Undone

by Rebecca Shea

  “From yourself, you stupid asshole.” He rolls his window up and backs out of the driveway, leaving me contemplating his words.

  Sprawled on my large sectional, I flip through hundreds of channels on the TV, not finding anything that I want to watch. Agitated, I kick the throw pillow off the end of the couch and toss the remote control on the coffee table.

  “I have two questions for you,” Lindsay says, leaning against the wall. “First, what the hell happened? I haven’t see you in a mood like this in a long time.”

  “Nothing,” I bark, ignoring her and turning my attention to a pre-season football game on the TV that I honestly don’t give a shit about.

  “Whatever,” she mumbles under her breath. “Oh, and the second question. Why the fuck is there a broken vibrator in the trash can?” I turn my head to look at her, but she has already started walking away. “Never mind, there are some questions I would rather not know the answers to,” she says over her shoulder as she disappears down the hallway. The front door opens and I sit up to see Reagan step inside and I can tell she’s pissed.

  “Ever heard of knocking?” I spit out.

  “Ever heard of saying goodbye?” She tosses her purse onto the coffee table and stands before me with her arms crossed over her chest.

  “I was pissed, so I left.”

  “Well, I’m pissed now, so I’m here.” She taps her foot on the wood floor as she scowls at me.

  “What do you want, Reagan?” I breathe out the words.

  “I want you to talk to me. I want you to tell me what you’re thinking, tell me what you’re feeling.” I actually laugh. Not because it’s funny, but because everything she just asked me to do, I can’t.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “I told you I can’t be what you want. It’s probably best if you just leave.” Her arms fall to her sides and the visible anger that was on her face turns to sadness. I know I’m a dick, but it’s better if I push her away now, before either of us becomes too attached.

  “So I am just like the other women. Fuck me and leave me, just like them. Way to try, Champ,” she says quietly, her chin quivering and her hands trembling. “I’ll go,” she whispers, reaching down to pick up her purse from the table. Walking to the door, she stops with her hand resting on the doorknob. Turning around, she looks back at me as she swats at the tear that rolls down her cheek. “Someday, you’re going to find someone and, when that day comes, I hope you’re able to talk to them about whatever it is you’re keeping pent up inside you.”

  My fists clench as I look at her, and guilt rolls through me. I struggle with wanting her and never wanting to see her again.

  “Just. Leave.”

  “… and when you find her and trust her, tell her… don’t be a coward…” And like that, I fly off the couch and grab her. I can feel my hands gripping her upper arms. She whimpers as I push her backward slightly.

  “Trust her? Why? So I can tell her what? Tell her how my dad used to beat the shit out of me every single day? Every. Fucking. Single. Day,” I yell in her face. She reaches for my forearms as I grab onto her shoulders.

  “My arms have been broken seven times, I’ve had three skull fractures, a broken foot, two broken hands, and I can’t even count the number of times I’ve had black eyes or a broken nose. Is that what you fucking want to hear, Reagan? Is it? Do you want to hear all the gory details of how my mom got the shit beat out of her nearly every fucking day, and how I was the one who had to clean up the blood?”

  My body is shaking with pure rage. I can feel her warm skin beneath my fingers, but I cannot see her at all; I can only see the memories of my mom curled in a protective ball while my dad kicked her, punched her, and spit on her.

  “Did you also want to hear how she fucking packed up her bags when I was eight fucking years old, and walked out on Lindsay and me, and left us with that monster?” I snap at her. “Because that’s what Lindsay and I lived through every goddamn day of our lives, and no one, not one single person, ever tried to help us.” My heart feels like it’s going to explode, and anger continues to roil through me. “I never knew when I woke up in the morning if this would be the day he killed me or not, so I learned to live as if it was. Why should I bother getting attached to anything, or anyone? Who the fuck was there to trust?” I growl at her.

  “Stop!” I hear Lindsay scream just like she did when we were younger. Only this time, she’s telling me to stop and not my father. I can feel her shaking hands pulling at me, clawing at my arms just like she used to pull at my dad, trying to get him off of me.

