by Lane Hart
I’m so…tired. Tired of fighting the demons. Tired of the screaming and the blood. Tired of knowing I’m responsible for her death and for ruining an innocent man’s life. I don’t deserve to live while he sits locked away in a prison serving a life sentence with zero chance of parole.
This is the first time in all those years where I’m no longer constantly monitored or on lock down. I can go anywhere and do anything I want.
And what I want to do is escape before they find me and drag me back.
The decision is easy really, and one I’ve thought of many times before but didn’t have the necessary resources to accomplish. If he can’t threaten to end my life because I’m gonna do it myself, then there’s nothing to stop me from coming clean either. Confessing my sins.
Now I just need to figure out how to go about setting things right. Walk into the police station and have them blow me off, or worse, arrest me? Send a letter that could be brushed aside as a forgery?
And then it hits me, the perfect, failsafe method where there’s no doubt about my identity and my spoken words, and there’s no way it can be ignored - this social media mess I’ve heard about. Apparently everyone’s into posting pictures and videos online. It’ll be easy. If I can find a cell phone. Surely I can borrow someone’s and ask them to post it. Good, so that just leaves me to figure out the second part of my plan.
If I slit my wrists, there’s always the chance that I won’t do it right, then it will take forever. No, thank you. I may want to die, but I don’t want it to be agonizing. I want to take the easiest way out, not suffer like my mother did until she stopped screaming and finally took her last gasping breath. In that case, I guess I can cross jumping to my death off the list as well since it’s another way to potentially survive with an immense amount of pain.
Overdosing is too complicated. There has to be a certain type of pill, and the dosing has to be right to take into account my body weight. Also, I don’t know where to get any of the good, hardcore drugs that would definitely do the trick.
Hanging or suffocating myself just seem like the absolute worst and the opposite of what I’m going for. I want to end the suffering, not prolong it.
I guess that only leaves one option.
I need to buy a gun.
Since most legit places have rules about waiting periods or whatever, I’ll have to find one from someplace shady.
Grabbing the phone book from the kitchen drawer where it’s still kept after all these years, I look for pawn shops; and then pick the one in the darkest and most dangerous part of our small town. It’s right on the edge of the county line like it’s barely hanging on before it gets kicked out by law enforcement.
For some reason, I feel it’s important to be clean before I end my life, so I take a nice, hot shower for the first time without anyone watching me. I forego styling my hair or putting on makeup. I wouldn’t know how to do either even if I had the equipment for it. But the point is moot anyway since there won’t be much of my face left in a few hours.
Knowing I’ll need cash, I raid the piggy bank in my old bedroom, the one in the shape of an actual pig, wearing a crown with the words Little Princess on the side. I’m pleased to find it’s still full of the ones, fives and tens I got from birthday parties or that my mom gave me as bribes to keep her secrets. In fact, now that I think about it, my entire life has consisted of nothing but people telling me to keep my mouth shut. Don’t talk. Stay quiet. Shut the fuck up. The one time I failed to do just that, and it ended in blood and grief so strong I wasn’t sure I would survive. I wish I hadn’t, and today I’ll finally make amends.
First, I need to see her.
Up the stairs and down the hall to the right, I head for the attic cord hanging down and give it a tug. The small, narrow wooden steps unfold, and I take them carefully up into the stifling space above. The air is so thick and dusty it’s hard to breathe, but I’m on a mission. I flick on the light and start tiptoeing around boxes, afraid the creaking floor will give out under my weight.
There’s a long box with a piece of white fabric sticking out. I open it up first, finding her clothes tossed haphazardly into it. I hold up the white sweater, remembering seeing her wear it over her sleeveless dresses to church. Digging through the box, I find a few pairs of jeans and shirts, her dresses too. Since I didn’t have any clothes to bring with me, I shove the whole box down the wooden attic stairs so I can wash the dust from them and wear some…But I guess I won’t need clothes after today, will I? Either way, it’ll be fun to spread the clothes around the house so my father and his new wife see them when they come home. I bet he’ll be so pissed. When I find another box of clothes and shoes, I toss them down the stairs too, absolutely gleeful at the thought of decorating every room with them. It’s the happiest I’ve felt in…well, as long as I can remember. It’s nice to feel something other than guilty for a change after being kept on meds that were intended to leave me with nothing but a void of where emotions were supposed to be felt. Although, I guess there was nothing to be happy about while in isolation.
