The Grit of Survival
“Did you drift off again?” Jasmine asked gently, bringing me back to the present.
“Yeah.” I rubbed my temples, hoping to ease the ache. “Sometimes I feel like part of me is still there in that courtroom.”
Jasmine turned off the highway onto a residential street. North Charleston had changed over the years. New buildings popped up like mushrooms after a rain, while old neighborhoods had been scraped clean and rebuilt. We drove through the city center, the familiar landmarks ghosting past.
“Welcome to my humble abode,” Jasmine said as she opened the door to her apartment. “It’s safe here. Nobody knows you’re coming.”
The apartment was small but cozy. Theater props and makeup kits were scattered everywhere—evidence of Jasmine’s profession as a costume designer for a local theater company. I breathed in the scent of paint and fabric, feeling a flicker of normality in a world I no longer recognized.
“I set up a room for you,” Jasmine pointed to a door on the right. “Rest, take a shower, then we’ll figure out what’s next.”
I stepped into the room, my heart racing. The bed was neatly made, a couple of fresh towels laid out on the dresser. I sank onto the mattress, the weight of my past pressing heavily on me. I was finally free, yet a part of me couldn't shake the feeling of a noose tightening around my neck, a fear that I was still being hunted.
