Page 24 of Hellebore

Lucille was my salvation.

We met exactly one week after it happened. I was on a path of slow destruction: drinking until the world went black, smoking anything that would numb the pain, letting strangers use my body because at least then it felt like I was choosing it. I was curled in a filthy alley behind some bar when she found me.

She did not ask questions. She simply knelt down, brushed the damp hair from my face with gentle fingers, and whispered, “Come on, sweetheart. Let’s get you somewhere safe.”

She took me to her place and cared for me for weeks without even knowing my real name. She brought me soup when I could not eat, held my hair back when the vomiting would not stop, and sat with me in silence through the worst of the nightmares.

“I wish someone had been there for me too.” she would say in that soft, caring tone she only uses for the people she loves.

She got me the job at the bakery. She found me this cheap apartment when I told her I could not go back to college. She helped me change my style when I could no longer stand to look at the sweet, innocent girl in the mirror.

I turn the shower off. Water drips from my hair and runs down my skin as I stand there, shivering in the cooling steam.

I wrap a towel tightly around myself and wipe the condensation from the mirror with my palm. My reflection stares back. Pale cheeks, wide eyes, the woman I built from the broken pieces. I try to smile at the thought that nothing happened last night.

But sometimes the memories still creep in. And in moments like this, I still feel like that soft, broken girl who screamed for her father and received nothing in return.

I take a slow, shaky breath and force a small, ironic smile at my reflection in the fogged mirror.

“Get it together, Briar!” I murmur, my voice barely louder than the dripping water. “You are not that girl anymore.”

I pull on a pair of black sweatpants, my favorite soft bra, and the oversized hoodie with the murderous-looking cat printed on the front. The fabric is worn and comforting against my skin. I slip my feet into fuzzy socks before putting on my shoes and leave the apartment.

Rain falls again outside, dark and moody, the sky hanging low and bruised. It presses down on everything, making the world feel heavier than it should.

One of the reasons I fell in love with this building is the little coffee bakery across the street. They make the best salted caramel latte and the most sinful cinnamon pumpkin one. Their donuts are dangerous—fluffy, filled with hazelnut cream, and dusted with powdered sugar that always ends up everywhere.

“Hi Briar, the usual?” Marcus asks from behind the counter, already smiling. He is a sweet nineteen-year-old, the owners’ son, with kind eyes and zero judgment.

I nod, forcing a small smile. “Please.”

I wait at the counter, arms wrapped tightly around myself, while the rich scent of coffee and warm sugar fills the air. Marcus returns with my salted caramel latte and a huge carrot donut stuffed with hazelnut cream.

“Thank you.” I pay, take the warm cup and paper bag, and run back across the street through the rain.

I make it up the stairs, keys already in hand, but I freeze when I reach my door.

A single black flower sits on my doormat.

“What the⁠—”

I spin around, eyes darting up and down the empty stairwell. “Hello?”

Nothing. No footsteps. No breathing. Just the steady patter of rain against the windows and the distant hum of the city far below.

“You better stop this,” I warn the empty hallway, my voice sharper than I feel inside. “Or I will call the cops!”

I kick the flower hard, sending the crushed black petals skittering across the floor, then unlock my door and slam it shut behind me, twisting every lock with trembling fingers.

Why is someone leaving these damn flowers?

I peel off my wet clothes, toss them into the hamper, and pull on an oversized shirt that swallows me whole. I slump onto the couch and drag my fluffy black blanket over my legs, curling into the corner like I could hide there.

That damn flower. It is beautiful in a strange, unhinged way. But who in their right mind leaves a toxic plant on someone’s doorstep? I know touching it will not hurt me—it has to be ingested—but still. These creeps are getting creative.

I take a bite of the donut and cannot help the little purr that escapes. Powdered sugar dusts my lips and fingers. “Best thing ever.” I murmur, licking the sweetness away.

I turn the TV on. A medical drama flickers across the screen, but I quickly switch to a trashy relationship reality show instead. Fake drama. Easy to lose myself in.