  “Landon,” she cries, pushing herself between Reagan and me. “Are you okay? Oh my God,” I hear her cry out as Reagan takes the loudest breath I’ve ever heard. My vision is back in time for me to see her sink to the floor on her knees while Lindsay kneels next to her, looking up at me. The look of fear on Lindsay’s face, but most importantly seeing Reagan huddled over, scares the shit out of me. Reagan swats at Lindsay’s hands as Lindsay tries to push her hair back from her neck. Loud panting breaths fill the quiet space as Reagan tries to recapture her breath.

  “Reagan, talk to me,” Lindsay whispers, her voice cracking. Reagan looks so small huddled into a ball on the floor with her arms wrapped around her waist. She’s leaning forward, and her long hair covers her face so I can’t see her.

  “Reagan…” I stutter as I move towards her. She holds up a trembling hand to stop me from coming any closer and Lindsay reaches out and touches her arm, just as it falls back into place around her waist. A million memories flash through my mind as I stand here, looking at her kneeling on the floor. So many times, I remember my mom huddled into a little ball on the floor as she tried to deflect punches and kicks from my father. My stomach roils when I realize I have become the very animal my father was.

  “Fuck,” I murmur as I run both hands through my short hair. “Reagan, I’m so sorry. So, so, sorry,” I repeat over and over. Her breathing finally settles and her hands move from her waist to her lap, and finally to her neck. She rubs the front of her neck along her throat and when she finally raises her head, I get a glimpse of her tear-stained cheeks covered in mascara and I can see the rise and fall of her chest and she continues to take deep breaths as she tries to calm herself.

  Lindsay sits next to her, crying, huddled as close to her as she possibly can. Just like she did with me when I was the one taking the beatings. “I need to go,” Reagan whispers as she tries to push herself to her feet. Her legs are noticeably shaking as she walks toward the front door. She pauses for a second before turning around. “Do you think you could drive me? I’m not sure I should drive right now,” she asks Lindsay, who is wiping tears from her face.

  “Of course. Let me grab my purse. You’ll be okay here, right?” she asks, looking between Reagan and me. Reagan nods her head and I notice her one hand is still holding her neck.

  “I didn’t mean to hurt you. I would never purposely hurt you,” I say, moving toward her. I have the overwhelming urge to scoop her into my arms and hold her; comfort her.

  “I know,” she says as she swallows hard.

  “God, Reagan, please tell me I didn’t hit you?” My heart falls and my stomach clenches. “I would never hit a woman, especially one I…”

  “You didn’t hit me,” she cuts me off.

  “Here, sit down.” I motion toward the couch. I hesitate to reach out and help her as she sits down. “I’m going to go get a bag of ice. Just lie down.” She rubs at her upper arms, and I can see red marks where my hands were squeezing her.

  She sits on the couch while I walk to the kitchen and pull an ice pack out of the freezer. Walking back to the living room, I freeze when I see her elbows resting on her knees, her head bowed, and her shoulders shaking lightly.

  “Here’s some ice,” I say from behind her to let her know I’m approaching.

  “Thanks,” she whispers as she wipes the fresh tears from her cheeks. She presses the ice pack to her neck and leans forward aga
in as she tries to hide her face behind her long hair.

  “Please look at me,” I say, and she shakes her head back and forth. “Reagan?” She raises her head and finally meets my eyes. She’s wiped the mascara from her cheeks and her tears have dried, but she’s afraid of me. I can see it in her eyes—the trepidation, the fear.

  “Set the ice down on the table, please.” She stares at me with somber eyes. Her bright blue eyes have turned to grey, and her lips tremble as she watches me move toward her slowly. I can actually hear her swallow as I sit down next to her and brush her hair back over her shoulder.

  “Set the ice down, please,” I tell her again, waiting to see what she’s hiding. With shaking hands, she lowers the ice pack to her lap and I close my eyes and curse myself when I see the large red mark across her throat.

  “I did that? I fucking did that to you?”

  “It’s fine,” she whispers. “It’s just tender.”

