ashtrays and Axe.

With his muscled arm around my shoulder, Colt's heart thumps against my ear, heavy, yet quiet. We're on Brett and Alecia's couch, and he's nodding off from the H he just shot up. Don't ask me how he can do this shit and still function; it's a mystery to me. I suppose monsters don't operate on the same laws as the rest of us.

Maybe it was always supposed to be this way. Me, under his arm, suffocating beneath his stench. Him, holding me, pretending I love him. It's all so familiar; I've done it a hundred thousand times. But it hurts more now than it ever did before.

We're staying at Brett and Alecia's until Colt gets his own place in Godfrey. Blacklight posters hang on the green walls, and his cigarette smoke burns my nostrils. It's right down to the butt, but he's so spaced out he hasn't extinguished it yet. I don't know why he's watching Looney Toons; I don't know why he does a lot of the things he does. He wheezes out a laugh as cartoony bangs and beeps play from the box TV. Colt has always liked to pretend he's younger than he is, but this is getting on my nerves.

Imprints from cups and beer bottles leave dark circles in the lacquer of the coffee table. Next to an open pack of smokes, there's a needle and bag filled with yellowy-white powder. It disgusts me. He disgusts me. But no matter how miserable I am, I'm not touching that shit. If he wants to stone himself to death, he can do it alone. I have to hold onto hope.

Somehow, someday, I will get out of this. I did it before, and I'll do it again. It's just a matter of when.

"Lucy," Colt mutters, a low grumble with a snake-like hiss.

"What?"

"Hey, what's wrong?"

"Nothing." Everything.

"You know I love you, right?"

"I know."

"Aren't you gonna say it back?"

"I love you."

His eyes are still rolling in his head, but he's coming down from his high. "Good. You know I'd never let anyone hurt you."

You hurt me, Colt. You ride me like a bicycle. You silence me like a TV. You cover my mouth with your hands and press mute so I can't make a sound as the bedposts thud against the wall.

When the lights go out, and he decides he wants something from me, all that dignity I built up on the streets is gone. Poof. Smoke in the air. Once again, he's taken everything from me; I never thought I would miss the cold embrace of abandoned buildings and underground parking lots but I do.

Colt squints at the sunlight. "Damn. What time is it?"

"Almost noon," I mutter.

"I gotta go."

"What? Where?"

"Toronto, babe. Didn't I tell you that?"

"No, what for?"

"Cousin's in trouble. Jail again. Needs me to bail him out. You coming with?"

I fidget with my fingers. "Do I have to?"

"You don't have to do anything, Luce."

He's so fucked I almost can't believe it. Sometimes I wonder if he genuinely doesn't realize what he does to people, if he can really be in denial about the fact that I'm a prisoner here and nothing more. But I know Colt inside and out; he wants love more than anything. Even if it's not real.

"I think I'll stay here," I say.

"Have it your way." He goes to the bathroom and leaves the door open while he pisses. I sneak my phone out, and at the text on my screen, my chest twists. Elliot.

He does this systematically: once a week, always on Friday. I don't have it in me to text him back. What am I even supposed to say? It's been forty-five days since I left him, and I've given nothing but radio silence. He probably thinks I don't care. But I do, more than anything.

I've never cried as hard as I did the night I left him. After Elliot and I had sex, he had passed out. Softly. Contentedly. And I rushed out to Brett's car and crumpled up in the passenger's seat and smoked a cigarette even though I hate them. Brett didn't say a word; he wants to protect me, but he doesn't know how. Colt's stronger than him, stronger than all of us. He has a crew, people who'd back him up. He has a name.

Brett, Alecia, and I are toys he dresses up as family. We're his action figures.

And I'm his favourite one.

Shuddering, I look back at my phone. Just give up, Elliot. Answering him would be too risky. When Colt found out I slept with that Dylan guy, he'd hospitalized him, and if anything happens to Elliot because of me, I'll hate myself forever. But is scarring him emotionally just as bad? He was so good to me, and I didn't deserve any of it.

When Colt exits the bathroom, zipping up his fly, I tuck my phone away. "Are you okay to drive?" I ask. Like hell do I care if he kills himself in an accident, but he could hurt innocent people if he gets behind the wheel.

"I'm fine, my buddy's driving me," he says. "What are you planning on doing while I'm gone?"

"Nothing. Just hanging here."

"Yeah? Not going anywhere?"

"No..."

He nods and strokes his rectangular jaw, where a thin beard shows his true age. "Good, good. Lots for you to do here."

