his black leather seat.

Suddenly, I felt the need to spark up conversation in a feeble attempt to make him feel more relaxed.

Did the station make you do this? I asked.

He quickly glanced over at me. Do what?

Drive me home.

Oh, no. He shook his head. I'm off duty.

So you decided to do it on your own?

He replied with a firm nod.

Well, aren’t you a gentleman. I smiled.

I couldn’t let you walk home alone, Reed replied sternly. It’s too dangerous.

I didn’t know how to respond to that, so I decided to change the subject. It was a struggle to find something fitting, until I noticed his gold wedding ring.

Your wife doesn’t mind you getting back late?

His face dropped, and I knew instantly that I had said something wrong. She passed away a year ago, he said. It’s just me and Chloe now.

Who’s Chloe?

My daughter.

Oh. I shifted uncomfortably. So . . . how’d your wife die?

His jaw tightened and I had to wait a moment for a reply. She was murdered.

I was prepared for terminal illness or a freak accident, but not murder. I guessed that the normal response would be empathy. Usually people tilted their head, and put on that sad face as they blurted out a forced ‘I’m sorry,’ in that fake tone that always annoyed me. They didn’t understand. The privileged never do. I, on the other hand, was far too familiar with this type of thing to reply in that manner. Instead, I sat back further into my seat and stared outside the window for a fleeting moment.

Did you catch the bastard? I muttered.

Not yet. He met my gaze now and there was a sharp look in his eyes. But I will.

Nothing more was said after that. We continued to drive in an uncomfortable silence, whilst soft country music played in the background, and I twiddled my thumbs.

Reed’s GPS told us when we arrived at the address, and then we pulled up on the curb of a nice house. For a few moments, we sat awkwardly and I wasn’t sure where to go from there. With a forced smile that I hoped appeared thankful, I unfastened my seatbelt. The lock came open with a loud clickkk, and then I handed him his jacket.

By the way. . . . he started, his bright blue eyes locked onto mine. You’re massively under-priced.

My lips curled up at the side. No one had ever said anything like that to me before. Thanks, I murmured, and then I opened the car door.

His blue eyes drifted toward the house we were parked outside of, but the expression on his chiselled face became almost sceptical. The house at the address I had given to him was a two-story home with white bricks, a black iron fence, and a small temple out the front that had a statue of an angel, followed by a giant cross. The house was also accompanied with a luscious green garden that was lined with violets, lilies, and other wild flowers that were full of colour and life. Perhaps I should have chosen something more cardboard-box-like, I thought to myself.

You don’t live here, do you? said Reed.

A few moments passed before I shook my head. I trailed my fingers through my hair and tucked a strand of it behind my ear. No, I admitted.

Well, where do you live then? he pressed. I can’t just leave you here.

A bubble lodged in my throat as I searched his blue eyes. Suddenly, it didn’t seem like a good idea to show the cop where I lived. The fact that he knew the area I lived in was bad enough, and part of me feared that this was some kind of devious ploy cooked up by the police department. On the police report, I had told them that I was staying at various homeless shelters, and worried that perhaps they were trying to keep tabs on me. Also I knew that my boyfriend would hate to have cops snooping around his home.

What?! I snapped. So that you pigs can keep track of me? I don’t think so!

I sprung from Reed’s car in one fast movement, slamming the car door shut before I sprinted toward the end of the street.

Helena! I heard him call out.

His footsteps echoed mine as I ran, but I didn’t dare to look back. I figured that I could lose him, because I had a decent head start and the street was pretty dim. Most of the streetlights were broken; meaning that there was minimal lighting, and the moon was covered by a thick onset of heavy, grey clouds. My heart raced as I ran. Adrenaline pulsed throughout me, and the wind gushed around me with a whistle as my hair flicked back like a whip. Once I came to the end of the street, I turned down a back alley. Graffiti lined the broken fences, as neighbouring dogs howled, and glass crunched underneath my leather boots, but I didn’t dare to slow down. It wasn’t until I noticed a shadow in the distant end of the alleyway that I came to a screeching halt.

I started to back up as the image became clearer—it was him. Officer Faulkner. As if by magic, he had managed to circle around and trap me here.

My eyes went wide as I started to turn. Go away!

I prepared myself to run again. This wasn’t the kind of area you wanted to be seen in talking with a cop.

I’m not your enemy, he replied, approaching me with caution. He held up one hand, as though he was trying to calm a rabid animal.