It takes a little more searching for me to find the box of photo albums. I let out a sigh of relief that he didn’t destroy them. Brushing the dust off the top one, I open the big, navy blue cover, revealing a photo of my parents on their wedding day. My heart clenches at the sight of her face after all these years, so incredibly beautiful with long blonde hair and golden skin. As a child I remember thinking she always looked gorgeous, even first thing in the morning with no makeup on, fixing breakfast in her pajamas. But on her wedding day, she was radiant, although she wasn’t smiling. I keep turning pages, seeing photos of her belly swollen with me and a hint of happiness on her face, my baby pictures, her holding me, feeding me, bathing me. My father is thankfully not in any of the pictures. I guess he was the one taking them, which is surprising. I can’t remember ever seeing him take pictures. Going on to the next album, I open it up and find…nothing. It’s empty. Along with the other two albums, not like photos were removed, but like my mother never got a chance to fill them. Unfortunately, I don’t find any videos, so I decide to go back downstairs into the cool air, taking the navy blue album with me to the garage.
Finally ready to leave, I hop into the red, Audi A-5 convertible I was able to hide in the garage, sitting the album in the passenger seat. On the drive across town, I try to think of anything I might want to do before the end. Eat some good food, that’s for sure. Have a cupcake or an entire cake to celebrate the ten birthdays that have gone by without a card or notice from another single soul. I miss cake. My mother made the most delicious chocolate, three layer cake every year for my birthday that I can remember, until that day…What else do I want to do on my last day on earth? Oh, I’ve always wanted a tattoo! Maybe I could get the butterflies and flowers I associate with the star-crossed lovers. I’m sure I can find a tattoo parlor around here.
Saving my mental bucket list for later, I pull up in front of the paint-chipped building with black bars on the outside of all the windows and doors and turn off the ignition. The small neon sign says they’re open, so grabbing my purse, a pink messenger bag decorated with a white kitten wearing pink sunglasses that I found in my childhood bedroom, I square my shoulders and try to look like a confident woman instead of the scared little child that I am.
When the door buzzes, announcing my arrival in the otherwise empty store, an overweight, balding man on the other side of the counter doesn’t even bother looking up from his laptop. That’s right, I’m invisible. Nothing new.
I casually walk around the cluttered racks and shelves of used junk, touching lamps and other random things occasionally, as if I’m just browsing and not intent on buying an illegal gun. I just keep wandering around until, what do you know, the shiny guns in the glass case just so happen to catch my eye. There are three choices, small, medium and large. I’m sure a gun enthusiast would know more about them like make or model, but to me, it’s just eeny, meeny, miny, moe.
; Deciding on the large one so that I do this right the first time, I pull out the wad of cash I grabbed from my childhood piggy bank and start counting out the three hundred dollars required for my purchase based on the handwritten price tag. I lose count when the door buzzes, announcing another customer. Nosy, I glance over to see who it is.
My blood warms in my veins, sending a scalding blaze of heat from my scalp down to my toes at the mere sight of the tall man. Everything about him screams dangerous, from the thick chestnut-colored facial hair to his black leather jacket in summer and the cigarette billowing a cloud of smoke from between his two fingers. When he removes his dark sunglasses, it’s his lowered brow and deep set eyes that are the scariest. His cold gaze undresses me from my V-neck tee down to my open-toed platform sandals before he deems me lacking and quickly moves on to the used guitar display in the corner. But at least he actually saw me, if only for a few, brief seconds.
Trying to ignore the man, even with my skin tingling from the ridiculous feeling that his eyes are still on me, I go back to counting my ones, fives, and tens until I reach three-hundred. I recount to make sure it’s correct before I clear my throat to get the clerk’s attention.
