Walk Home Alone

"Nothing like a long walk home to catalogue exactly how you misread everything. At least I'm thorough in my humiliation."

The walk from the Entertainment Centre to my small house felt interminable, each step stretching into eternity whilst simultaneously passing in a blur of misery. Distance that normally would have taken perhaps fifteen minutes felt like hours, every metre marked by the steady percussion of my boots on pavement.

The night had fully descended now, transforming Hobart into shadows and streetlights and the occasional splash of colour from late-night businesses still open. The cool air bit at my exposed skin—still flushed from earlier activity, still marked with evidence I couldn't see but could definitely feel—doing nothing to soothe the tumultuous emotions churning through me. If anything, the physical discomfort amplified the emotional pain, made it more real, more immediate, impossible to dismiss as dramatic overreaction.

Cars passed periodically, headlights briefly illuminating my dishevelled state before moving on, drivers probably not even registering my presence beyond a vague human-shaped blob on the footpath. I kept my head down, not wanting to make eye contact with anyone, not wanting to explain why I was walking alone through residential streets at this hour looking like I'd been thoroughly fucked and then discarded.

Because that's exactly what had happened, wasn't it?

The thought brought fresh tears, hot tracks down cheeks already damp and probably blotchy. I didn't bother wiping them away anymore. What was the point? They'd just be replaced immediately by more, an apparently inexhaustible supply of physical manifestations of hurt and confusion and devastation.

I passed familiar landmarks rendered strange by darkness and emotional turmoil. The corner dairy that I bought milk from most mornings. The park where I sometimes ran on weekends when I could muster the motivation for exercise. The bus stop where I'd waited countless times, usually reading case files on my phone whilst ignoring the other commuters.

All of it looked different tonight, transformed by circumstance into something alien and unwelcoming. Or perhaps I was the one who'd changed, who'd been transformed by what had happened in that car park, who was seeing the world differently now that I understood how completely I'd misread everything.

My body ached in ways that were both familiar and entirely new. The pleasant soreness between my legs that came from enthusiastic sex. The tenderness in my hips where Karl's fingers had gripped hard enough to bruise. The slight rawness on my neck where his stubble had scraped whilst his mouth worked against sensitive skin.

All of it served as physical reminder of intensity I'd thought meant something. Evidence of intimacy I'd believed was mutual. Proof that I'd given myself completely to someone who apparently felt nothing in return.

The ache in my chest was different—not physical exactly, but no less real for being emotional. It felt like something had cracked open inside me, like the careful structure I'd built around my feelings for Karl had been demolished in the span of minutes, leaving nothing but rubble and confusion in its wake.

How did I get this so wrong?

The question circled endlessly, demanding answers I didn't have. I'd been so certain during the encounter itself—so completely convinced that what we were sharing meant something profound, that Karl's vulnerability was real, that the intensity reflected genuine emotion rather than just physical release.

The tears on his face. The way he'd looked at me. The desperate way he'd touched me like I was something precious. How could all of that have been meaningless? How could someone fake that level of intimacy?

Unless he hadn't been faking. Unless it had meant something in the moment, and then afterwards—confronted with the reality of what he'd done, what we'd done, what it implied about our relationship—he'd panicked and retreated behind professional distance because that felt safer than acknowledging feelings he wasn't ready to process.

The thought offered small comfort, suggesting this was about Karl's issues rather than my complete misreading of the situation. But it didn't actually make me feel better, because either way the result was the same: I was walking home alone, marked and used and discarded, whilst Karl pursued investigation leads I knew nothing about.

I turned onto my street finally—a quiet residential road lined with modest houses, most with porch lights off now as occupants settled in for the evening. My own house sat halfway down the block, a small weatherboard structure painted pale blue that I'd bought two years ago with money saved from living frugally during my probationary years.

It had always felt like sanctuary—my space, my refuge, the place I could retreat to after difficult shifts and decompress without having to maintain professional composure. Walking up the path towards the front door tonight, it just looked small and lonely and entirely too quiet for the chaos I was carrying inside.

By the time I reached the door, fishing my keys from my pocket with hands that still trembled slightly, my mind was a whirlpool of confusion and hurt spinning endlessly without resolution. The same questions circling, the same devastating realisations hitting fresh each time, the same inability to reconcile what I'd thought was happening with what actually occurred.

I let myself inside, closing and locking the door behind me with movements that felt mechanical, detached, as though I were operating on autopilot rather than conscious decision. The familiar click of the lock engaging usually brought comfort—security, safety, boundary between work world and personal space. Tonight it just felt like sealing myself into my own private prison of misery.

The house was dark and silent, exactly as I'd left it that morning when I'd headed to work with no idea that the day would end like this. That morning felt like a lifetime ago now, separated from the present by chasms of experience and emotion that made the span of hours feel more like years.

