by Ginger Scott
“Because this is real, and you wouldn’t want to kill an innocent man, would you?” I make my point.
“This isn’t real,” she insists.
“Then shoot him,” I reply. “Look,” I say, leaning forward and cupping my hands together, elbows on my knees. “We can back-and-forth about this all day, but if you want to make your point, shoot him. You can’t shoot me, cuz I wouldn’t be around to prove my point when I die. But if you shoot him, well, then, we’re both here to see who’s right. He’s a cowboy; he won’t mind. Right, ole Kellen boy?”
I lean to the side and test the expression on his face. I expect more fear there. He’s not calm, but he’s not afraid. He’s cautious.
“Shoot me, Dominica.” His eyes zip from mine to hers, and she twists, seeming surprised by his response.
“Kellen. I’m not going to shoot you.”
He nods through her words, not waiting for her to finish before demanding she do just the opposite. “Yes, you are. You have to. It’s the only way to undo this; to prove it to him. Maybe . . . maybe I’ll see more, or you will. I’m not afraid, Dominica. I’m really glad I met you.”
She whimpers. Their crazy exchange re-ignites that jealous sensation in my chest. I don’t need to care about this, about either of them.
“See? He wants you to shoot him,” I say, adding to the flame. “Or even better . . . what if we duel? Me and you?” I pull the pistol Paul usually has carelessly hidden in the crevice of the couch.
“No,” she protests again, this time moving away from both of us. Beads of sweat are forming on her brow. She’s not so sure anymore. It amuses me. Together, the three of us form a triangle. She stands closest to the hallway, and I’m across from the mysterious Kellen Cowboy football guy.
“You’re gonna have to shoot one of us.” I lean back and prop my crossed ankles on the coffee table, filthy with spilled beer and cigarette ashes. I relax the pistol in my hand but keep it pointed in her direction. I won’t shoot her. I never would. I just want to prove my point—that nobody is shooting anyone because this shit is real.
“What’ll it be?”
My question hangs in the air. I’ve pushed people to the point of breaking. I did it to Eddie when he didn’t pay, again. I did it to the crew we took on at the docks, the ones we stole the AKs from. I’ve quickly learned where the line is and how to manipulate it without falling off. She’s not going to shoot me. There’s a weak spot in her soul, in her heart, that likes me too much. I won’t say she loves me because I am unlovable, but I make her feel. Even rotten to the core, she can’t deny this pull I have on her. She wouldn’t destroy that, not even if it was her job, which—ha—apparently it is.
“Shoot him,” I say, my voice more of a command.
Her cheeks flash red, her breath ragged as she changes her focus from me to him and back again, over and over, until eventually she holds the gun in both her hands, ready to fire. It points out, her arms stretched, bracing for the recoil. It’s surprisingly strong, even for a small weapon like hers.
“It’s okay, Dom.”
“Yeah, Dom. It’ll be fine,” I say, mocking his do-gooder tone.
I ready myself for more rounds of this, of me and him battling to convince her to put a bullet in his body, her finally giving up and telling me I’m right, when without hesitation, she turns, holds the gun inches from his face, and fires.
He shouts her name. Not that Dominica shit, but the real one, the one I know her as.
Damsel.
It’s the last word to leave his lips before his body falls lifeless in my doorway, half inside, half out.
She begins to cry.
All I can do is watch.
I knew this was real.
26
Cowboy
(Kellen)
One moment, I’m staring down the barrel of what I’m pretty sure is a Kimber handheld revolver, the next, I am here. Beeping machines to keep regular time just above my head; cool sheets under my skin; a blanket too short to cover my body.
My eyes fight to blink more than once, and my dad—Jim—is waiting for me.
“Hey, pal.”
He says it as if it’s something he’s always said. I think it is. I hope at some point I know it is—know him.
My body hurts. My arms, stiff. I shift uncomfortably, curling one leg up. My dad hurries to his feet and pulls the blanket down to cover me, then moves to stand at my side, one hand at my shoulder, the other feeling my head as if he’s checking for a fever. My head feels bare, cold.
