Better Than This

by Tia Souders

  * * *

  A week passed, yet I still hadn’t gone to school. My friends called me nonstop since I left the hospital, asking where I was and when we were going to have a practice session. My cell rang until I began to wonder whether they even remembered my injury at all.

  The days dragged on, and despite filling them with sleep, I was somehow more tired than rested. I had no company except the sound of my mother drinking—the thumping of the kitchen cabinets, the clinking of glass, and her stumbling around in her bedroom, crashing into things.

  I lay back in my bed, unable to sleep. A lock of hair fell in my eyes and I blew it away. Turning my head, my eyes found my guitar. Its presence in the corner of my room was magnetic, like I was pulled to it from some unseen force more powerful than myself or my own self-control.

  I didn’t want to look at it. I didn’t want my gaze to move across the fretboard, the strings… because when my eyes lingered long enough, I began to picture myself crossing the room, picking it up, and feeling the weight and shape of it in my arms as I found my home in the music I created. I could feel my fingers move, playing by memory and feel. I envisioned song after song, particularly the ones Mr. Neely and I had been practicing for my Juilliard audition. Ones which were difficult with all my fingers. Ones I would probably never play again.

  I turned away, rolling onto my side and pressing my eyes closed so hard I saw bursts of tiny, white fireworks through the darkness of my drawn lids. Gritting my teeth, I held my breath until the ache in my gut subsided, until the gnawing on my insides decreased.

  “Sam.” My father’s voice startled me.

  I pressed an arm over my face, willing the sound of his voice away. Maybe if I didn’t answer, he’d leave.

  “Sam,” he repeated and cracked open my bedroom door. “What are you doing?”

  I looked up and glared at him over my shoulder. Seriously? “Trying to sleep,” I said, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

  “It’s been a week, Samantha. It’s time you go to school. You need to get on with things. You’re upset, I understand, but you can’t sit in your room the rest of your life pitying yourself. That won’t get you anywhere.”

  I stared back at him, silent. I wanted to ask him what he knew about self-pity, but I kept my mouth shut. Nothing I said to him mattered anyway.

  His gaze moved to the floor before returning to my face. He sighed as if dealing with me was just another burden like my mother. Except he actually seemed to like her—despite her status of falling down drunk—a fact I’d never understand.

  “I know you loved the guitar,” he said. “I’m sure one day you can figure out how to play again. In the grand scheme of things, though, it’s really not important. There are far worse things in life. A lot of people with bigger problems. People who lose their legs or become paralyzed.”

  I bolted upright in bed, the movement so fast and sudden it took away my breath and caused him to jump. “I’d rather lose my legs. Go ahead, take them,” I said pulling and clawing at my sweatpants. “I don’t need legs, Dad. I can play a guitar without them, so if this is your version of a pep talk, you can just save your breath.” I choked back the ache in my throat. I hadn’t cried yet, and I wouldn’t start now. Not in front of him.

  The muscle in his jaw ticked. “You need to focus on what’s most important. Graduating. Your position at the bank. Those need to be priorities, not your… your guitar,” he spluttered, waving his hand to the corner of my room.

  Pinpricks of fire engulfed my skin. I swallowed, biting back words I knew I’d regret. Not because they weren’t true, but because they’d only get me into trouble.

  The image of the halved apple mingling with my blood flashed in my head, followed by his words. You need to focus on what’s most important. Graduating. Your position at the bank. And there I was, once again, wondering if maybe in the seconds before he brought the steel blade down over my finger, he saw it there. Maybe he didn’t mean to sever the finger. But maybe for just a second, he wanted…

  “So… school tomorrow.” His icy gaze moved over my face. “Priorities, Sam.”

  “Fine,” I said, my tone frigid.

  I turned, drawing my blanket up over my head, desperate to shut the world out for another day. Tomorrow I would go to school. Tomorrow I would face everyone. I wasn’t ready yet. Not even close. But my father didn’t care about what I wanted. He didn’t care I’d have to endure my senior year with a stub on my left hand, that people would stare and whisper behind my back.