Yeah, well, you ain’t my friend, either!

Just stop for a moment, he said, closing in on me slowly. My back was almost to the broken, wooden fence. I could practically feel the splinters brushing against my skin as a vicious dog started to growl behind me. Ever so swiftly, I started to side step back toward the direction I had come from. But this action didn’t deter him whatso-ever; instead he continued making his way toward me in long, cautious strides. I’m just trying to help.

I don’t need your help, I bit back, and then heard my own words. Or anyone’s help for that matter!

Maybe that’s true, he retorted. Maybe you have it all figured out.

He was getting closer now, too close, and I started to contemplate the repercussions of attacking him. My eyes moved toward a plank of wood that was lying near my feet. It looked as though it had been snapped from the wooden fence that lined the alleyway. For a moment, I wondered just how much time I would have if I hurled it at his head.

Or maybe you’ll want to hear my offer, he said.

There was something in his tone that made me stop cold in my tracks. I watched curiously as he fumbled through his back pockets. My expression fell as he pulled out his black, leather wallet and then he tried to hand me a bundle of money. I didn’t know what to make of it, so I simply stared at him, astonished. There had to be at least four hundred dollars underneath his fingertips. There were even a few hundred-dollar notes—something I hadn’t seen in a very, very long time.

What’s your offer? I was still focused on the money.

My offer is pretty simple, he said. I give you this money to go toward your fine. I won’t pressure you into letting me drive you home, but you need to quit selling yourself.

I snorted and turned around. Forget it.

He walked up beside me. What if I got you a job as a waitress? You could work part time. You could even go back to school. I know of a few—

Are you out of your fucking mind?! I turned to face him again, and I could practically feel the heat radiating from my body. You’re a police officer, not a bloody miracle worker!

Reed looked away as he murmured. Sometimes all a person needs is a break—someone to guide them. I like to think that if my daughter were ever in danger, that some kind soul would do the same thing for her.

My eyes lowered toward the money he was still holding, and then returned to his. "You don’t know a damn thing about me," I stated flatly.

Then tell me something.

What do you want to know?

Anything, he said. Tell me about your life.

My gaze fell again, only this time it was because I didn’t know what to say. My past wasn’t something I chose to think about very often. I ran away from my old life. It wasn’t much but it was all I could manage to muster.

Reed forced the money into my hand. Then make a new one.

I stood there, stunned, and unsure of what to say or how to respond. Part of me wanted to fight him, to throw the money back in his face. A weaker part wanted to take the money and bolt, but all I ended up doing was staring at him with a lost expression. He stood within arm’s length, with his masculine face dimly lit from a light in a nearby backyard. It made the outline of his muscular body glow, as if an angel had sent him.

Call me when you get the chance, he said, holding my gaze. My number is written on the card.

I looked down at his business card he’d strategically placed in my hand. I traced the white, cardboard edges as I read his title: Officer Reed Faulkner.

Slowly, my eyes moved back up toward him, and I noticed the silver cross that hung around his neck. Living on the streets had taught me many things—don’t trust anyone, or DTA, being first and foremost. People didn’t tend to help anyone without a reason. People always wanted something in return, but I took the cross around his neck as a sign of good faith. Maybe God had finally answered my prayers, because I had been looking for a way out for a long time. I just didn’t know how. And with a defeated sigh, I scrunched up the money and placed it in my pocket.

I’ll think about the job, I mumbled.

I’m glad to hear that, he said, a small smile lighting his face. So, just out of curiosity, why don’t you want me to drive you home?

My boyfriend isn’t a very social person.

"Ah, I see. Reed nodded. Well, you best start heading home before it gets later."

Right, I pursed my lips. See you around, Officer Faulkner.

As I turned away, walking into the cold mist of the night, I wondered whether my life really could change. It had always been the same. And I wanted something different, but it seemed impossible. I had never had a steady job, never really went to school, hell, I would even settle for having a place to call home. That’s all I ever wanted, really—a home.

I had reached the end of the alleyway when I heard Reed’s deep voice from behind me, And don’t let me down, Helena Callahan.

Chapter 2

I struggled with the keys, the lock, and my shaking, frostbitten hands. Okay, maybe they weren't ‘frostbitten’, per se, but I could no longer feel my fingertips thanks to this lovely winter’s night. Eventually, the door opened, but it wasn’t because of me. No, this was courtesy of my boyfriend, Troy.

