· Cassandra ·

There was blood in my pants. Damn it. Why on earth doesn't my period follow a predictable pattern? My Vans stomp the English concrete below me. All apps are just useless, no one can track the ups and downs of my body.

My eyes search in the bustling, unconcerned crowd for any signs of anyone looking up for me. The soles of my trainers vibrate as the carry-ons glide on the marbled floor while indistinct chattering fills the endless halls of the Heathrow Airport. The white banners litter my view with hundreds of surnames, but none of them are mine. And there's still blood on my damn pants.

I thought English people were punctual. My hands juggle with all the items I am trying to control: my carry-on, my duffel bag, my suitcase, and my coat. I manage to put everything standing and around me, and I put on my coat—because of course my parents had to exile me to Neverland in sheer winter.

Mind you, the airport is a bubbling cauldron. I don't get why the heating system has to be so high, even for winter, it's too hot in here. Still, I put it on because thanks to my good taste it's one of those long, swollen, shiny black coats that reaches just above my knees. So, it covers effectively the blood in my butt.

I stride toward the bathrooms, my feet treading on their way. I'm seriously so uncomfortable, I hope my coat doesn't get stained as well. This thing cost me a fortune, and it's supposed to keep me warm until March, and then all of Argentina's winter. I'll have to go through winter twice thanks to this exchange. Super.

"Hi," a lady greets me as I burst into the bathroom. The stark smell of sanitizer and flowery floor cleaner pushes into my nostrils.

A tight, polite smile spreads on my face as I struggle with my suitcases on my way to one of the stalls. I swear I'm soaking wet everywhere. It's too hot in here with my coat, plus my period—not such a good combination.

My big suitcase stays right outside the stall, as I could only fit the carry-on and myself inside.

I unbutton my jeans and remove them along with my panties. My nose scrunches up as I shove them into the trash can. Farewell, my darlings.

Only wearing my black vans and white ankle socks, I go on my knees to inspect the items in my carry-on.

My hand fumbles around the items: socks, panties. Why did I bring so many? Tampons—two sizes. Thong pads, and regular pads. I'll have to use those. I set them aside. I continue looking for what I need. More Toiletries. Airpods. Ipad. Miscellaneous chargers. A book. I brought a book. Weird. I frown, but then I toss it behind me. Maybe Rosa packed that for me. Two. No. Three t-shirts. No pants. No skirts. No bottoms whatsoever.

"Seriously?" I fume to no one but myself, a mess of articles around me.

I'll just have to search for something in my suitcase. I clean myself up to the best of my possibilities. Then, I get dressed. My blue cotton panties seem the safest option for this moment, along with a regular pad. Unclasping my bra, I exhale deeply—freedom at last. I put on my coat. The door opens and I aim for the zipper of my bag. My eyes lock on the padlock. "Oh my God." My heart jumps to my throat.

"Everything okay, miss?" the cleaning lady asks. She is rubbing a cloth in circles on the giant mirror.

"I- I don't know where I put the keys to the padlock of my suitcase." I clutch the small thing with both of my hands and shake it violently.

She chuckles and I glare at her. "Not helping," I mumble.

"I'm sure you'll find them when you get to your hotel, young lady." Her head never turns to address me.

"Okay." I try to calm myself. I stand up, peering down at my outfit. My bare legs, and then the shiny black coat. No one will know I'm only in my panties. I'll just have to walk confidently, and I have been practicing that all of my life. "Yeah, I'll be okay." I'll just freeze to death, but who cares, right? I nudge my chin up as I stroll away from the bathroom.

The warmth around me suffocates me. I feel like someone is brewing me in a cauldron, the bubbles erupting in the shape of sweat on my forehead, and the small of my back. Yeah, Brewed Stew of Cassandra. I'll choke you to death when you eat me though—I would never be the chef's recommendation of the day.

The suitcases trail behind me until I find a relatively free spot. I put the suitcase against a majestic marbled column, decorated with white golden irregular stripes. I sit on my luggage, using it as a bench, and I cross my legs apprehensively, looking to one side and the other while tucking down the edges of my black, shiny coat. Then, I put on my sunglasses just to avoid interacting with the world.

"Cassandra? Kingston Cassandra?"

I look up when I hear my name, frowning at whom seems to be the chauffeur of the Wilkinson family.

"Yes, that's me." I remain seated. My sunglasses slide to the tip of my nose to check the guy out.

"I'm here for you." He smiles shortly, gesturing his hands at me. He got the English accent right, I'm not gonna lie about that.

"Yeah, two hours and a half late." I wave my phone before him, flashing him the time.

"M- m my apologies," he stutters. "I was busy with-"

"Just carry my bags," I dismiss him, standing up. "Which way should we go?" I look at him straight, the citric scent of his cologne reaching my nose.

He squints his eyes at me for a very long second, then they scan my body, staying trained on my bare legs. I cross them, feeling like he can see through.

"Stop looking at me. Which way should we go?" I demand.

His eyes drag up to meet mine. Since he still isn't replying, I take another step closer to him, anger running thick through my veins. "Are you just dumb or do you have a hearing impairment?"

He blinks, the ghost of an annoyed look washing over his face, his sharp jaw clenching. "N- no."

"I thought so. Come on, jet lag is already killing me." I walk past him, leaving my things for him to carry—sunglasses on.

He eventually catches up, juggling with all my stuff. What kind of chauffeur wears skinny, ripped jeans, and an open flannel shirt? His shoulder blades shuffle below his pale pink sweater, his arm muscles flex as he tucks up the handle of my Versace bag.

The cold air of December clashes against me the minute I step out of the Heathrow airport. I remove my sunglasses and my irises freeze. My chest tightens, my legs go stiff, and my skin erupts in goosebumps. Then an annoying, heavy drizzle hovers around me. The combination of the cold air, plus the rain ignites shivers on my body—I really should have kept my pants even if they were ruined.

[Word Count-2520]