“You’ve been in and out for hours. Doc said it would be like that for a while. You . . . you really scared me, bud.” My dad is crying. He’s also laughing a little.
He’s my dad. Jim . . . is my dad.
My mom, she died. Last year. It’s just me and him, and I skipped college so I could help out. I didn’t go.
“I didn’t go,” I say, my voice sounding foreign to me. It’s scratching, barely audible. I smack my lips, everything suddenly dry. My dad helps me lift my head and holds out a pink cup with a bendy straw. I try to smile at the sight of that straw. It makes me feel like a kid. A child with his dad, his real dad. Not the man in my dream.
My lips wrap around the straw and I try to remember how to suck through it. The splash of water comes fast, almost choking me, and I cough a little.
“It’s all right. You go slow at this, Kel. Slow and steady, that’s what we always say.” He chuckles, but he also cries.
Slow and steady. That is what we always say. Me and him, we have a saying. We have a history, a tangible thing that’s boring and simple and real. I’ve never even thrown a God darned football. I have shot a rifle, though. I shot one with him, with my dad, who taught me.
“My arm,” I struggle to say. It’s so stiff that I worry maybe I lost it and I just can’t feel it at all.
“Broke it pretty good. They’ve got you in a cast. It’s gonna make showering tough for a while, but we’ll work that out.” He feels down the hard cast until my loose fingers find his callused hand. I curl them and he squeezes back.
“Slow . . . and . . . steady, huh?” I croak out.
He chuckles. It’s raspy, a mixture of tobacco he should quit chewing and cigars he should quit smoking, and probably red meat we should both quit eating. Hard to own livestock and not be a carnivore.
I can’t see much of myself, but I know I’m banged up pretty good. My head is bare, and before this place, I had a pretty hardy head of hair. I guess the broken arm is just the tip of the iceberg.
“What happened?” It’s the first thing I say that comes out clearly. My voice sounds right, the way it sounded even in my dreams—my nightmares. I kept one thing the same, like a touchstone.
My dad’s eyes slant, a somber heaviness to them. A nurse comes in with a cart, and my dad scoots his chair back to make room while the man takes some vitals. Our eyes stay connected the entire time, through blood pressure and temperature readings. I’m pretty sure I’m here because they had to open up my head, so I feel they should probably be checking a lot more serious things.
“Dr. Esher should be by before two to let you know the results of last night’s tests.” My dad thanks the nurse, but all I can think as he rolls out is how that name is real.
“Who’s Dr. Esher?” I ask the moment the cart leaves our small private space.
My dad looks at me with the same heavy eyes as before.
“Son, you were in a pretty bad accident,” he begins. None of this surprises me. My brain is scrambled eggs, I have a cast on my arm, my ribs hurt like hell when I breathe, and there was a tube in my throat the first time I woke up. Yeah, I got a pretty good sense that things were bad.
“What kind of accident?” I blink, my memory of how I got here completely blank. I remember more of dreams than I do my real life.
“I don’t know if details are good for you right now. You’ve been through a lot.” He probably doesn’t mean to do it, but his eyes move to my head.
“I
can tell I’m bald,” I say with a grimace. The massive sadness is taking over his face again, so I lighten the mood as best I can. “God, please say I’m not balder than you.”
“Haha,” he belly laughs.
That sound. His smile right there. I remember all of that. I’ve made him laugh before. We’ve had years of laughter.
“Let’s see what the doc says, and then maybe we can talk about it. Sound good?” I get the sense he’s the one who doesn’t want to talk about it, so I agree. I’ll let the doctor tell me what I need to know.
Dr. Esher—what are the odds?
I feel like Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz with every new or old name and face that comes into my existence. I find myself staring through the half-open doorway for more nurses or visitors. I expect to see Sugar here. I wonder if he’s a doctor, too. Or a med student. He’s smart—was smart. I’m not sure how to classify the people alive in my head. Are they past tense now?
