On my twenty-ninth birthday, I was arrested.

Three years ago:

I wandered aimlessly through the Mahon Point mall in Dublin. Single again. Passing the first-floor bookstore on the left and the food court on the right, which was serving soggy pizza and saucy mall Chinese. An Orange Julius in the corner. I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the glass. Ruffled long hair, roots showing. Short skirt. Collared blouse. Too-high heels. A handbag slung carelessly over my shoulder.

I had left his place with a duffel bag of clothes, fifty dollars in my wallet and a burgeoning bruise on my left upper arm. I had stuffed everything into my old black Volkswagen except the bruise. I carried that like a badge. It bloomed purple, then yellow. Slowly fading over time.

Mammy screaming at him, her spittle landing wet on my head. Smashed glass and red wine running down the wall. A cuff around the ear when they remembered I was there.
The lullaby of my childhood.

I checked my phone. No messages. I followed signs for the washrooms and kept going. At the end of the hallway was a nondescript door. Through that, another door. Then a corridor. Then a small room to the left. I entered without hesitation, looked at the dusty floor and concrete walls. Took a breath. I could hear gurgling from the pipes running overhead. And then I shut the door on the world. Pillows. Throws. A cracked mirror. I made it mine. Home in miniature.

I learned the rhythm of the place. The security guard with the limp who checked the loading dock at exactly 11:07 p.m. The young girl who cried in the staff bathroom every Wednesday after closing. The cleaners who started on the third floor and worked their way down, and the one who tried on dresses after closing and danced to the hum of the buffers. The smell of bleach and yesterday’s perfume, a heady mixture.

Two years ago:

It was the fourth Friday in November, Black Friday. A long, slow-moving line snaked out of the Apple store. A woman in the queue was carrying multiple bags, scanning the crowds and at the same time looking at her phone fused to her right palm. She was wearing a red sweater. My mother had one just like it.

I stepped closer, slipped between her and the tall man behind her. Inhaled. The same scent. Quietly, I fingered the woolen material. Remembering. Jostled from behind, I put out a hand to steady myself. Her shoulder, warm under my fingertips. Reluctantly, I moved on. Pulled back into the tide of bodies.

I found myself carried in a slow yet chaotic drift to the other side of the mall. The woman in the red sweater, lost in the crowd. I could still feel her warmth under my fingers. I imagined it sliding in, under her ribcage. Would her eyes have opened in shock, and her sound be swallowed by the noise? Would she have been at peace?

Would I?

Six months ago:

By late evening, the mall exhales. The ventilation system hums. Buffers glide across the floors. Metal security shutters clank down in rhythm with the jangling of keys. The lingering sweetness of pretzels in the air. Lights dim, casting long, distorted shadows. Cameras blink like watchful eyes. Never alone. Though I knew how to be.

I was on my walk when I stopped at the sports store on the third floor to the right of the escalator. Behind the metal grilles, a couple argued. Their intimacy, misleading. His face close to hers, his breath moving the baby hairs at her temple. A hand curled around her wrist. She almost collided with me on her way out. A mumbled apology, and she was gone. He saw the glint of the box cutter as it caught the fluorescent lights overhead. I felt resistance, then none. I left it inside him as I slipped out under the grille. I was hungry. The Orange Julius was still open.

The Arrest:

I was getting dressed to leave for the office when I heard them. Footsteps in the corridor. Radios crackling. I fixed my hair. Added one coat of lipstick. Checked my reflection in the cracked mirror one last time. Then I waited. It was always going to end this way.

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Sarah is a writer from Cork, Ireland, now living in Vancouver. Her work has appeared in The Closed Eye Open, 50-Word Stories, Bending Genres, Ivo Review, The Piker Press, Wingless Dreamer, and Prosetrics with forthcoming work in Wordrunner, Halfway down the Stairs, Fish Girl Collective and Excision.