  Music was the only thing keeping me sane all these years. And I’ve lost it. No big deal.

  3

  Derek pulled over too late. The tires of his Mustang rolled over the lawn, flattening the grass and missing my neighbor’s mailbox by inches. With a wave, I jumped out of the car. A cloud of smoke followed my exit, along with a beer can which rattled at my feet.

  The provisions at Ron’s house had served their purpose. I got through most of an entire night without a glut of self-loathing, which was surprising considering how crap-tastic my day was. To say school sucked would be the understatement of a lifetime. As to be expected, I endured countless questions. “How did it happen?” “Was there a lot of blood?” “Didn’t they try to sew it back on?” Among my favorites were the most asinine, “Did it hurt?”

  But I needn’t worry about answering questions. My friends answered them for me quite well on their own. They particularly enjoyed elaborating on bloody bandages and how pale and sickly I looked. So, when they asked me to practice after school, I agreed. Not because I could play, but because a jam session in Ron’s basement typically meant weed and alcohol. And after the day I had, I needed something, anything to numb myself.

  I moved through the yard onto the walkway. It was late. The cool air nipped at my bare arms, so I crossed them in front of my body and rubbed them with my hands, willing the goosebumps away while the bandage on my hand scratched my skin.

  I slowed as the roar of Derek’s Mustang faded into the distance. Alone, I glanced to the old lady’s place next door. I usually didn’t pay much attention to her house anymore, but my pace slowed as my gaze caught on the worn, familiar wreath that hung from her front door. The orange and yellow leaves had faded into muted versions of their original shade. It had seen better days. Kind of like me.

  Pausing, I stared at it a moment longer, a myriad of memories washing over me like an unexpected tide.

  I made that wreath when I was eight. I remembered the day clearly even though I didn’t want to. The way June so patiently helped me was etched in my mind. She helped glue the silky leaves into place while I held them, then let me spray them with gold glitter. But that was before… and I didn’t want to remember anything having to do with June because, like my entire life, the good memories were interlaced with the bad. So much so I couldn’t have one without the other.

  As if proving myself right, I closed my eyes as the image of my mother passing out at the bottom of the stairs flashed in my mind. My father’s voice followed, telling me it was my fault. Always my fault.

  I squeezed my lids tighter, trying to will the image away, but I remembered too much and the haze of alcohol made it impossible to resist.

  The morning I fled to June’s house, my bare feet flew through the damp grass until I reached her door, where I pounded until my arm ached and my fist turned red. But when June answered, instead of embracing me, she smiled, a haunted look in her eyes. And she spoke the words I had never forgotten but seldom recalled. I can't, Sam. I’m sorry. I can’t let you in.

  June’s rejection had been the nail in my coffin, and I’d been reeling from it ever since. Mom’s drinking had become a daily occurrence long ago, as well as Dad’s demands and accusations toward me. Rejection was a part of my daily life, but at least I had June. My neighbor. My friend. She saved me just after the accident. But in the end, even she didn’t want anything to do with me. And I’d never know why, but I did know things might’ve turned out diffe
rently had she stuck by my side. The solace she gave me through music—by gifting me my first guitar—introduced me to the one and only thing I clung to over the years. But that was little comfort to me now. What good did my guitar do me now?

  Standing there in the cool, dark night, I stared at her house.

  I pressed my fingers to my temples. How I wished she never would’ve helped me and gave me that blasted guitar.

  I just want to forget. Forget about my dreams, the guitar, music. Forget about my parents and June. Forget about my crappy life. Forgetting was so much easier than facing the truth because I knew, deep down, even if I managed to play again, it wouldn’t be the same. I would never be the same. And no buzz or high with my friends could change the truth of my situation or make me forget.

  Flames engulfed my body. I felt the rage of the past nine years sweep through me like a rushing tide. No longer cold, I veered off the sidewalk and into June’s yard. I didn’t think. I just moved.