Troy had dark, mocha-coloured skin and a burly body. He was about six feet tall and practically covered head-to-toe in tattoos. Normally he had big, beautiful brown eyes, but right now they were red-rimmed and bloodshot. It was his dilated pupils that gave me the answer that I was searching for—he was high, again.

‘Bout time, woman! he exclaimed, his words slurred. Normally you’re back by three. Had a big night?

I slithered inside and closed the door behind me. "If a big night means getting arrested, then yeah, my night was huge! I rolled my eyes as I stood in his hallway—if you could even call it that. The house was a mess, as per usual. And jeez, Troy, would it kill you to clean up this dump?"

I didn’t know where to tread as I made my way into the main room. His apartment was small. It consisted of a joined lounge room, bedroom, dining room, and what might as well be considered his dumpster, too. This room was not only messy and dirty, but it was so unclean that it smelled like manure. Old pizza boxes lay on stacks of filthy clothes, which were covered in mud from being constantly walked on. Dirty underwear and more clothes were all piled up into a corner that was pretty much—what he considered to be—his closet, and old bottles of fizzy drink and beer were spilt everywhere.

Oh, hell no! Troy stormed over toward me, crushing any junk in his path. "Again? You were stupid enough to get busted again? What? Are you just screwing guys in parks now or sum’in?"

Those words completely obliterated any of the ‘you’re worth something’ confidence Reed had just given to me. Just like that, my shoulders slumped and I felt two inches tall. No, I said, not meeting his gaze. They didn’t catch me in the act. But they knew what I was doing, so—

You got another fine, he said, finishing my sentence for me. "Damn, Helena. Can you do anything right? How much this time? Jeez, bitch, you cost more to keep than you’re worth!"

It was hard to believe that there was once a time when I cared for Troy. I don’t know what I was thinking, but now I almost hated him. Almost. Beside the fact that he was twenty-nine, and I was still technically a minor, he just wasn’t the man I had feelings for anymore. Not even close. Troy was unemployed, living off the government, and dealing drugs when he wasn’t busy reaping profit by doing them himself. I could tell that he was high right now, but on what, I couldn’t say exactly. In fact, it was probably easier to name what he didn’t take, because that would result in a shorter list. The main giveaway to his drug habit wasn’t just his dilated pupils. It was the way his personality changed. When Troy was clean and sober, he was never this mean to me.

Troy’s expression tightened. You smell like a guy, he sneered, his red-rimmed eyes lined with disgust.

The comment threw me off, because business had been slow tonight. But then it triggered.

Reed, I realised. I probably smelled like him because of his jacket. I mean, he did have very distinct cologne.

Before I could respond, Troy snorted. "Can’t you at least shower afterwards?"

He hated me touching other guys, almost as much as I did. However, it paid the bills when he couldn’t. Also, Troy was the only guy who knew me; like, really knew me. He was aware about my past—well, most of it—and he knew the bad things that I had done. In fact, since we had been together, he was usually the one who conducted it.

I'm sorry, I whispered. You know I don’t do it for fun. I boldly stepped closer and swept my fingers against his arm, feeling the strong urge to try and console him.

Don’t, was all he said.

Troy, I didn’t get any customers tonight.

I moved forward to touch him again. My fingers barely skimmed his solid build before he shoved me backward, causing me to stumble. A lump formed in my throat and I swallowed hard, swiftly averting my eyes.

Yeah, you did! he yelled. I can smell the guy all over you!

That seemed a little far-fetched considering I had only worn Reed’s jacket for a short period of time, so I forced my gaze back onto his and stood my ground.

No, you idiot, I snapped, I didn’t have any customers tonight. I was at the freakin’ police station!

Troy lashed out in one quick movement. He grabbed my arm firmly and tugged me toward him. I gasped and re-coiled as I tried to pry myself away from his iron grasp.

"Don’t you ever call me an idiot. You hear me, whore?" His hot, stinky breath was like a knife to my throat, and I did my best not to flinch.

That’s when I saw the change in his brown eyes. He wasn’t himself right now. No doubt the drugs were messing with his brain and making him believe all kinds of outrageous things. I refused to fear him, even if he was more than double my size. Troy had never hit me before. Sure, he was violent, but that normally resulted in a shove at the most. My jaw clenched as he tightened his grip around my arm, so hard that it was cutting off my circulation.

