Chapter 50: Nothing Left to Fear
The lights outside were sparse enough to look fragile, little scraps of yellow struggling against a night too large to notice them. Once the window was shut, the room turned bitterly cold. Darkness filled it from wall to wall and pressed around Margaret's thin body with the dead weight of a lock around a prisoner's ankles.
When the strip of light beneath her door finally vanished, she knew her mother had gone back to her room. The two of them had barely spoken in ages, and when they did, a few words were all it took before the conversation turned sharp. There was nothing left between them that resembled an ordinary mother and daughter.
Margaret knew that if she softened her voice, gave a little ground, and stopped meeting every question with quiet resistance, she could probably get through one conversation that at least sounded civil. The woman had a bad temper and a mouth that ran too hot, but she was not incapable of calm. Even earlier tonight, when she had first come in, it had looked as though she wanted to talk properly for once.
Margaret had no intention of making that easier for her.
Disgust had rooted itself too deeply a long time ago. A few scraps of concern, offered now that neglect had already done its work, were only there to ease a guilty conscience. The whole thing felt so false that it bordered on ridiculous, and she refused to let the woman soothe herself at Margaret's expense.
She curled deeper into the corner of the bed and drew up her long legs beneath the blanket, which only covered her to the ankles. Her eyes had gone dull. She tilted her face toward the window and stared into the moonless dark outside, where the black seemed to spread forever without a single edge in sight.
Her hands throbbed.
They were always in cold water through the worst of winter, always washing, scrubbing, working, until the skin turned raw. Several small cracks had split across her fingers and knuckles, ugly little tears in pale skin that had already begun to scab over. Calluses had formed there too. The prettiness people liked to notice in her had been ruined first in her hands, as if hardship had decided to begin in the one place she could never fully hide.
When winter ended, the skin would grow back. It would turn pale and soft again, smooth enough to look untouched, but she did not know whether she would still be here to see the next warm spring.
At school, she was the girl everyone watched. Boys looked at her too long. Teachers praised her in front of the class. Parents liked to bring her up as proof that someone else's child was disciplined, bright, and worth admiring. She had heard so much approval, so many compliments, that sometimes even she almost believed that polished version of herself was real.
She knew better.
Her real life had been rotting for years. She came from a ruined home held together by false family ties, petty greed, humiliation, and need. Margaret knew exactly what she looked like underneath the mask. She felt like a doll dragged out of a garbage pile, the fabric outside still mostly whole while the stuffing inside had already darkened and started to spoil.
These were the coldest days of the year. The blanket on her bed was too thin to keep out the draft that seeped in from everywhere, and she could feel her body losing warmth little by little. Hunger took advantage of that weakness and gnawed harder. She was tired in every way that mattered, exhausted in the body and worn thin in the mind, and staying alive had started to feel less like a choice than a burden she was no longer sure she could carry.
After rent was paid, her mother's salary never left much behind, and whatever remained rarely made it into the apartment in any useful form. Margaret had stopped expecting food, comfort, or help from her a long time ago. If she wanted to keep living, that was her own responsibility.
Even if she died, she would rather do that than bow her head and beg.
Her thoughts shifted without warning to the cat.
Would it live?
She had given up food that could have kept her own stomach quiet for a little longer, but one meal was not enough to drag something half-dead back from the brink. The cat would probably still disappear into some cold corner, some dirty alley, some forgotten place no one looked at twice. She would end the same way, fading somewhere unnoticed until the world closed over her as if she had never been there.
She had thought she could make it with him.
She had thought that if she and Julian stayed close enough, if they held on to each other tightly enough, they might get through this together.
Now it seemed she was the one falling behind.
She would collapse before the end, and he would keep walking without her. He might even go farther than she had ever allowed herself to imagine. Maybe his future would still open into something bright. Maybe there would be other girls around him then, girls prettier than her, girls with warmer homes and easier lives, girls who had more to offer than a body gone numb from cold and a heart gone wrong from wanting too much.
The thought left a sour ache in her chest.
She had endured winters before. She had gritted her teeth and survived them one after another, so this one should not have been any different. Yet tonight felt colder than all the others, as though something in her had finally reached its limit without telling her. It might have been the weather. It might have been exhaustion. Or maybe she was simply ill in a way that had nothing to do with fever. Maybe some part of her had grown too tired to keep wanting life with the same stubbornness as before.
Her phone buzzed beside her.
Margaret picked it up and looked at the screen. The faint light touched her face, and something small but real stirred in her eyes for the first time that night.
Julian: You awake?
Her fingers were so cold they almost felt stiff, but she still typed back.
Margaret: Yeah. Why?
Julian: Are you sleepy?
Julian: Want to talk for a bit?
She did not reply right away. She only stared at the screen while the weak glow lit her face and the room around her stayed silent. Then, slowly, a thought rose in her mind. It came out of nowhere and all at once, bright enough to feel like the last flare of something about to burn itself out.
Margaret sat up.
Using the last strength left in her body, she got out of bed, pulled on her shoes, and shrugged into her coat.
Margaret: Wait for me.
His reply came back almost immediately.
Julian: Wait, what?
Julian: Is something wrong?
Margaret: Yeah.
Margaret: Give me a little time. I'll text you when I'm there.
She shoved the phone into her pocket, crossed the dark living room without making a sound, and slipped out of the apartment. Outside, the cold was fierce enough to feel violent. At the bus stop, she got lucky and caught the last bus of the night.