  My gaze swept the ground until I focused in on the big stones surrounding the mailbox. I bent and picked one up. The sharp edges jagged my skin as I squeezed it tight inside my clenched fist. Without hesitation, I let it fly. The large rock grazed a flock of mums, and the surrounding area exploded with petals. Satisfied, I chucked the remaining stones, one by one, into the flowerbeds and the array of empty planters. A mass of tattered plants and broken pots collided in a deadly watercolor under the moonlight.

  The weight inside me lifted as I smashed my booted foot into the mailbox. A couple dozen blows turned the monogrammed box into a pile of debris. I felt like I was flying, soaring on a wave of self-satisfaction as I ran through her yard, my attacks swift and efficient.

  I uprooted the tiny pine tree June and I transplanted with our bare hands. I kicked at the decorative fence surrounding her flower beds until my leg ached, then tore the garden flag from its stake, chuckling with the movement.

  Turning, I scanned wildly in search of something else to destroy. My pulse thumped in my ears as I bounded to a broken tree limb by her driveway and drug it over the hood of June’s car. It screeched sharply as it etched away the blue paint. Next, I cracked the stone birdbath and dumped it into the tiny pond I helped build when I was a child

  The delicate hands that had played the strings of a guitar for so many years, with meticulous skill and careful deliberation, were now being used to bring ruin and wreckage. And it felt good. Like I never wanted stop.

  All the pain of the past week manifested itself in twenty minutes of demolition. Heat, as raw and bare as my emotions, pulsated in me as I moved. Adrenaline quaked through my limbs, and in what felt like seconds, I circled back around to the front of the house.

  When a light came on inside June’s living room, followed by one in the dining room, I froze.

  “I’ve lost everything!” I screamed into the darkness. My breath came in ragged puffs and my voice quaked. “Nothing matters now.”

  I bent over. The muscles in my arms flexed as I clutched one last stone in my hand. I wrenched my arm back at the same time a window slid open, revealing a small, weathered face. Or maybe it was just my imagination. But it didn’t matter. Because I wanted her to see this. Suddenly, I wanted her to feel all the pain I felt.

  With a grunt, I flung it toward the window with perfect aim. The glass shattered like applause. Collapsing to my knees, I gasped for air as a weird sense of calm washed through me.

  A moment later, I found my footing and stood. Somewhere behind me, I heard a door open and close, followed by my mother’s voice.

  I turned around, but the ground spun and I stumbled a bit, unsteady on my feet. My finger throbbed and my stomach rolled at the pain.

  “Samantha! What’s going on?” My mother’s voice grew closer until icy fingers gripped my arms.

  I pitched forward, unable to stand upright a moment longer. My stomach clenched violently as I dry heaved then finally expelled the liquor from my stomach.

  I glanced up at my mother, wondering if she could smell the smoke on me, momentarily fooling myself into believing she cared. Or was sober enough to notice. And, sure enough, when my mom met my gaze, her large green eyes couldn’t quite focus on me. I knew the glazed over look all too well.

  Her frizzy hair danced in the breeze under the silver moonlight. She frowned at me, her forehead creasing into folds. The sight of her ruddy skin and her stained clothes, the same ones she wore yesterday, made me want to be sick all over again.

  Disgusted, I stepped out of her grasp and surveyed the damage next door.

  My eyes widened, as if seeing for the first time what I had done. “Oh crap,” I croaked. I wiped my mouth with the back of my arm and startled when I heard my mother’s voice. She almost never spoke to me directly.

  “Get inside, now. The neighbor called your father,” she slurred.

  My stomach pitched at the smell of her alcohol-laden breath along with the thought of my dad. I swallowed over the rising bile and watched her turn away then proceed to stumble toward our house.

  Almost as an afterthought, I glanced down at my hand to the blood-stained bandages now soiled with dirt and stung like a drove of wasps decided to make it their home.

  A sob rocketed through me. But I pressed a finger to my lips, reigning myself in and making my way inside before the tears came.

