Ache for You (Trapped in Three Hill Book 1) (11 page)

              I sit in the living room after brushing my hair and getting dressed, staring off into the dead air that is my television set.

              I haven’t paid the cable bill yet.

              What time is it?

              I glance over my shoulder to look for Torrance, which is stupid since I would have heard him come in. Poor kid. He looks a lot like Alex, except for the dark blond hair and the blue eyes. His innocence though, my brother was all about that. The resemblance is fading but I long to see it, I think the only reason I originally moved in with him was to protect him, to take care of him.

              I can’t do that, and he is a grown man, almost the same age that Alex would have been. I feel like an ancient old troll compared to him even though when I look in the mirror, I know that I don’t look twenty-seven.

              I just look lifeless.

              Tiny framed and a giant, but still somehow curvaceous.

              I need to get out of this place. I should go look for Torrance. See what kind of trouble he’s gotten himself in.

              Yeah.

              That’s not going to happen. I have the sudden urge to get off of my ass and make a sandwich: a ham sandwich. I also want chocolate. I must be getting my period. Thank God for that. It’s better than being knocked up by a man now rendered nameless. I try not to remember any of my one night stands.

              I get up. One step. Two step. I can do this. I can eat. Nothing truly bad can come of that. Can it?

              I walk back into the kitchen. The floor is still a mess of vomit, and something weird inside of me is pushing me to clean it. Wash away the demons.

              Yeah.
I want to scream,
as if.
But I do it. Somehow and for some reason, I dip into the hallway closet to retrieve the mop bucket. The mop itself is grey and gross looking as shit. The strands are completely solid. I don’t have anything to swap it with. So I pick up the bucket and mop, carrying it into the kitchen.

              I set it on the counter top and turn on the tap. The sink is filled with gross dirty dishes.  I hate touching shit like that. I reach into the drawer where the forks and knifes live and pull out a pair of pink rubber gloves I forgot that I had. They have rhinestones. Glitter all along the fingertips. They must belong to Torrance. He’s a closeted drama queen like that.

              I pull them on and reach for the dish soap or whatever is left. I need to go to the store and get on top of all of this shit. I grab a wash cloth and get at it. Washing one dish. A cup. A coffee mug.

              This is disgusting, and I hate it. I am so afraid of bugs. Eww! Something slimy touched me! Get it off! Get it off!

              I fling something that does not look edible and or human onto the back of the sink. There’s a window right above it, a window that I blocked off with newspapers and a magazine print off. I can’t even remember what it looks out on. Sunshine? A garden? The street?

              I’ve been holed up in my dread for so long I don’t even think it’s possible anymore to pull my head out of my ass. I’m locked up by a fucked up thought process. But this is my punishment, and I deserve it.

              I deserve seclusion.

              I don’t deserve to live.

              I bought an old car that barely runs. I don’t remember when but I know that it happened.  I took out the money for it because buying it meant helping some poor old woman. I guess the old beater belonged to one of her kids, or her kid. I can’t remember how many she had.

              It belonged to a girl. She didn’t say much more than that. I only knew about the woman and her kid because of Torrance. He knew them. He wanted to buy the car but couldn’t afford it, so I bought it for him and said he could pay me back. He still hasn’t used it.

              It barely runs, but it gets me to work and back. I have to work to pay the rent. I hate this, but it is just the way life is.

              I start the car with the remote before getting in. It’s warm out today and for the first time in months I convince myself that I can almost feel it. I want to close my eyes and take it in. The problem with this is that by letting the warmth in, I allow myself to feel all too much of it. Once I turn my heart on it’s hard to shut it down again.

              I would rather be a robot. Turning everything off meant that I could somehow get through it. I could feign normal actions before returning to the darkness. This is how I get through it. I fake it.

              I don’t know where I’m headed. I think I traded shifts today with some short, pimply faced red-headed kid. I work as a cashier at a gas station. It doesn’t pay much but no one talks to me, and that’s enough. My mind revels in the silence. I find comfort in it.

              I take a left out of the parking lot and straight into busier traffic.

              Three Hill only has three intersections. I find the first one and avoid it, carefully watching the road ahead.

