My phone battery is at fifteen percent when I order a lift home for two. There's an unpleasant tingling that lingers like bile in the pit of my stomach as I confirm two stops–the last being mine–but I ignore it. Think of anything. Anything else. The salt and froth in my half-empty glass gleams in the flickering candlelight, and the band is playing my favourite song. Smoke curls off the cigarettes in between my friends' fingers, acrid and bitter.
It's a little over a quarter past zero hours on Sunday. In between bites of rich chocolate cake and sips of lemon liqueur, I take off my earrings, fashioned from metal into the shape of a lotus in full bloom. The rhinestone centre glitters in the dim light as I open my bag to stow them, but upon realising how sharp the petals and studs are, I put them in my breast pocket instead.
A driver takes our order. I take some time to rummage around my bag and assess my inventory. It's not much: there's just my phone, some red lipstick. My wallet. Sheets of tissue. A pair of long black stockings which I took off earlier in the heat. It's not much, but in case something happens, if I act quickly enough, the earrings could be used to stab or prick, and...
I hate the fact that I'm thinking like this.
When the car arrives twenty minutes later–what took so long? It was only supposed to be five minutes away on the maps–the two of us are already waiting outside, and neither of us dare sit in front. I take a good look at the driver's face, the shadows on it constantly shifting in the dim glow of streetlights. Everything looks different in the dark–more foreign, and undoubtedly more menacing–but when I see that it matches the face on the application, a tiny wave of comfort comes over me. Still I dare not let my guard down. In two hours or more, it could be the face of a man wanted for kidnapping, assault, or worse. It might not be, but it could. It always could, and it frightens me that I don't know the chances. My phone battery is at eight percent. It's one in the morning.
The driver makes an unfamiliar turn, and my heart lurches to my throat. "Sir, you were supposed to turn right," I said. Could he hear the panic in my voice? He assures me he's just following directions from his maps. I say nothing. In a city like this, there are a million ways to get from one place to another, and it's impossible to know them all.
I make small talk with my friend. I hope she doesn't realise how I'm eyeing the roads anxiously. I wonder if she's as frightened as I am, and I figure that there's a good chance she might be, or at least a little anxious. I think almost all girls would be. And just as we fear for ourselves, we fear for our friends, which reminds me: I ask my friend to send our live location to our group of friends. In the group chat, her text bubble is quickly followed by mine: a screenshot of our ride order, complete with the driver's name and license plate number.
I think of my mother, who begs me not to order lifts online in the later hours of the day. I think of what she might say to me, if she knew what I was doing right now. Perhaps she would be furious with me, and remind me of how often young women go missing.
I hate the fact that I'm thinking like this.
The roads are half-empty. The occasional motorcycle or car whizzes past us in a streak of blurry lights and revving engines.
The image of a painting I saw yesterday flashes through my mind like sudden lightning. It's a digital piece with somber colours and an even darker message: in the background is a girl lying in a pool of crimson on top of a table, head shaved clean. The centre focus was the figure of a man, or rather, the object lying in his hands: two almost-symmetrical fist-sized objects; dark red and glistening under a harsh fluorescent light. My head spins, and I feel sick to my stomach. The earrings in my pocket feel heavy and ice-cold.
We drop my friend off. "See you next week," she tells me with a cheeky grin, and I give her my best smile in return. When we drive off, I say a silent prayer for my own safety, and it feels like fire on my lips. My phone battery is at two percent, and it's half past one.
Not long after, my battery dies, and with it dies any hope of dialling any important emergency numbers. I look at the driver's eyes from the rearview mirror and when I see they are glued on the road, I look at the door to my left. There's a toggle on the lock that I could easily flip to unlock it, given that the child locks are not functioning. If I have to, I might be able to pop the door open and run for my life.
I hate the fact that I'm thinking like this. I shouldn't be thinking like this.
What time is it? I clear my throat to make pleasant small talk with the driver. I put on the most grown-up voice I can and wonder if he can see through it. He is polite, and responds to my questions with similar pleasance–I learn he lives in the next town, and of his four-year-old daughter. I almost let my guard down–at least until I remember that there is no better bait than the scintillating allure of kindness.
We reach a familiar intersection. I take over the navigation, and let out a breath of reassurance when he follows every one of my directions without fail. When the car comes to a halt in front of my place, relief crashes through me like a great ocean wave. I hand the driver the money and tell him to keep the change. I am met with a smile and a"Thank you, young lady," before he unlocks the doors so that I may exit. Before he drives off, I wish him safety on his journey.
Inside the sanctuary of my own home, I rinse the smell of cigarettes from my hair, rub my skin raw of the awful scent; and before I sleep, I say a quiet prayer for the safety of all the girls out there taking rides home alone tonight.
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