Of course, Mr. Clean with a beer gut doesn’t immediately notice me with my wad of money, so I stand there and wait patiently, staring at him until he finally looks up from his laptop.
“Something I can help you with, sweetheart?” he asks, getting off his stool to come over to the display case across from me.
I nod and push the cash to him, tapping my fingernail on the glass above the largest gun.
“Do you have an ID?” he asks with a cocked gray eyebrow.
Digging in my kitty purse, I pretend to search for a wallet and driver’s license that doesn’t exist and sigh dramatically to convey my annoyance when I don’t find them. The man mumbles something under his breath before he pulls on the retractable cord for a key attached to his belt and unlocks the case to remove the gun. Once it’s out, he grabs up the cash and walks over to the cash register, waving a hand for me to follow.
I turn to do just that, happy that this is actually working, but a wall of black leather suddenly blocks my way.
“What’s a nice little rich girl like you want with a big, bad Smith & Wesson?” The deep, scratchy voice of the smoker asks. I take a step back to go around him, refusing to let him think he’s intimidating me, even if he is. He sidesteps, blocking my path again, now so close that I can smell the cigarettes on his breath. “If it’s protection you need, well, baby, I’m big and bad, too, but I’m gonna need you to pay me in a slightly different kind of currency.”
I try to stifle my gasp of fear and….something else in the pit of my stomach when I lower my eyes to his scuffed black boots. Taking a wider birth around him this time, I actually make it to the cash register, his rumbly, mocking laughter trailing behind me.
“That’ll be three hundred twenty-one with tax,” the salesman says to me while his eyes remain nervously over my shoulder, focused on the other customer. Ready to get the heck out of the store, I dig out twenty-one more dollars from my purse and hand it to him. Two minutes later, he gives me my ticket out of this world in a plastic bag. Only once I rush to get outside and take a breath of fresh air on the sidewalk do I realize that, in my haste, I forgot something pretty freaking important.
Bullets.
Before I can gather the courage to walk back inside the pawn shop, the sparkly chrome from a beautiful motorcycle parked on the curb in front of the Audi catches my eyes. It looks so familiar to the only other one I’ve ever seen before in real life. A classic Harley-Davidson, there’s even the same red flames and black leather padded seat like the one I remember seeing my mother sitting against once. Just once, when he was dropping her off, and I was playing outside with my babysitter. My mother had looked…happy. No, more than happy. It was like she was elated either because of the ride on the bike or because of the man she had her arms wrapped around. The memory always stayed with me since it was the first time I ever saw that look on her face. And the last.
Without thinking, my fingertips reach out and stroke the fading flame closest to me.
“Get your fucking hands off my bike,” a gruff voice bellows from behind me, causing me to jerk away from the Harley and scramble back up on the sidewalk. Looking over my shoulder, I see the smoker coming out of the store, the one who looks up to no good. His eyes are narrowed, and the look on his face says he’s considering breaking all the bones in my hand as punishment for daring to touch his baby. Instead of running away, I hold his icy blue gaze as he comes closer and lift my chin. Someone should punish me. I deserve to be beaten bloody and left for dead after what I’ve done. Why not let him do it? It would save me from having to do it myself.
When he simply continues to stare at me, only a foot of space between us, I place the plastic bag containing my new gun into my kitty messenger bag before I do the unthinkable. Something completely out of character for the old, scaredy-cat Blair. New Blair, the courageous one, who only has a few hours left before she blows her brains out, turns around, grabs the handlebar and throws her leg over the leather seat. And then, because I can’t prevent it, I smile. The expression on the big, bad dude’s face is too funny, a mixture of shock and rage. There’s also what could be lust; but since I haven’t ever been around many normal men before, I could be wrong.
“Are you out of your fucking mind, little girl?” he finally asks, making me want to giggle since he hit the bullseye. I am out of my fucking mind. The words are there, right on the tip of my tongue. Having never said a swear word or any word, for that matter, in over ten years, the urge to do so in this moment is so strong I barely resist. I want to say fuck and say it often, especially when referring to my own mental health.