She might as well go mad once before the end.
She had wanted him for too long to hand him over now.
If she could let go of her life, then what else was there left to fear?
When she got off the bus, the streets were nearly empty. She cut through the dark, went into the narrow stairwell of Julian's building, and climbed until she reached his floor. The hallway was cramped and bitterly cold. She stopped in front of his door and sent one more message.
Margaret: Open the door. I'm here.
Julian: What?
Julian: You came to my place?
She did not look at whatever else he sent after that. She stood outside his door and waited, the damp winter air clinging to her hair and coat. Her face was pretty even then, but nothing in it was soft. Her eyes were clouded over with something dense and unresolved, and the set of her mouth looked so stubborn it bordered on dangerous. She ran her tongue once along the back of her teeth. Hunger had stripped her down to instinct. She felt like an animal cornered too long, something starved enough to bite.
The door opened.
Julian stood there in a thin knit shirt, without a jacket, the pale line of his neck and collarbones showing in the dim light from the apartment.
He stared at her, startled. "Why are you here this late? Come inside. It's freezing out there."
Margaret walked past him without answering.
He shut the door quickly behind her and followed, his concern growing with every second she stayed silent.
"What happened?"
"Did something go wrong at home?"
"Margaret, talk to me."
She said nothing. Desire had already taken hold too completely to leave room for speech. She grabbed his hand, pulled him toward his room, and ignored the unease in his voice when he asked again, "Margaret, what's wrong with you? Why won't you say anything?"
The moment they were inside, she turned, covered his mouth with one hand, and shoved him backward onto the bed.
Julian fell against the mattress with a look of pure surprise. Margaret stood over him and said nothing at all. She liked the silence. She liked that there were no other voices in it. Her palm was cold as it moved from his mouth to his cheek and then down the side of his neck. He was clearly frightened, but he did not throw her off. Whether it was shock or the fact that it was her, he let her touch him.
She leaned down and kissed him.
Her lips pressed hard against his, desperate enough to hurt. The taste of him flooded her all at once, sweet enough to make her feel briefly drunk, and the rush of it went through her like something cruelly perfect. She wanted more. She wanted all of it. She wanted to strip it down to the last drop and swallow every bit of warmth he had to give.
Margaret shrugged off her coat without pulling away. Her hands slipped under the thin fabric of his shirt and moved over him without restraint, searching and restless, gliding over the warmth of his skin as if touching him alone might keep her alive. Their bodies pressed together through light layers of clothing, the softness of her chest crushed to him, and the more real it became, the less control she had left. She had come here with the kind of resolve that only showed up when a person had already stopped caring what came after.
Tonight, she was going to take what she wanted.
"Margaret, you…"
His voice came out rough with surprise, but he was calmer than she had expected. He looked up at her, at the madness written too clearly across her face, and the confusion in his eyes slowly changed shape. The panic did not vanish, but something gentler moved in beside it.
At first, Julian had only known that he needed to stop her. He was too startled to understand why she had shown up like this, gone straight past words, and climbed onto his bed like someone who had decided there was no point in hesitation anymore. Even then, he did not want to hurt her. He did not want to shove her away or make rejection harsher than it had to be. While her hands kept roaming over him and her breath kept hitting his face in warm, uneven bursts, he scrambled for the mildest possible way to slow her down.
Then he moved.
Instead of pushing her off, he wrapped both arms around her.
The sudden embrace pinned her close enough to interrupt the movement of her hands. His cheek brushed hers, and when he spoke, his voice was low and soft in a way that made something inside her falter.
"What happened to you?"
He tightened his hold slightly.
"Tell me, okay? If something's wrong, I'll help you figure it out."
The warmth of his body got in her way. So did the steadiness in his voice. Margaret stopped moving.
The room stayed quiet except for their breathing. The crazed force that had driven her here, onto the bus and up his stairs and into his arms, wavered for the first time. Bit by bit, the fog in her mind thinned just enough for pain to return. His voice at her ear, patient and gentle and close, gave shape to a little reason where there had only been need.
All at once, her strength gave out.
She collapsed against him, no longer trying to kiss him, no longer trying to take anything from him. Her body sagged over his chest as if the bones inside her had turned soft. When she finally spoke, her voice was so weak that it frightened him more than any of her earlier recklessness had.
"Julian," she whispered. "I'm so cold."
He went still.
He had never seen her like this. She did not just look upset. She looked used up, as though she had been dragging herself forward on will alone for so long that there was finally none left. There was something about her now that reminded him of a person standing too close to the edge, not because they meant to jump but because they no longer had the strength to step back.
Julian did not ask any more questions.
Not then.
Instead, he reached for the comforter and pulled it up around her shoulders as carefully as he could. "I bought a new one a couple days ago," he said quietly. "It's really warm. Stay here tonight. We can sleep under it together."
There was nothing reckless hidden in the offer. He was only trying to keep her from shaking apart in his arms.
Margaret lay against him without moving.
The madness that had dragged her out of her bed, across the city, and into this room had burned through itself. What remained was weakness, plain and humiliating and impossible to dress up as anything else. Her body felt hollow. Her heart felt worse.
She had not come here to cry.
Even so, tears gathered at the corners of her eyes and spilled before she could stop them. Two warm drops slid down her face, crossed the curve of her cheek, and landed on Julian's chest.
He felt them through the thin fabric of his shirt and said nothing. He only held her more carefully, keeping her inside the warmth he had offered while the winter night pressed its cold silence against the window.