I slump into the backseat of the cab, staring blankly out the window, not even sure where I should go. My shirt is torn, a few buttons missing, stained faintly with blood. First things first—I need new clothes.
The cab drops me at a clothing store, and as I step inside, I can feel the staff's eyes on me. Maybe it's my messy hair, my tired eyes, or the state of my clothes. Their stares prick at me, but I ignore them, grabbing a few shirts and trousers before heading into the fitting room.
I change quickly, shoving the ruined clothes aside, and buy a few more pieces. I don't have the courage to return to the apartment and face Jimmy—not after everything. I can't even think about gathering my things.
With bags in hand, I book a room in a hotel. The bed looks soft, inviting, but my mind and body are far from peaceful. I drag myself into the bathroom, letting warm water run over me, trying to wash away the ache and the memory. My swollen hand throbs as I carefully bandage it again.
