Hurt: A Novel (Solitary Tales Series)

by Thrasher, Travis

  But he doesn’t frighten me. He can’t hurt me, not anymore. He’s no longer going to bully people around like his son does at school.

  “I’m not going to go anywhere unless you tell me—”

  He curses and opens his door and then I hear the big rushing footsteps coming around the front of the car. My stomach drops, and I see him coming on like some wild animal. He pounds the side of my face with something hard and flat.

  I slam against the side of the SUV, then crumple to the hard asphalt.

  I feel something grab my shirt and jacket like a crane and lift me up, then launch me backward against the car again. I’m out of breath and half the side of my face is paralyzed and I can’t even shout out. I’m back on the street, then lifted up again and propped against the side of the car.

  Staunch curses at me. I can only really look out one eye, but I see something thin and black in his hand.

  “Your time has run out, boy, and I mean it. No more. I don’t care who you are, do you hear me? Just ’cause I can’t kill you doesn’t mean I can’t hurt you.”

  And with that he takes the black thing he’s holding and whacks it against my forehead. Then my eye. Then my cheek. It feels like some kind of heavy weight or piece of metal or steel.

  I cry out in pain, but he pounds my mouth, cutting my lips against my teeth. I start to sink away, but he lifts me up again and swats me on my ear. Then he curses in my face and shakes me over and over and over again until I start to black out.

  “Don’t go just yet, don’t you—”

  But I’m losing it all.

  “Open your eyes and look at me. Hear me out, boy.”

  I squint out of my one working eye. I taste blood, and my entire head and face throb and I cough and begin to choke.

  Then I start to scream until he puts the black thing in my mouth, almost making me gag.

  I suddenly realize that I’m biting down on his cell phone.

  “From here on out, you do what we say. What I say. You got that? Do you?”

  He shoves the phone in my mouth further, ripping the sides of my mouth.

  “You got five months to shape up and start playing by the rules. Five months. You got that?”

  I try and say some variation of “Uh huh.”

  “Marsh is an idealist and others have patience and that’s fine, but I’m not here ’cause of my patience. I will kill your momma, and if that doesn’t work I’ll kill that pretty little blonde thing, and I’ll keep killing until I finally make you choke on your own blood. I don’t care whose blood it is and what kind of special boy you are, I will do that ’cause that’s what I do.”

  He yanks his phone out of my mouth and then releases me. I drop to the ground like a bag of heavy garbage. I’m moaning and coughing, and I’ve never felt so much pain in my life.

  Staunch is cursing now, saying something about his busted phone and about what I made him do. My head feels ripped open and suddenly I realize I’m going to die here, just like this, after being beaten to death by a cell phone.

  Can you hear me now?

  I’m not sure if Staunch said that or I imagined it.

  I hear the door shut and hear the engine throttle and then …

  4. The Only Battle

  The sound of a bird chirping wakes me up.

  I can see sunlight coming through a window—actually like a wall consisting of one giant window—and landing at the foot of the bed I’m in. I’m under heavy covers, and my eyes are having a hard time opening.

  When they’re finally opened for good, I brace myself for the pain I know will be there.

  But nothing comes.

  My eyes look out what appears to be a bay window at the front of the room. All I can see are trees and bushes and flowers. A door to my left at the base of the bed seems to be open. Wait—no, it’s a screen door.

  For a second I try to get up, but then feel light-headed and know I’m going to fade away again.

  “Chris?”

  For some reason I think of Frodo waking up and seeing Bilbo. He’s in that faraway place where the elves live. He’s alive and everybody’s happy to see him and everything looks warm and glowing.

  Wait—am I wearing a white nightgown?

  “You might want to drink a little of this,” the voice says.

  I open my eyes, and there sitting on the side of the bed is Iris. Those wide eyes bursting with sweetness. For a second she looks about twenty years old, but then my eyes adjust and I see the wrinkles all around her face.

  “Try and sit up for a few minutes.”

  I do as I’m told, and she gently brings a glass cup up to my lips. It’s a warm tea of some sort. I take a little, then keep taking it until I finish it.

  “This will help you heal.”

  “Where am I?”

  She smiles. “In a safe place.”

  “A dream?”

  Iris shakes her head. “No. You are alive and conscious, Chris. And at a very important juncture in your life.”

  I sigh and can only say, “Huh?”

  “I’m not going anywhere. Just take it easy for the moment.”

  “Are you a ghost?”

  She raises her eyes and appears a bit offended. “I might be old, but I’m not dead, thank you very much.”

  Iris takes the cup and then walks into another room. I sit propped up, trying to keep my eyes open, wondering what I’m doing in this small room with the bay window surrounded by a garden outside.

  I wonder if Jocelyn is going to come out next and serve me some cookies and milk. Or maybe Lily will come and offer me a drink of something I couldn’t buy in the store.

  The chirping bird seems to have brought a crowd with him. They’re all outside singing away like some choir. It’s pretty.