I moved through the darkness without bothering to turn on lights, muscle memory guiding me through familiar spaces towards the bathroom. My eyes had adjusted enough to navigate by the ambient glow from streetlights filtering through curtains, creating just enough illumination to avoid walking into furniture.

In the bathroom, I finally flicked the light switch, and the sudden brightness made me squint, made my eyes water even more than they already were. I caught sight of myself in the mirror above the sink and immediately looked away, not ready to confront the physical evidence of my evening written plainly on my face and body.

But I'd seen enough in that brief glance to know I looked exactly as wrecked as I felt. Eyes swollen and red from crying, mascara smudged down my cheeks in dark tracks, hair wild and tangled from Karl's hands, lips swollen from aggressive kissing, and just visible above my shirt collar—marks on my neck that would definitely be visible tomorrow, evidence I'd have to explain or hide.

Then my gaze dropped to my left hand, and reality reasserted itself with jarring practicality.

The bandage was a disaster—completely soaked through from the afternoon's downpour, darkened with dirt and mud from tramping through Myrtle Forest, and disturbingly stained with what was definitely fresh blood seeping through the layers. The white gauze had transformed into something grey-brown and thoroughly revolting, the kind of thing that would make any medical professional wince.

I'd been so consumed by everything else—the chase, the forest, Karl holding me whilst I cried, the intensity in the car park, the devastating aftermath—that I'd completely forgotten about my hand. The injury from yesterday when I'd torn the stitches during the goose incident at the dam, the fresh sutures I'd gotten at hospital, the strict instructions about keeping it clean and dry that I'd comprehensively ignored by spending hours in torrential rain.

Shit.

The wound had been throbbing on and off all afternoon, but I'd dismissed it as background noise beneath more immediate concerns. Now, looking at the sodden, filthy bandage, I felt a wave of exhausted irritation at having to deal with yet another thing when I had precisely zero emotional reserves left for practical problem-solving.

But ignoring it wasn't an option. Infected hand wounds were nothing to mess with, especially ones that had already been compromised once. I'd seen enough injuries go septic from poor aftercare to know I needed to at least check the damage and clean it properly, regardless of how much I just wanted to collapse into bed and pretend today hadn't happened.

With movements that felt mechanical and detached, I carefully began unwrapping the bandage. The adhesive tape that secured it had lost most of its stick from being waterlogged, peeling away easily and taking some skin cells with it. I wound the gauze slowly around my hand, revealing layer after layer of progressively damper material until finally the wound itself was exposed.

I braced myself for the worst—stitches torn out, wound gaping open, clear signs of infection starting. Given the abuse I'd put my hand through today, it would have been entirely justified.

But when the last layer came away, I found myself staring in genuine surprise.

The stitches were intact. All of them. Still precisely placed, still holding the wound edges together, showing no signs of having pulled loose despite spending hours gripping dashboards and door handles and Karl's shoulders and God knows what else.

The wound itself looked... fine. Better than fine, actually. The edges were still neatly approximated, showing healthy pink tissue rather than the angry red of infection. There was some fresh blood, but nothing that suggested the stitches had failed or the wound had reopened.

It made no sense. I'd was sure I’d felt them tear at the dam, felt the sharp pull and immediate wet warmth of blood. I'd been certain at least one had come out, certain I'd need them redone. But here they were, stubbornly intact, as though the goose incident hadn't happened at all.

How is that possible?

My tired brain offered no explanations, too exhausted from emotional turmoil to properly process this small medical mystery. Maybe I'd been wrong about feeling them tear. Maybe it had just been the wound pulling but not actually compromising the sutures. Maybe I'd gotten lucky and the stitches had held despite everything.

Or maybe I was too tired to trust my own observations, too wrung out to accurately assess what I was seeing.

Regardless, the stitches were there, the wound looked clean despite the filthy bandage, and I needed to get proper dressing on it before whatever luck had preserved it so far ran out.

I spent the next ten minutes carefully cleaning around the wound—avoiding getting the actual suture line wet as instructed, using sterile saline from the first aid kit under the sink to flush away dirt and dried blood from the surrounding skin. The process was tedious and required more coordination than I currently possessed, trying to manipulate bottles and gauze and tape with one hand whilst keeping the injured hand positioned over the sink.

My reflection in the mirror showed someone going through motions without really being present—face blank and exhausted, movements automatic, eyes that looked past rather than at things. I barely recognized myself.

Once the wound was clean and I'd applied fresh gauze and secured it with clean tape from the first aid kit, I faced the problem of the shower. I desperately wanted one—needed to wash away the physical evidence of the evening, needed the comfort of hot water and steam and the temporary escape of sensation that wasn't emotional pain.

But I couldn't get the hand wet. That was non-negotiable, regardless of how much I wanted to just stand under hot spray and let it wash away everything.