  “It’s not fine. It’s not fucking okay that I did that to you. Your arms, your throat.” My voice wavers as I try not to scare her any more than I already have. I stand up and walk down the hall to my room, slamming the door behind me.

  Pressing my forehead against my bedroom wall, I close my eyes and struggle to remember what happened. In my mind, I know I didn’t mean to hurt her, but in my heart, I know I did. Turning, I reach for the first object in sight, the lamp on my bedside table and toss it against the wall, smashing it into a million pieces. Reaching back, I throw my fist into the wall, and again punch two large holes through the sheet rock. The pain soaring through my hand feels good—a painful release.

  “Stop. Please.” I hear her voice from behind me; soft, yet full of fear.

  “It would probably be best if you left,” I say, wiping the sweat from my forehead with the back of my hand.

  “No.” Her voice is weak, yet strong.

  “Why can’t you ever do what I ask of you, Reagan? Goddammit, listen to me. I told you before I was going to hurt you and look at you,” I say with a strained voice. She watches me intently as I walk in circles around the room.

  “Sit down,” she orders me as she points to the bed. “Please.” She shuts the bedroom door, walks over to the edge of the bed, and sits next to me. Rubbing her temples with her fingers, she lets out a deep sigh before she begins.

  “I know you didn’t mean to hurt me.”

  “But,” I interrupt.

  “Stop.” She reaches out and touches my arm. “Let me finish.”

  “I know you didn’t mean to hurt me,” she pauses for a second before she continues. “And I didn’t mean to push you, to ask so many questions. But if for one goddamn minute, you think anything you said out there in that living room changes how I feel about you or what I think about you, you’re mistaken.” She slides off the bed and kneels before me, positioning herself between my legs. She rests her hands on my thighs and looks up at me.

  “None of that was your fault,” she says quietly. “None of it.” I nod my head slowly in agreement. “And if you push me away because of that, then you’re really not the man I thought you were.” And there is the punch to the gut I deserve, “But you have to let someone in, Landon. If not me, someone.”

  “I’m sorry,” I whisper and rest my hands on top of hers. Leaning forward, I kiss the top of her dark hair lightly, inhaling her scent for what may be the last time. “But I need you to leave.” Her hands flinch when I ask her to go. She stands slowly as she pulls her hands from my thighs, letting them fall to her sides. With no other words, she walks to the door.

  “I’m sorry,” I say loud enough that I know she heard me. The click of the door and the quiet footsteps that fade down the hall tell me she’s gone, and for the first time since my mom left twenty-two years ago, my heart breaks.

  The sound of the alarm for the fourth time this morning only indicates one thing—I’m really fucking late. I don’t think I slept for more than twenty minutes last night and now I have a full day of work ahead of me.

  Pulling myself from the bed, I drag my exhausted body into the bathroom. Between the bloodshot eyes, the dark circles from lack of sleep, and the giant red mark that is still visible across my throat, I look like a zombie.

  “Coffee,” I mutter and shuffle down the hallway to the kitchen to make a pot of the strongest coffee ever. In record time, I’ve washed my face, brushed my teeth, and fixed my hair, leaving it loose so that it hangs around my neck to cover the pink mark that stretches across my neck.

  The ride to work is short and quiet. I’m left with nothing but my thoughts and my exhaustion. Pulling into my covered parking spot, I don’t even recall driving here. There is no way I’m going to make it through this day. Pulling my cellphone from my purse, I check to see if I have any missed calls or text messages, but I have nothing. I toss it back into my purse and gather my belongings.

  It’s early, so the office is dark and empty and I settle into my small office, powering up my laptop. Leaning back in the oversized leather chair behind my desk, I lay my head back and take a deep, cleansing breath. Closing my eyes, I relax and take another deep breath, focusing on clearing my head and preparing for the day ahead.

  “So are you going to let him get away with that?” The husky voice fills the small, quiet space of my office, startling me.

  “Excuse me?” I ask as I open my eyes to find Adam leaning against the doorframe of my open office door.

  “Your neck.” He nods. “I hope you’re not going to let him get away with it like his father did.”