I am royally fucked up in the head. There’s no other way to describe it.
“Get the fuck off my bike!” the man roars. He’s definitely a man who uses the F-word a lot, I bet, reminding me of the dirty talking sailor from last night. It must be nice, freeing, to be able to say whatever you want. That’s not a pleasure I’ll ever know since the last time I spoke ended with my mother being brutally murdered in front of me, during which I screamed until my throat was so sore I couldn’t decipher my screams from hers.
Right now, I should probably be afraid of this man’s threatening tone, but the look on his brutal face has softened; and I’m not sure how, but I just know that he’s not really upset. He’s amused and…something else. Likely annoyed because I didn’t follow his command. It’s hard to tell since all the brown fuzz covers his mouth and the lower half of his face, blocking most of his expression. My theory that he’s annoyed is confirmed when he flicks his cigarette, stomping it out with his boot before his hands go to his hips, and he blows out a frustrated breath.
“Fine, you want a ride, sweetheart? I’ll give you a fucking ride.” With that pronouncement, he strolls over with the casual gait of a confident, ruthless predator. “Move,” he says with a raised eyebrow, pointing to the padded passenger seat behind me. I squirm backward until my back hits the bar, and then I watch in awe as he throws his long, denim leg over the seat in one swift, sexy move.
Sexy? Scary, yes. But sexy? I guess I have a fetish for bearded bikers in leather. Oooh! I wonder if he has any tattoos! I could ask him…
“You better hang on tight, little girl,” he says over his shoulder before he stands up and jumps. The powerful machine under my ass sputters to life. Not wanting to get thrown off, I wrap my arms around his waist, trying to get a good grip on the smooth material of his jacket. Giving up, I clasp my hands together. Only when he guns the engine, pulling away from the curb, do I realize neither of us is wearing helmets. Which for me is not a big deal. I would guess that cracking my head on the pavement would be a quick, painless way to die. But for him, does he have a death wish too?
I answer my question a few minutes later based on the speed and recklessness at which the man drives. Maybe he’
s trying to scare me into crying Uncle, fearing for my life. He’s obviously underestimated my own value of self-worth. Besides, riding with him is freaking amazing! I feel so…free.
“Had enough?” he asks over his shoulder at one of the red lights he stops for, instead of running like the three before it. In response to his question, I press my cheek to the back of his smooth leather jacket, and boa constrict my arms around his waist until he chuckles and taps on my arm for me to let up. His laugh is such a rich, carefree sound, unlike his appearance. It’s the sound of a man I can imagine with less facial hair, relaxing on a warm beach.
“I need food,” he grumbles. My stomach growls its agreement.
Without warning, he makes a U-turn. That’s the first time he actually does nearly scare the shit out of me. The bike tips dangerously to the side before he rights it again, and then we’re flying down the highway at what feels like a hundred miles an hour. I duck my head against his back to keep the splintering wind out of my face, even though I love the liberating sensation, like we’re almost flying.
When we eventually slow to a stop, it’s to park in a row of a dozen other motorcycles, Harleys to be specific. I have a feeling anyone who pulled up here on one of those crotch rockets would have a tough time getting in the door.
Holding on to his shoulders, I throw my leg over, climbing off first, and try to run my fingers through my long, tangled hair. Giving up, I just pull it all back and tie it with the hair bow around my wrist.
“You look like you could use a few meals, skinny minny,” he says before his calloused palm grabs my stomach that’s exposed because of my hands raised to my hair. He gives a harsh squeeze to my mid-section. Then his hand slips away, and he strolls lazily over to the bar’s entrance.
Finished with my messy bun, I smooth my shirt back into place and even glance down to examine my stomach that feels different, warmer like it remembers his touch because it was branded into my skin. Or maybe that’s what skin-to-skin contact always feels like with a man. It’s not like I would know, having never experienced it before. But the sensation is nice and apparently addictive, since I already crave more of his abrasive touch.