I dug through the bathroom cabinet until I found what I was looking for—a roll of cling film left over from some long-forgotten purpose. It was awkward, trying to wrap my hand myself with the cling film whilst keeping the bandage secure, but I managed it after several frustrating attempts. Layer after layer of plastic wrapped around my hand and wrist, creating a waterproof barrier that would hopefully keep the dressing dry.

Then I added a rubber glove from under the sink—the kind you used for cleaning—pulled up over the cling film to create a second layer of protection. It looked ridiculous, but it would work.

Finally, I could shower.

I stepped into the stall, turning the water as hot as I could stand, holding my wrapped hand awkwardly out of the direct spray. The water cascaded over me, initially shocking against skin that was still oversensitive from everything it had experienced tonight. Steam began filling the small bathroom almost immediately, fogging the mirror and creating thick humid air that made breathing feel like drinking.

I stood under the spray for long minutes, letting it pound against my shoulders and back whilst I kept my left hand elevated and away from the water like some sort of pathetic T-rex. The position was uncomfortable and ridiculous, but the hot water helped, washing away sweat and rain and other physical evidence whilst doing absolutely nothing for the ache in my chest.

The heat couldn't erase what had happened, couldn't answer any questions, couldn't make sense of Karl's actions or my own complete misreading of the situation. But at least it was warm. At least it was constant. At least it was something I could control when everything else felt utterly beyond my influence.

As the steam fogged up the bathroom completely, obscuring everything beyond the immediate shower stall, it felt like a metaphor for how clouded my heart and mind were. Nothing was clear anymore. Everything I'd thought I understood about Karl, about us, about what was building between us—all of it was shrouded in confusion as thick as the steam surrounding me.

Eventually the water began running cold—my hot water system protesting the extended shower—and I was forced to emerge. I dried off with my one good hand, the process taking twice as long and feeling twice as pathetic. The wrapped hand remained dry, at least—my improvised waterproofing had worked.

I carefully removed the rubber glove and cling film, checking that the bandage underneath was still pristine. It was. Small victories.

I pulled on pyjamas that felt comforting purely through familiarity—soft cotton worn smooth from repeated washings, carrying the faint scent of laundry detergent that meant home and safety and normal life untouched by the kind of emotional devastation currently consuming me.

Exhaustion hit suddenly and completely, a physical and emotional weariness that seemed to seep into my very bones and settle there permanently. It wasn't the pleasant tiredness that came from productive physical exertion or a long day's honest work. This was the bone-deep exhaustion of emotional trauma, of crying until there was nothing left, of carrying confusion and hurt that had actual weight.

I climbed into bed, pulling the blankets up and wrapping them tightly around my body that still trembled slightly despite the hot shower. The bed felt enormous tonight, too big and too empty, accentuating the sense of isolation that Karl's departure had left behind like a vacuum.

Feeling alone and lost, a profound sense of solitude enveloped me that went beyond simple physical isolation. This was existential loneliness, the kind that came from realising you'd been fundamentally alone even when you thought you weren't, that the connection you'd believed was mutual existed only in your own mind.

The room was silent except for the soft rustle of sheets when I shifted position. In the darkness, shadows played on the walls—cast by streetlight filtering through curtains, creating shapes that shifted and moved with each passing car, each stirring of branches outside.

I watched those shadows dance without really seeing them, my mind too occupied with endless spiralling thoughts to process visual input properly. Everything that had happened tonight played on repeat—the kiss that had started everything, the intensity of the encounter, Karl's tears that I'd read as vulnerability, the devastating dismissal afterwards.

Each replay brought fresh hurt, fresh confusion, fresh questions without answers.

Why did he cry if it meant nothing?

Why touch me like that if I was just convenient release?

Why look at me with such intensity if he felt nothing?

How did I misread everything so completely?

The questions had no answers, or at least none I could access whilst lying alone in the dark with my heart in pieces and my body still marked with evidence of intimacy that apparently signified nothing.

Eventually—I don't know how long it took, time becoming elastic and unreliable in the darkness—exhaustion overtook even the grief. My thoughts began to blur and fragment, coherence giving way to the disconnected illogic that preceded sleep.

And somewhere, Karl was presumably pursuing his investigation, probably already compartmentalising what had happened between us into some locked box in his mind where he could ignore it, his ability to separate emotion from duty apparently far more developed than mine.

The thought was the last clear one I had before sleep finally claimed me: Karl was fine. Moving forward. Focused on work. Unaffected by what we'd shared.

And I was alone in the dark, trying to figure out how I'd survive tomorrow when I'd inevitably have to face him again and pretend I was equally unaffected by what had happened.

But that was tomorrow's problem. Tonight, I had nothing left except exhaustion and the profound realisation that I'd been falling in love with someone who apparently didn't feel the same way at all.