The answer to that flashes past the foot-wide view I have of the hallway. I see just enough of her face to know it’s her—Dominica.
“Jim,” I say his name. I try to catch it and turn it into “Dad” before it concerns him, but I can tell by the puzzled look he wears, I’m too late. I scrunch my eyes and nod toward my doorway.
“There’s a girl; they rushed by. Is she all right? Do I know her?” I try to sound urgent without coming off manic. I’m failing. He doesn’t move to the hallway, but instead, closer to me. His hand reaches up to feel my forehead. This isn’t a fever.
“Dad, please,” I ask again.
He deflates, staring at me for a few more seconds before finally giving in and moving to my door. He opens it nearly all the way, and I find myself wishing I could get out of this bed. I know I can’t. I’m pretty sure there’s a reason I’m wearing the different colored wristbands; one of them is probably for a brain injury. I wonder if Dominica is wearing one of those too.
27
Damsel
“Help me!”
My voice is hoarse from screaming at him. He hasn’t moved from that spot on the couch, as if this is some joke. What happened to him?
This is all in my head.
This is all in my head.
This is all in my head.
I feel the pull of want for air. My lungs are expanding and contracting too fast, never getting full, only feeling flatter. My chest hurts, as though it’s about to cave in. That’s when the stars close in around the edges of my vision.
“Please,” I utter out before I roll to the floor from my knees, Kellen’s blood all over my hands. I’m going to be sick.
“Fine, I’ll call an ambulance. But we can’t be here when they show up. You know that, right? Even if this whole dream in a dream theory of yours is right, you and I—we have to go.” He sounds so calm, as if he’s done this before. I guess I’ve done this before, too. Only . . . I didn’t know Gustavio.
I’m too far gone to answer him verbally, so I nod emphatically while I continue to fight for breath. He sighs as he stands from the couch, moving to the spot where I pulled myself up to sit with my knees tucked to my chest. As he dials his phone with one hand, he places his open palm on the top of my head.
“There’s been a shooting. Someone breaking in, I think. I’m not sure.” He kneels down while he listens to the operator, and his hand moves from the top of my head to the side of my face, a gentle and intimate touch that feels warm and tender and grounds me almost instantly. Our eyes connect, and swirling in the midst of all of that anger in his gaze is something good. I hold on to it and slow my breath, drawing air in for long seconds and then slowly letting it all out.
I know him. More than this narrative we’ve created in our heads, I know this boy outside of this place. I know him, and he is good.
“Four-One-Eight South Thirty-Third. Yes.” He slides his thumb to end the call, then lets his hand fall away from my face while keeping our gazes intact.
“We have to go. Now. You need to wash your hands. Now.” Every word is matter-of-fact as it leaves his mouth. I nod, though I don’t fully register what needs to happen.
He helps me to my feet with one hand under my right elbow. He nudges my chin with his other hand, refusing to let me look down at the floor again. I let him guide me to the kitchen, my legs shaking. It usually takes me so much longer to recover from a panic attack. I don’t really think I’ve recovered yet this time. I’m still in the middle of it, only I’m numb. Near catatonic, probably.
“The water is going to be cold. Our heater is shit,” he says, turning the handle at the sink all the way up. He pours soap from a greasy bottle over the back of my hands and rubs it over my skin. I don’t know that my hands will ever be clean again. He’s right about the water—I’m freezing.
When my teeth are chattering, he turns the water off and grabs a shirt from the floor. I recognize it; it’s one of his. He dries my hands with it and leaves them wrapped.
“Maybe this will get them warm. It’s cold as fuck outside, and we’ve got to go.” His hand comes back to my face, and he turns my head so our eyes meet. Without hesitation, I lean into him and press my lips to his.
I’ve done this before.