You're just like your mother, Helena! he yelled, his spit hitting me on the cheek. Your whore of a mother!

*****

Suddenly, I was no longer in Troy’s lounge room or being compared to my good-for-nothing mother. I was back in my old house and just a small child of twelve years old. Mum and dad were fighting again, their screams echoing off the cream, scratched up walls of our kitchen. I sat in the corner, trembling like a frightened animal, with my shaken hands cupped over my ears in a petty attempt to sound them out. Somehow, no matter how hard I covered my ears, I could still hear them.

Then he hit her.

My mother fell, crashing to the ground in tears, sweat, and blood. . . .

I stared wide-eyed, wanting to stop my father, but I was too scared, and too afraid to call for help. Helena, my mother pleaded as her shaken hand touched her bleeding lip. Call the police!

I didn’t even move. It was over now. He had hit her and he would stop, just like all the other times.

Only this time he didn’t.

I gasped as my father leaned over her, raising his fist in the air, and looking so furious I expected to see steam shooting from his ears. Then he hit her again. The smacking sound rang in my head. Okay, two times, he’ll stop now. That’s when his bloody fist went back for more, like he was caught in some kind of time loop. He continued to hit her, over and over.

And in our bed, you cheating little—

Stop! I screamed without thinking, interrupting my father’s blood craze. Meanwhile my mother’s limp body lay only meters from me on the blood-filled floor.

I could have saved her.

*****

I noticed that this memory took place in the blink of an eye, even if it felt as though I was trapped in it forever. Troy still had a firm grip on my arm; his filthy nails dug into my skin. I might be like my mother, I thought, but he was behaving like my father, and that was much, much worse. My breathing was shallow and I didn’t even blink as I spat in his face. Admittedly, I don’t think I was really spitting at Troy; I was spitting at my father. For a moment, I couldn’t tell the difference between the two.

Troy’s jaw tightened as he wiped my spit from his face. Then, in one quick movement, he balled his fist and it flew toward my cheek. All I noticed was his fist coming toward my face, and then the off-coloured white-yellow roof.

He had hit me, I gasped. Troy had hit me.

I landed on a cluster of dirty clothes and refused to allow any tears to fall as my eyes watered from shock. For once, I was actually grateful that the house was messy because the clothes provided the cushioning I needed to soften the blow. It was hard to sift through the mess in my mind, but as I lay on the floor I noticed Troy’s posture was still tight. He almost looked like he might hit me again.

Then, realization flooded over his face.

Oh, God! Troy rushed over to my side, his eyes teary as he forcefully cradled me in his broad, tattoo-covered arms. I’m so sorry, baby. I’m so sorry! I don’t know what came over me. I just lost my temper.

I still refused to cry. Instead, I just touched my cheek in the spot where he had struck me. It still stung from his hit, but it didn’t seem to be bleeding. As he held me, I just stayed there, lifeless. I wasn’t even shaking. I just lay in his arms, perfectly still, while my mind tried to wrap itself around the fact that I had just been punched in the face by someone that claimed to love me.

After a few minutes had passed, I took control over my body again. I pushed him away from me, as forcefully as I could manage with my now trembling hands. He barely budged, so I squirmed away and got back to my feet.

"Don’t lay a hand on me ever again, I warned him through slitted eyes, and then made my way toward the bathroom. And get off the drugs!"

I slammed the door behind me.

*****

The next day I woke up on the bathroom floor. I was curled up in a ball next to the toilet, which had chunks of vomit strewn over the white, chipped bowl. I groaned as I stumbled to my knees, using my hand to wipe my mouth and flush the toilet. Sitting next to me was half a bottle of liquor, followed by a now-empty packet of cigarettes. My head thudded uncontrollably, as though there was a live band playing very bad music inside my skull. I couldn’t remember much of last night, which I guessed was thanks to the half-empty bottle of spirits. But from the broken fragments that I could remember, I was certain that I had spent some of Reed’s charity money on items I didn’t necessarily need.

Regardless of my hangover, I started my morning like any other. I had a large bowl of dry cereal for breakfast because we were out of milk, and then followed a short, ice-cold shower. We were late on our bill payments so most things were disconnected.

After my shower, I did my make up in the bathroom mirror. I grimaced the second I caught sight of my reflection. My cheek didn’t bruise in the way I had expected. The skin around my eye was red and puffy, and a purple ring lined the space underneath.