              I changed after washing the dishes, even though there wasn’t a point in it. I pulled on one of my worst shirts.

              The kind fused together with clingy fabric that hangs and hugs every indecent curve. Every flab of fat. Every roll that I have on my back. I wipe my sweaty palms off on my pants.

              I eat to make myself feel better, I know that. I’ve gotten quite good at it; I want to stop at the drive-thru for McDonald's and I plan on it. But that doesn’t explain why I’m holding a cake pan on my lap. I made two sandwiches and stuffed in some chocolate. The cheese and crackers were a last ditch totally random plan.

              I still have no idea where I’m headed. All I know is that I need to get there fast. I can’t explain it. The second row of thought’s currently present in my head, a strange new awareness.

              Like the queen Beyoncé said:

             
I woke up like this.

              I saw him. You know, the dude with black hair and green eyes more beautiful than the most luscious of forests.

              He was way taller than I am, with naturally tanned olive skin. A strong jawline and lips bruised and picked at. A fresh layer of scruff and redness coating his skin. He slammed his door in my face right after I intruded on him.

              Seriously. He opened the door, and I walked right in. Who does that?

              I wish I could explain the way I knew what to say to him, how to find him. He is a stranger. That was the first time that I had ever seen him, but somehow I know that it won’t be the last.

              My body flooded with relief the instant that our eyes met, and I know that that doesn’t make any fucking sense.

              I don’t know him.

              I would have no reason to know him or to want to know him. Seeking him out to run into him would be pointless. As far as I know we don’t have any friends in common, and yet here I am, sitting in my Old beater. I’ve been staring at his front door since he slammed it. He lives in a student housing complex. The nicer side of it. The front yard is fenced in. He seriously has a white picket fence.

              There are trees. Beautiful and strong. Dense.

              He is hidden behind his small forest. I left the food with him and for some reason I sincerely hope that he eats it. He didn’t look well. His strong jaw was hanging open.

              He was shirtless, completely and almost one-hundred-percent naked. My eyes scanned his hard chest. His arms, broad shoulders. They were taut with impatience. I looked down out of habit and saw what looked like a six pack. He glared at me until my exit.

              He forced it.

              Now I’m just sitting in the
Old beater
like an escaped mental patient. I need to get on with it.

              Suck it up princess.

              I start my engine and reverse out of the parking spot, I was parked crooked so I took up two spots. For some reason, I was in that much of a rush. I’m acting like a total nut. I need to shake this off. I tie my hair back in a bun, driving one handed until I’m done.

              I swerve a little but right myself.

              I decide to head to
Walmands
, the local grocery emporium. The owner is like a billionaire now or some shit, he moved down south to the U.S. Our
Walmands
is just one out of thousands, but it’s also one of the biggest. I applied there a few months back but when I came in wasted they told me that the position I wanted was no longer open.

              Of course it wasn’t. I drive around the back, behind the hardwood store located right next to it. My dad warned me against doing this. Mostly because driving over nails and shit is bad.

              I still do it.

              I park behind a white van. The kind that kidnappers purchase. Bad men with 1970’s pornstaches.

              I didn’t bring my purse in, just my wallet. I tuck it into my armpit.

              I get out, locking my car walking quickly, head down, orange hair flying back. I’m a train wreck, and I know it. At least when faced with a train wreck, most decent people avoid it. Other assholes stare at it.

              The parking lot is massive but I parked near the handicap section, next to a tree and a bush. There’s a whole twenty-some steps between me and the front entrance. I run them.

              The automatic doors swish open. I enter in the exit.

              “Hey guys, look who is it?” the whispers come from behind my back, as soon as I walk in.

              I nod at an old woman wearing a blue vest: the welcome wagon. She’s guarding the shopping carts and the flyer/coupon bin. I walk with hesitance.

              “Isn’t that Cadence? Man, I haven’t seen her since…”

Since when? Last weekend, when I got wasted enough to forget the run in?

              “…since they told us Alex wasn’t going to make it.”

              Seven years and counting.

              “She looks like crap, Jesus.”

              I already know that. I didn’t need a kid who looks younger than Torrance to tell me that. They’ve gathered right next to a discount candy rack. Three of them, the ass-hat and two girls who eye me over paper cups probably filled with some diet soda.