Brett and Alecia walk in carrying grocery bags and set them in the kitchen. Colt shrugs on his denim jacket, before he towers over me and forces a kiss on my lips, his hot, sour breath sickening me. Brett leans against the archway to the kitchen and whispers something in Colt's ear as he passes. They make eye-contact once before Colt slaps him on the chest and leaves. The door slams behind him, and silence fills the room to the brim.

Alecia storms up to me and grabs my wrists. "Did he hurt you again? Are you okay?"

I pull away. "He didn't touch me." Not this time.

"I can't take this." She stomps over to Brett. "He's totally lost his mind. We need to get the cops in here, Brett. Now."

Brett crosses his arms. "You know we can't. It's too risky."

"You know he fucking rapes her, right? We need to do something!"

"You think I like this? I'm trying to think of a way out of this without any of us getting hurt."

"I can't sleep next to that shit, Brett! I can't—"

"Alecia," I say, and their matching brown eyes soften on me. "He's right. There's nothing we can do right now. I need to keep playing along."

Alecia sighs. "For how long?"

"I don't know, but we can't Band-Aid this. We need to get rid of him for good."

"But how?"

"I don't know. I'm going for a walk. I need to clear my head." I grab Chay's leather jacket off the coat hook and throw it on. Colt bought me a brand new one, but I refuse to wear it unless it's freezing. With my headphones stuffed in my ears, I leave the apartment alone for the first time in forty-five days.

Outside, the February air is crisp, and sunlight gleams off the packing snow. I cross overstuffed dumpsters, desolate factory buildings, and homeless people begging for change. Colt gives me cash (it feels like a goddamn allowance), so I drop some coins in every hat or open guitar case. Might as well use his dirty money for something good.

I'm crossing over a bridge when my song ends, and something rattles and hisses nearby. I pull out my headphones and peek over the edge, where Hal and Chay are tagging the underside of the bridge. I rush around and skid down the hill that leads to the bottom.

"You guys are ballsy," I say.

They face me, unfazed.

"Please." Hal smirks. "You think the cops give a shit about this side of town?"

"Nope, they would have cleaned it up a long time ago if they did."

"Where've you been?"

"Around."

She shakes her can and hands it to me. "You want in?"

"No, that's okay. I'll ruin it."

They've painted something beautiful. Red, pink, lime green, and purple create waves along the bottom of the bridge, and orange boats float along the current. Drips of wet paint spill in droplets over the mural. The colours clash, yet somehow, they blend perfectly.

"You guys are artists," I say.

"Most people would call us vandals," Hal says, "but we like artists better. The west end is trash. Might as well paint it pretty." Her olive-green eyes squint like they can see right through me. "Where've you really been, Pembroke? You good?"

I chew on my lip. No, I'm not good, but I've always saved face around Hal and Chay, kept my walls up strong and sturdy. They never knew why I was homeless, and they never asked. "I'm okay," I tell her. "Been staying with my friends, haven't been going out much."

We fall quiet. Hal, Chay, and I aren't super close, but it's still nice to see them.

"I should go," I say. "Hey, Chay, by the way—I never said thanks for the jacket."

He nods, but doesn't look at me. "Don't worry about it. We bought McDonald's with the ten you gave us for it."

I smile, and you know, that's probably only the third time I've ever heard him speak.

Back on the sidewalk, I keep moving. Would Elliot and I have grown inseparable like Hal and Chay if I hadn't left him? What if I called him right now and said: Let's leave everything behind. Let's run away together. Let's steal your parents' SUV and drive to some shit town in butt-fuck nowhere where my insane ex will never, ever find me.

I almost laugh. What a dumb fantasy; Elliot would never survive that way. He needs a warm bed and white noise to help him sleep. He needs a hockey team and video games and widescreen TVs. All I need is to feel safe, so it's no wonder I haven't been sleeping lately.

If I saw him again, if I told him why I left, would it make this easier on him? I hate the idea of him sitting there, blaming himself. I'm such a coward.

The merry-go-round in the park is coated in snow, but kids play on it anyway, throwing snowballs at each other and using the horses for cover. I don't like kids, but their laughter fills me with a strange sensation, a concoction of both happiness and sadness. For whatever reason, I'm crying now. Tears freeze to my face. I wipe them away but they keep falling, like my body's forcing me to release them.

Elliot might never understand, but maybe I can try to make him. It's now or never, right? When Colt returns, he'll rob the choice from me.

I just need to work up the courage.