September Rain Bk 2, Savor The Days Series

by A. R. Rivera

  Avery focused, going for a direct hit. Aimed and fired. “Troy Bleecher dropped me off. He was the one I called because he was the one who was involved. Not you.”

  Jakes’ breathing was harsh as he stood, hands ringed tightly around Avery’s arms. He loosed his grip on her with such force, Avery’s back kissed the dresser and it shook. At that moment—the second she was sure Jake was more angry than he had ever been—was the same moment Avery realized the depth of what she was doing.

  The irreparable harm she was causing Angel.

  “What the fuck are you doing to me?” Jake was shaking. Stuttering, he pointed at her. “I knew it! Troy Bleecher?” He came closer, pushing her against the dresser, pinching her face in his enormous hand. “You little fucking—” he stopped, his face almost purple. “I do everything for you and this—you give what’s mine to someone else and tell me, like you’re so fucking proud of yourself?”

  Jake’s breathing slowed, his tight angry scowl loosened. He dropped his hand from her face took several steps back. “You’re not gonna make me lose my shit. I shouldn’t have put my hands on you. Just know: there is no coming back from this. We are over. Done.”

  Shit, Avery thought. She had always known things between Angel and Jake wouldn’t work in the long term but she couldn’t be the one to break them, at least not in such a direct way. Angel would never forgive her.

  Avery took a conciliatory step forward and said his name in the same soft way that Angel always did. But Jake stepped back with both hands up as if Avery was made of some contaminating substance. The gesture was plain: he wanted nothing more to do with her.

  “I’m not wasting another second on you. Which brings me to our next discussion: You are a fucking liar and Deanna’s on her way to get you.”

  Avery felt her jaw go slack. Jake had to be lying. Avery had hit Deanna hard. Really hard. And laid her in her room, on her bed, as if she were asleep. She’d even taken the time to place some aspirin and a glass of water on her bedside table, to make it look like she didn’t feel well, hoping to buy them time to get away. She wasn’t supposed to wake up.

  Jake’s posture straightened, as if he were proud—or pissed—while Avery’s shrank.

  “Oh, I talked to her.” He gloated, “I called to thank her for her generosity in letting you come with me. Imagine how surprised I was to learn that you didn’t. That you just fucking ran off!”

  “You had no right checking up on me!” Avery backed away and steadied herself against the dresser, keeping the folded pocket knife in her grasp. Was he lying? Did he really talk to Deanna? If by some miracle he did, had Deanna told Jake what happened? Was that the real reason he was so angry?

  “Because you’re so trustworthy.” His hands rolled into fists. “You can tell Deanna all about how shitty I am when she gets here in a few minutes.”

  Jake shrugged, as if the news was nothing. As if Angels plans, as if her life, didn’t matter at all. That was unacceptable.

  Avery couldn’t flinch, now. The situation was beyond hesitation, beyond the point of return. She couldn’t take back what she’d said to Jake. Or what he’d said to Deanna. Angel would suffer, either way. So there was no point in trying to settle anything, was there?

  All that was left was the unanswered question: what if? Avery was too curious to stop pushing. Her compulsion was born of a wonderment that would not be satisfied until the confrontation reached crescendo and completion. Avery had to know what Jake would do next. She had to.

  “I’m not leaving with Deanna.”

  “I’m not going to jail for you. I asked you to move in with me. To marry me!” He nearly screamed at her.

  “You can’t make me leave.”

  And then, the impossible happened again. Angry Jake got more angry. So angry, that he laughed. He got very close—closer—stepping on Avery’s bare toes with his big boot, and whispering in her ear.

  “If I have to stuff you in the damn trunk myself, I will. And there is nothing you can do about it. You are a fucking liar and I don’t want you here. Maybe you should call Troy, tell him how proud you are. You’re his problem, now.”

  Avery knew his words were actually threats and reacted.

  The first two times the blade stuck him between his ribs, Avery expected a big reaction. But it was as if he didn’t feel it. Jake simply lumbered back, gazing at her as if she were speaking some unknown language.