His body stills, but only for a moment. My lips quiver with overwhelming fear and sadness the instant they feel the warmth of his. What started as two mouths pressed together in a panicked reaction quickly turns to something deeply familiar. His mouth opens enough to taste my lower lip, sucking it in briefly and letting go. He steps back quickly, hand still at my face, eyes wide with information.
Nothing here is real.
“We have to go,” he says, tenderness suddenly injected into his urgency.
I nod out in staccato movements, my cold hands clinging to his shirt, wringing it with my fingers wrapped inside. He walks backward, his chin lifted a bit to urge my eyes to remain up. When he glances down at the floor, probably to get a sense of where we are, I follow his gaze, but he quickly holds my cheek again and stops, leaning forward so our foreheads rest together.
“You can’t look at it. Do not . . . look down.”
I nod against him and shut my eyes for a moment, opening them when we’re moving again, and only staring at his. He nods in encouragement as we move through the house, his free hand pushing open the screen door that creaks as we step through it.
Our feet hit the weed-filled sidewalk outside and my hand instinctively finds his. The sky is yellow, ready for the sun to dip behind the nearby tower apartments. This part of town isn’t a good place to grow up, a good place to be. But a wave of truth crashes into me as we run down the street toward his neighbor’s house, the one who watches his sister. This street, it’s real. This is his home. And Gia—she’s real too.
We stop just outside his neighbor’s door, a large picture window affording us a view of the warm kitchen inside. Gia is kneeling on a stool, holding a spoon steady and stirring while the woman—a kind-faced older lady with cropped white hair and too much blush painted on her cheeks—pours in flour with a measuring cup.
“They’re baking.” I state the obvious. What I mean is she’s busy, that she is taken care of here and we should leave her. She’s in more trouble if she joins us on the run.
“Okay,” he says, somehow understanding my intent even without the right words.
He squeezes my hand a little, his grip a reassuring pressure that ripples through my nerves all the way to the back of my neck. I stutter out a hard breath. I feel that—the realness of it.
“I want to go to the hospital,” I say, turning my head and meeting his waiting gaze. He’s afraid. I’ve chipped into the bravado he’s created over here, in both places. He’s afraid for me.
“We should just run,” he says, looking the other way. His eyes crease with heavy thought and worry. I know he means it, and he’s probably right, but I have to know. I have to know that Cowboy is all right, here . . . and there. There’s something to this story, something to me pulling that trigger and sending him away. If he
’s really dead, then I need to know that too. It will mean I was wrong to hope that none of this was real. It will mean my life is over as I knew it. It will mean I am a killer. And so is he.
I wait with my breath held until his eyes come back to me, and after a heavy exhale, he gives in.
“Okay, but nobody can see us. We go in, act like we’re visiting a grandparent or something, I don’t care, but we don’t get too close. That’s how this works.” The fact he knows how this work troubles me.
“What have you done?” I ask. That sinking feeling that has become familiar to my gut takes up a permanent residence, nailing me to the ground.
His eyes linger on mine for too long without the answer, and when he tugs on my hand to urge me to go, I dig in.
“Damsel, I will lift you over my shoulder and run with you if you don’t come with me now. There’s time for you to ask me these things, but now . . . now is not that time.” His hand squeezes tighter, and I bounce on my toes with uncertainty. I finally give in, and run as hard as I can to keep up with him so I don’t have to let go.
Sirens howl only blocks away. I can’t tell which belong to the ambulance and fire truck and which are police, but there is a mix of them.
“You’re going to be in trouble. That’s your house,” I say through panting breaths. We dash across the street to the bus stop on the main drag just in time for the next one to arrive. He drops in a five and we rush to the middle seats so we don’t look suspicious. Real trouble is always in the back. Usually, the people back there are either high or homeless, and often both. It’s not the place to be a teenaged girl.
“Did you hear me?” I tug at the sleeve of his long black shirt, trying to peel his attention from the window. I think he’s making sure we weren’t followed.
“Huh?” He turns to face me, his hair flopping from one side to the other across his eyes. That movement, the way he looks right now under the green and red lights of the intersection, I know this look.