  I believe Iris when she said this was a safe place. I’m not sure why, since most everybody I’ve come to know has lied to me.

  Maybe they don’t lie to you in dreams.

  But this doesn’t seem like a dream. I feel my face and can tell that it’s partially swollen. My lips have cuts on them, and one eye is a bit harder to see out of.

  All of that, yet I don’t feel pain. Maybe Iris gave me some kind of weird drug.

  I’ll have to ask for more before I leave.

  It’s weird, because it’s January, yet the screen door is letting in the sounds of springtime or summer.

  I hear steps and see the thin figure in black come back into the room.

  “Where am I?”

  “In Solitary, not far from where you were beaten up.”

  “But it’s—the door—it doesn’t feel cold.”

  She nods, glancing down at me with curious eyes.

  “What?”

  “You took a nasty beating,” she says. “You’re not very pretty to look at.”

  “Guess my modeling days will have to be put on hold.”

  She smiles, and it’s good to see something so—so pure. Like the morning sun coming in.

  “All of the events surrounding you, Chris … is it impossible to take them all in?”

  “I don’t know. I guess, when I think of everything.”

  Iris takes a chair and then sits next to my bed. “Remember when I told you about those unseen places? About the spaces in between?”

  I nod.

  “This is one of those. The Crag’s Inn—that was another.”

  “What happened to you? I didn’t mean—Jared lied to me—if he’s even called Jared. He told me he was my cousin and then he came with me and I didn’t know—”

  “I know. It’s okay.”

  “The place burned down to the ground. I can’t believe he actually did that.”

  “He wasn’t the one who did that,” Iris says.

&nbs
p; “Then who?”

  She doesn’t answer but only looks out the window. “That place was only temporary anyway.”

  I don’t understand how she can say that. “But the history—I swear I didn’t mean to bring him there.”

  “It served its purpose. And perhaps—maybe that was just one step in your journey toward God.”

  I’m still waiting for this to be a dream. Or for Iris to be a ghost. Or an angel. Because how could she know something like that?

  Nobody knows, not my father and not Kelsey and not anybody.

  She smiles, either reading my mind or being able to hear the thought.

  “I’m like you, Chris. I can see things that aren’t obvious to others. And I see it in you.”

  “See what? Do I have some halo around me now or something?”

  “I see you’ve kept that wonderful wit about you.”

  “What do you see? You actually see something in me?”

  “Call it a glow, a hue, perhaps a color, and the look in your eyes.”

  I glance at my arms, but I don’t see anything.

  “Chris—you were able to come into this place. I could not have brought you here if you didn’t believe.”

  “Like the inn?”

  She nods. “You were allowed to come to the inn because your heart was opening up. And you were starting to see. But then—you ran the opposite direction. You tried to do it yourself.”

  I can’t believe she knows this. “Have you been spying on me?”

  “I don’t need to spy to know. You’ve been missing. I’ve been unable to reach you. And that was your own choice, Chris. You were almost lost for good.”

  “Missing? Lost? What—I’ve been here the whole time.”

  She stands for a moment and goes to look out the door. Then she comes back by the bed.

  “There has been a great war going on. Over you, Chris. Not just with those you’ve been able to see. But with those whom you’ve just started to see.”

  “I don’t know if I really wanna see anymore, you know?”

  “A gift like you have—like we have—it’s not to be taken lightly. It is very serious. It’s very powerful.”

  “To see the boogeyman?”

  She looks at me the way Mom might. “You’re seventeen years old, and I know you feel like that’s old, Chris, but you are still just a child.”

  “Thanks.”

  “I’m wanting to encourage you. I understand all the questions and the grief and the anger and the confusion. I had the same thing. God works in all of us in different ways.”

  “I just want this to go away.”

  “No. I don’t believe that. I think that deep down you want to know what to do now. You tried on your own, and you failed.”

  “So tell me—all these things I see—every time I trust someone they lie—everything I do seems to backfire.”

  “Pray.”

  I just look and wait for something more.

  “That’s what you need to do now. Pray. In earnest. Seek God’s will.”

  I think of that train ride in Chicago where I finally said enough and gave it all over to God.

  And just a day later I end up getting beaten almost to death by a cell phone.

  “‘The angel of the Lord encamps around those who fear him, and he delivers them. Taste and see that the Lord is good; blessed are those who take refuge in him. Fear the Lord, you his holy people, for those who fear him lack nothing.’”

  I look at the woman sitting across from me. “Are you my guardian angel?”

  Iris shakes her head and laughs. “I’ve done many, many things that I regret. That is the curse of so-called wisdom, to learn how much you’ve failed and see how far you still have to go. You wouldn’t want me as your guardian angel.”

  “Yes, I would.”

  “See—right there,” Iris says. “That fire deep inside. You are stronger than you think, Chris. And you are young enough not to know any better. Which is good. Because you’re going to need that for the road ahead.”

  “For what? What’s going to happen?”