  His hand moved up over his abdomen. The rippling anger that made him laugh and threaten her pulled back like receding water. It was sucked too far out to sea, exposing too much beach. Jake broke his gaze, looking down at his hand.

  “Angel?” He saw the red on his palm and stopped. He got that look on his face again, like she was an alien creature. “What did you do?”

  If this were a normal conversation, Avery would have laughed. It was such a stupid thing to say. It seemed that Jake was in shock, but only for a second.

  He went for the phone. Maybe because it was closer than the door. Avery’s hand shot out to stop him. She was still holding the knife, moving it quickly, wherever she could find flesh. She got his back when he turned, his leg when he tried to jump over the bed and fell. It seemed he didn’t want to fight with her and that made her want to keep going. How far would she have to go to make Jake defend himself?

  But he kept backing away, like he only wanted out.

  Avery saw the fear in his eyes as the blade slashed across his forearm, but she didn’t stop. She moved faster, plunged deeper. She couldn’t think of anything except, what if I keep going? When will Jake stop me? How?

  The blade was sharper than it looked and she wouldn’t let go of it. Not when Jake tried to take it from her, not when his back hit the wall, not even when he fell to the floor, begging her to stop. When he cried out for help, she just kept trying to make him be quiet. She didn’t stop trying until Jake did.

  And then, she took a deep breath.

  Before she could gather her thoughts, before she felt that surge of peace she desperately needed there was another knock.

  It was the busiest night ever, like Grand Central Station or something. Avery never had so much company in her life. When she began turning the knob to see who was outside—she wasn’t going to let them in. She was only checking—but Angelica must have seen the door handle move and anticipated. She tried to barge in, probably desperate to get away from the orgy that had formed in the room three doors down and she wasn’t going to spend another minute waiting to celebrate being the newest member of Analog Controller. It was the greatest night of her life. They were going to be huge. She was sure of it.

  But Avery kept her body behind the door, wedging her foot so it barely opened enough to peek out.

  “There’s a chubby black lady looking for you.” Angelica chuckled, her face falling when the door did not give way to her pressure. “Don’t you feel any better?”

  Avery’s heart was racing. She knew it had to be Deanna. “Go away.” She slammed the door in the girls’ face and locked the chain bolt at the top.

  As Avery paced, her confusion and anger grew. Angelica’s message—‘a chubby black lady looking for you’—verified Jakes warning.

  And what the hell? Avery stomped her foot, enraged and impatient. Why was it taking so long? Why hadn’t she felt the rush like before? Why was there no release this time? What was different? And what was she supposed to do about Deanna? Had the Foster called the police? She looked at her clothes, at the knife still in her hand, at the red-stained room, and realized she had messed up.

  While trying to think what to do next, Avery noticed Angel standing in the doorway of the bathroom, staring down at the mess she made in the far corner.

  “I’m sorry,” Avery mumbled and dropped the knife back into Angels purse. Then apologized again. And again. Angel didn’t respond, though. She crouched on the floor in a haze, hearing and seeing nothing but what was in front of her.

  Avery had to fix it. She left Angel to her quiet panic and began
thinking. Pacing again. Trying to match up the scene with a plausible scenario. Mid-way through planning what Avery hoped would be a plausible lie, came another knock on the door. And then a voice boomed through the wood. “I know you’re in there!” Angelica squeaked.

  Avery hesitated, but then thought better of it. If her plan was to appear desperate, she’d have to act like a desperate person and answer quickly. So she did. She opened the door wide and threw herself into Angelica’s arms.

  But, then as Avery tried to explain, the girl saw the mess in the corner, what was left of Jake, and backed away. Avery tried to look as weak and broken as Angel did, leaning over, faking a cry, and gasping as if her world was over. And then she gave the story she thought someone like Angelica would believe.

  “He—” she cut off, thinking, would it seem too rehearsed to come right out and say it? Took a breath, the way Angel often did, and finished, “—he wouldn’t stop! He tried to kill me!”