              I don’t look at them. I don’t need to hear them say my little brothers name for it all to be brought back; I already have that. I just walk, eyes ahead, heart dead. I’ve gotten good at it.

              I eat fast and crawl back into bed with my chocolate. It’s delicious. Creamy and milky and perfect.

              The woman in me loves it. The man that I am just feels feminine. I have a television set up on my dresser, and I’m currently holding the remote for it. I start flipping past boring news programs.

              The world has gone to complete shit, but I am totally, one-hundred and-twenty-five-percent aware of that. I don’t need graphic images to remind me of it. The destruction is fact. It’s impossible to escape it.

              I click the red END button and close my eyes against the sudden silence.  I need a drink. I need a fresh air. I need to have a shit. I need to shower again.

              I gave up looking for my phone because a part of me doesn’t care to find it. I’m terrified to hear her voice again, and yet I’m terrified to erase them; voicemails, pictures, video attachments.

              I can’t handle it. Not yet.

              I start wondering if I smashed it into pieces, I almost remember doing that, why would I do that?

              I cling to every memory of Flo with self destruction. The idea that I may have cost myself all that I had left of her voice, photographs of her stupid lips, is like cutting open my own flesh.

              I roll onto my stomach, kicking at my blankets and holding onto my pillow as my eyes burn. I refuse to cry again.

              Grief is weakness. Acceptance is moronic.

              I slip off my pants and strut back downstairs towards the kitchen. I grab some milk out of the fridge and sniff test it. Everything I have to drink is rancid.

              I vomit.

              I don’t bother cleaning it. I just try not to step in it.

              I think that its Friday now. It must be. My heart swells at the thought of the weekend’s fast approach. Two more days alone. Two days where I don’t have to feel bad about not going to school. Not that I ever really feel bad at all but it’s not like I have anything better to do. Fucking wonderful.

              I woke up alone. I know that this is my normal now. I showered and wolfed some cereal down. I went to the store last night to buy milk. I only left the house because I needed to. I drove the whole way with all four windows rolled down and the radio on loud.

              No one bothered me. It was cool. I have decided today to go to school. Because trying again won’t kill you, right?

              If only one could murder an already bruised and battered soul and I don’t think it’s truly possible. I’m dead anyhow.

              I get dressed in my douche bag clothes: Ed Hardy shirt, my blue jeans with the pockets bejewelled. I feel like a total tool, and I look like one too. Ha, cool.

              I head outside and start my Chevy™. Once again, I could walk to school but I’m still a lazy asshole. I have only just hopped in when I feel a strange chill, I look over and see the wacko girl from a few days ago. Cadence, or something like that? Who the hell knows?

              I don’t care to be quite honest with you.

              “Can I help you?” I call out, rolling my window down. She’s sitting on a rock placed in front of the parking lot. I think the rock has some dedication etched into it. She doesn’t look confused, her brown eyes purposeful.

              “Nope, not at all.” Wacko girl smiles. Lifting up her coffee as if to toast me a farewell. “Just checking up on you.”

              Okay, that’s not strange at all.

              I nod and turn the wheel.

              I have almost no good memories of this hellhole. This is my second year, and I still haven’t accomplished shit all. I’m in open studies, and the government was so happy to help me add to my collective debt pile that they gifted me with another four-thousand-dollar student loan. It was deposited into my account on the first actual day of classes.

              I blew half of it on my rent, the rest went to random crap. Car insurance. A new paint job. Some fancy ass pants.

              I’m a moron like that.

              I park my ride sideways against a minivan and hop out. Closing my door with a slam but making sure to lock it. I didn’t bring any books or notepads, or my backpack. I don’t need shit.

              The entire school is made of brick. The front entrance made of half a dozen metal doors, all painted blood red. People are everywhere. Normal humans. Functioning people without heads full of useless brain mucus. I nod at someone I don’t know one the way in. I think it was one of River’s friends. You know, the douche bag that she always wanted. She being my best-est and deadest friend. Scratch that, you didn’t need to know that. I duck my head. The front entrance isn’t silent, but noise doesn’t jump out at me the way that I expected.

              This seems okay. I think I can handle this.