  “I don’t know. I can’t see the future. I just know that one battle was won. A very big battle. Perhaps the only battle that you really needed to win.”

  “What’s that?” I ask.

  “The one over your soul.”

  5. Concrete

  Iris is right. My face looks like a piece of fruit that’s started to go bad. It’s black and blue and swollen and soft. I look at it in the mirror of the small bathroom at the back of the room.

  Turns out, this is another inn that Iris is staying in. She tells me it’s in the middle of Solitary, but I refuse to believe her because I’ve been in the middle of Solitary and have never seen this place. There’s the bed-and-breakfast that Lily was staying in, but Iris says this is different. This is just behind the sheriff’s office and Brennan’s Grill and Tavern, but I say it can’t be.

  She uses the words haven and refuge a lot when she talks about this little room and this inn. It’s only for those who need a safe place to come and heal.

  There are so many things I want to ask her, but she tells me I need to leave. She says I can come back, but I can only bring myself, and I have to be careful who sees me come this way.

  We open the door to the garden outside, and I’m surprised to find that the temperature feels like a warm spring day. The birds are still chirping away. I see some squirrels running around playing. A cocker spaniel is lounging by a weathered bench under a tree. The garden surrounds us like a circling wall.

  “It doesn’t feel like January,” I say.

  She nods, smiles, then leads me over stone steps in the ground until she seems to walk right through a wall of shrubs higher than me. It’s only when I get closer that I see it’s somewhat of an optical illusion. The path takes a sharp left turn, then veers right through the shrubs until reaching a gate that comes up to my chest. Iris opens it and leads me out to the street.

  Suddenly I feel the cold. The sun that was streaking through has disappeared, and I see thick gray clouds above us. I look back and see the same wall of shrubs behind us.

  The gate’s nowhere to be seen.

  “How did we just—”

  Iris turns around, then puts a hand into the shrubs. She pulls open the gate.

  “Just find the old church and make a left and head straight to here,” she says.

  I’m about to ask what old church, but then I see it. A building that was once white and once opened its doors to guests. Now the windows and doors are bolted up, the paint is faded, and the landscaping looks like it’s been ignored for a decade. I’ve seen it before because I’ve noticed the old battered cross at the top of the steeple.

  “What am I supposed to do now?” I ask.

  “What I told you to do.”

  “Pray?”

  She nods. She’s still standing next to the opened gate. “Your bruises and cuts are already starting to heal. They will probably be gone by the time you get back home.”

  “Is my mother still alive?”

  “I don’t know,” she says. “But Chris, listen. ‘The Lord is my light and my salvation; whom shall I fear? The Lord is the stronghold of my life; of whom shall I be afraid?’”

  I want to ask why she’s suddenly spouting off Bible verses to me. I mean—yeah, great, fine. I’ll try to see if they help, but right now I need some concrete answers.

  Maybe those are the concrete answers you need, Chris.

  I see her slip behind the gate and then watch it turn back into an unmovable wall of shrubs.

  I look at the church, then stare at the street heading downhill toward downtown Solitary.

  Whom shall I fear? Well, the list is long—where should I start?

 
I make sure the motorcycle key is in my pocket, then start walking downhill to do battle with those I shouldn’t be afraid of.

  6. Figuring It Out

  I can hear the music blasting from the cabin even before I head up the steps to the front door.

  Maybe I should be afraid, but this doesn’t scare me. For some reason I think it might be Newt, or someone else I haven’t seen for a while. Maybe Poe. Or maybe—well, maybe ghosts like to hear some tunes as well. So do mannequins.

  The music is seriously loud by the time I reach the top of the stairs and look inside my bedroom. Sitting slumped on my bed is Uncle Robert, an orange album resting on his chest. He doesn’t look surprised or even mildly interested in talking as I stand before the door.

  The singer is talking about a sweet and tender hooligan. Robert eventually nods and then waves as if he wants to finish this song, which we do. He hands me the album, and I see that it’s Louder Than Bombs by The Smiths. It makes me think of the first day I attended Harrington High and the trio of girls that came up to me because of my T-shirt.

  That seems like ten years ago.

  Robert turns down the volume but doesn’t shut the music off. For a moment I think he’s going to remark about how bad my face looks, but he doesn’t say a word about it.

  “This makes me think of my high school days,” Robert says, looking at the record cover. “These guys spoke the things I felt. It was like they somehow were singing for me.”

  I don’t say anything.

  Guess Iris was right about my face and the magical mystery potion.

  “So have you enjoyed listening to my records? And wearing my clothes?”

  “Why have you been watching us? Why have you been hiding?”

  He rolls his eyes and sits up.

  Morrissey says “That’s the story of my life” as another song fades away. Uncle Robert just nods and ignores my question.

  “I just talked to Staunch downtown,” I tell him.

  And, oh yeah, his phone has bits of my cheek lodged into its keys.

  “What did he say about Tara?”

  “He said he’d kill her.”

  Robert rubs his dark stubble. “Well, that’s good.”