  * * *

  Time passed with each second of calm becoming more precious yet fleeting than the next. Any minute, my father would walk through the door, and I would be screwed. My only hope was that his guilt over hacking off my finger would make him go easy on me.

  A missing finger had to count for something.

  Dressed in her bathrobe, Mom sat on the rattan chair, staring off into the distance at nothing. Periodically she would get up and scurry into the kitchen, where the soft thump of the cupboard door would echo despite her obvious effort to be discreet. I wish I could tell her not to worry about disguising her actions, but I couldn’t. Now was not the time for confrontations. They would lead nowhere. Besides, tonight I welcomed her drunken stupor because with each return, she appeared less anxious than the last.

  Once she drained the entire bottle, she would hide the evidence in the hamper at the end of the hallway. I knew this from years of the same ‘ol routine. And even if Dad found it, he would pretend not to notice. Just as she pretended not to notice her husband’s absence at two o’clock on a Saturday morning. Everything was closed, and he wasn’t working late. There was only one explanation for his not being there, but if there was one thing I’d gleaned over the years, it was this: people are predictable. Rarely did they surprise you. At least in my experience, anyway.

  I heard the angry stomping of feet outside the front door, causing the muscles in my neck and back to stiffen.

  Man, I wish I still had a buzz, something to help me deal with him.

  I remained silent. In the corner of my eye, I noticed my mother’s fidgeting. She alternated between wringing her hands and playing with the edge of her pajamas. The legs peeking out from beneath her robe twitched. It was time for her next drink, but with Dad just coming in the door, she wouldn’t risk it. It was stupid, really. All this pretending. It’s not like he expected anything different from her.

  The lock clicked as it turned, and my dad stepped inside a second later. His gaze caught mine as he slammed the door behind him. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed my mother flinch, but I remained still.

  He moved over the worn rug toward me, his expression pinched.

  Despite the joy I felt at knowing I had been the source of his aggravation, my heart thudded in my chest. Part of me wanted this. A no-holds-barred confrontation. Even while the little girl inside me squirmed at the anger shining in his eyes.

  The clock in the background chimed, signaling the beginning of a new hour. He paused at the sound, and with a sigh, ran both hands through his dark hair, cradling his skull. The quiet in the room filled with anticipation as he moved to the window facing June’s house and pe
ered out.

  His face hardened, every wrinkle of his forty-nine years etched plainly into his face like the roadmaps of life. I could hear his exhalation of breath and began to wonder why he hadn’t started in on his tirade already. I was always to blame. Even if I hadn’t been responsible for the mess next door, tonight’s lecture would’ve been no different.

  When he cleared his throat, I readied myself.

  He moved forward and crouched over with one hand on the coffee table until he was eye level with me. “I realize you’ve been through a lot this week. I know you’re having trouble coping. But that doesn’t mean you can go doing whatever you want. Do you think this will make things better?”

  I grimaced, already tired of listening. He had no idea what I’d been through.

  “Do you have anything to say? Can you explain your little tirade?”

  “I was mad. It felt good.” My answer received the desired reaction—my father glowering.

  “I’ve given you a good life, Sam. I know you’re upset, but this is how you repay me?” He shook his head. “I won’t have it. Injury or not.”

  A good life? What were the prerequisites for a good life, anyway? An unfaithful husband? An absent father? A mother who can’t get through the day without a fifth of whiskey? A tyrannical household? Control?

  Years of taking all the blame for every awful thing that happened flashed through my head. Nights spent alone, cradling myself as I cried and fell asleep, were only a blip on the radar of what he’d put me through.

  I snorted. “I don’t care what you think, what June thinks, or what anybody else thinks. You have no idea what I’m going through. You’ve given Mom and me a good life? What a joke.” A wave of anger crashed over me. I glanced down to my bandaged hand, and, without thinking, I tore away the soiled, bloodied gauze to reveal a bony protrusion covered in a mixture of swollen, discolored flesh.