  And that was as far as her plan had formed. But she’d said it and she couldn’t back down when Angelica leaned out in to the motel corridor and called out for the police.

  Not help, Avery noted, she said police. Avery did not want to involve authorities but reasoned if Angelica believed the accusation, calling the cops was the next logical step. And then Avery knew why Angelica had used that specific word, because she heard the sound of heavy boots in the cement corridor.

  The room was suddenly a flurry of noise and activity as two, then three, then five officers rushed into the room. They were holding their weapons and shouting commands. Angelica was the first to put her hands up and so Avery did likewise. But the moment she gave an inch, Angel woke up from her stupor and began screaming for help. She was subdued immediately, just like Avery.

  On the way out of the motel room, as Avery was shoved into the back of a waiting patrol car, she looked for the one person she knew had brought them there: Deanna.

  She was across the lot, near the office. Her face was covered in bruises, and though she did not look at Angel, she begged for the police to be gentle with her, told them the girl was sick, that she didn’t know what she was doing.

  Avery thought, how ironic.

  Because she thought she’d killed Deanna. Now Jake was dead and Deanna—who was supposed to be—was pleading, her eyes were filled with tears. After everything, she was still trying to protect Angel.

  +++

  I am out of tears. The tank is on E.

  “I’m done now.” I say, and wait to be taken back to my cell.

  49

  —Angel

  The thing about crazy that most people don’t understand is that from my perspective, nothing has changed.

  I don’t feel any different just because the doctors’ diagnoses flipped. More accurately, it only confuses me. It makes me wonder why I am the only one who knows what’s really happening.

  I kept company with figments of my imagination?

  That means that I continually sought comfort in an abandoned house that I could swear belonged to Avery and her mother. I sat in their mismatched dining chairs. I ate grapes and cookies from containers on the counter and raided their refrigerator.

  Or did I?

  My mind cannot fathom the deep level of duplicity.

  Still, even after all the years I have spent in lock-up, seeing the video recordings of myself speaking as if I am the very person, the liar I loved like family, I can’t change the memory of sitting at that table, conversing, and eating those cookies. Drinking and dancing with Avery on the hill, even though I’ve been told that I was actually alone, dancing in the dark.

  I was alone in the parking lot when Jake approached me. I went to all those Analog Controller shows by myself.

  All my memories are some form of lie. But I still feel as if I had a lifelong friend that betrayed me. That doesn’t change because no one else sees or hears her. Not one bit.

  And after I accept my complicated diagnoses, then what? What the hell am I supposed to do? It’s my brain. It’s not a computer with a virus. I can’t reprogram myself. It’s not a rash. A cream or simple change of diet, might help a little bit, but won’t clear it up. I can’t take a pill to make it stop. I am currently taking about twenty and I still have to deal with . . . her.

  Did I block out the warning signs? Did I chalk up the missing time to nothing more than a side-effect of the accident or my meds, and other people’s quirks?

  They say I was told on more than one occasion, but my short-term memory has always had a very take-it-or-leave-it quality. Most times, unpleasant things never make it into my long term memory because I don’t remember long enough for it to make a difference and sometimes, won’t let it because the truth is too difficult to carry around.

  While I take full responsibility for what happened to Jake, I am somewhat—forgive the expression—of two minds about it. It’s not my fault that my genes are infected, but I still live with the guilt.

  I did it, but I didn’t do it. I was Avery’s marionette. She was the one, but do those strings of responsibility absolve me? Is none of this my fault or is all of it mine and mine alone? Whose fault is it that I’m a broken down factory reject—an ill-conceived, poorly constructed tool that cannot pass inspection—a puppet—a misfit toy?

  I was never given a diagnosis of schizophrenia but my mother was, and her mother, too. Just like Marilyn Monroe, minus the beauty and talent.