  “What are you talking about?” I question him, as I scramble to figure out how he knows Landon’s father.

  “Christianson,” he says, walking into my office.

  “What about him?”

  “He’s the one that did that to your neck, right? I saw him driving your car the other day, Reagan. I know it was him that did that to your neck, right?” I don’t answer him, but search for any excuse I can to end this conversation, but I’m so exhausted, I can’t even think straight.

  “No.”

  “Don’t fucking lie for him, Reagan. Like father, like son,” he snarls.

  “I don’t understand what you’re talking about, Adam.” I sit up straighter in my chair.

  “His old man used to beat the shit out of his mom. From what I heard, she was a cheating whore and he almost killed her the night she finally left. When she finally left, he used to beat the shit out of Landon.”

  “How do you know this?” A wave of nausea runs through me.

  “Wilmington today isn’t as small as it used to be, sweetheart.” I hate that he calls me that. “Twenty years ago, everyone knew everyone else’s business. It wasn’t a secret what his old man used to do to them, but he got away with it because of who he was.”

  “Who was he?”

  “He was the chief of police and a lousy drunk. He was killed in a car crash on duty about seven years ago. That was probably the best thing that ever happened to that family.” He pauses for a few moments as he considers what to say. “Look, Landon’s always been a loose cannon. We went to high school together and I never liked the kid. I have to say, though; I used to feel bad for him when I’d see him at school. I swear he was always in a different cast, or bandaged up.” He chuckles.

  “What about his mother? What ever happened to her?” Adam visibly tenses when I ask this question, which I find odd.

  “Last I heard, she set up house with another family. Got to play ‘mommy’ to some step kids. She left and never went back for them,” he says, backing towards the door. “I’m serious, Reagan. Don’t take that shit from him, do you understand?” He points to my neck. “The last thing this office needs is a dead doctor all over the news because her loser boyfriend beat the shit out of her, or worse, has killed her.”

  “He didn’t do this.” I’m confident with my answer, but inside, I’m shaking.

  “Don’t fucking lie and cover it up like his mom tried to do. You’ll end up almost dead like her,” he sa
ys as he turns to leave the office.

  “He’s not his father,” I announce loudly.

  “First stage is denial,” he mumbles over his shoulder.

  “Such a fucking dick hole,” I say under my breath as he walks away, shutting the door behind him. Dropping my head in my hands, I rub my temples and think that Landon’s behaviors all make perfect sense now that I understand the abuse he went through. Seconds later, there is a knock on my door, “What now?” I bark, assuming it’s Adam again.

  “Hey.” The voice is calming as the door opens slowly. Matt pokes his head in. “Mind if I come in?”

  “No, please, come in,” I offer.

  “Lindsay asked me to stop by.” He offers me a half smile. “Mind if I sit down for a minute?” He motions to the chair that sits in front of my desk.

  “Of course,” I say politely. Matt is tall and handsome with dark brown hair, hazel eyes, and a calming demeanor. He’s average build, very all-American boy next door. He takes a seat in the chair and steeples his hands. I know he’s uncomfortable coming here, and I’m positive it’s because of last night.

  “So Lindsay told me what happened last night,” he starts. “She’s really worried about you.”

  “I’m fine, really,” I sigh as I try to dismiss his concern. “I think everything got a little blown out of proportion,” I add.

  “Lindsay didn’t see what happened in the beginning, only what she saw when she came in the room. Did he…”

  “Hit me? No, he didn’t. And I’m not saying that to protect him, Matt. He didn’t hit me.”

  “Then what happened, Reagan? The truth.” His voice is calm and soothing.

  “He left my house yesterday rather abruptly after I was pushing him to talk to me.”

  “About?”

  “About everything? Why he’s so closed off, why he can’t talk about things, why he can’t commit.”

  He chuckles. “You really went for the jugular, didn’t you?”

  “Well, how was I supposed to know? He doesn’t tell me anything, which is why I was pressing him. Anyway, he left my house angry; he didn’t even say goodbye. He just got up and left. I was so hurt and angry.” My voice cracks slightly.