  My current psychiatrist at Canyon View, Doctor Punta, tells me that because of my head injury, I suffer migraines. Because of my family history, I suffer psychosis. And lucky me, there is no cure for the maladies of my brain. Only drugs to try to control the symptoms of delusions, mood stabilizers help too, and therapy—which hasn’t worked that well, so far. Without serious, long-term intervention, I will deteriorate. I used to worry about what that would be like—to totally lose my marbles—but living these past six years without Jake has me convinced that losing self-awareness would be a gift.

  The brain heals slowly or not at all. And it can’t feel pain. It only processes the signals from the body’s pain receptors—like a pin prick on the tip of your finger, or a pencil to the thigh—but poke the brain matter itself and you get nothing.

  It controls everything, yet it can’t feel. What a fundamentally screwed up organ.

  So what difference does any of this make in the long run?

  Just let me fucking die already.

  50

  —Angel

  The showers are free and I’m on my way to get cleaned up. I don’t much care about washing my hair or my ass, but its part of their routine. Gotta keep up the ruse: if you act normal, than you must be normal. Right?

  As I step onto the tiled floor of the shower bay, the female guard that went ahead to check the area for any lingering inmates, appears from around a corner. “Clear.” She announces and nods to me.

  I’m not shackled. They only chain me around outsiders. I’m holding my stack of supplies: a towel, wash rag, shampoo, and a small bar of soap. The soap sucks. You can’t use it to wash your private parts because the lye in it burns.

  “Fifteen minutes.” The guard waves me forward.

  The shower bay is huge. It houses three wide aisles that make up six rows of showers. There are no dividing walls, no privacy of any kind. The same guard follows me in, keeping her distance as I disrobe and turn the lone knob all the way down to start the shower. The water’s one temperature: a little too hot in the summer and a little too cold in the winter.

  I turn, letting the warmth wash over me, and find Avery standing a few feet away from the edge of the spray line. She’s in the typical orange jumpsuit, but her sleeves are hitched up and the loose material around her legs is tapered and rolled up, too. The ends of her long black hair curls from the moisture as her bright green, predatory eyes burrow into me.

  My focus stays on the drain at my feet.

  “Why do you get to wear a white jumpsuit when I have to wear pukey orange?”

  I have
n’t uttered a word to her since that night I fell asleep in the bathroom. Time has done nothing to curb her desire to interact, though. She’s the only prisoner that can get around quarantine.

  Leaning my head back, I thoroughly wet my hair and commence washing.

  “You’re losing too much weight.” She sounds her usual bitchy self.

  I really couldn’t give less of a shit.

  My short fingernails dig into my scalp, working in the shampoo.

  “Why aren’t you eating?”

  To torture you.

  I start humming a new song I heard on the radio the other day. I didn’t mean to listen, but when I heard the singing guitar, I had to take it in. It was brilliant. The front man was doing this new kind of rap-singing and talking about the gift of feeling alive. Not that I have a right to, but the song made me feel a little better for just a few minutes.

  “You’re wasting away.”

  I know by the sound of her voice that she’s crossing her arms and step back under the hot spray to rinse my hair.

  “You can’t ignore me forever.” She promises, as I keep my wandering gaze averted. I still have a tendency to want to look at her.

  The shower timer runs out, shutting off the water. When I step around my company to reach for my towel, Avery shoves her shoulder into me. My feet slip across the slick floor in different directions. I catch my balance for a half-second, but fall anyways.

  The sound of my butt slamming against the tile catches the guards’ attention. Avery is in the dry stall opposite me when the plain uniform woman stalks over, unaware. Looming above me, her eyes take in my wet, exposed state.

  “I slipped.” I tell her, because it’s the easiest explanation. She watches me get back to my feet and dry off.

  “You better start eating. I can make you, you know.” Avery calls after me as I’m taken to the dressing area.

  Last Friday I finished telling my story to the review board. I assumed that today, Monday, I’d be returning to Canyon View. Instead, I’ve been summoned back to that damned room. I don’t know what the hell they want from me. I’ve got nothing left.