Ache for You (Trapped in Three Hill Book 1) (14 page)

              I hate this town and everything in it. I’m walking in stupid directions at random. I have no idea where I’m headed. I have nothing with me. No purse, no wallet, no cell phone and no jacket. I remember having my wallet at
Walmands
. I hope that I didn’t lose it or leave it somewhere random. I will die if it was stolen.

              Okay, that was a tad dramatic but you get what I’m saying. My entire life is in that wallet. My favourite photograph of Alex is in that wallet. He was thirteen when I took it at the fair with a cowboy hat hanging off of his head.

              He was hilarious. Adorable.

              He took my heart with him. I don’t know if I’ll be ever to get it back or if I’ll be the same again. I doubt it.

              My parents are fucked up for good. I know that because I saw it happen first hand. A week after my brother’s accident, we were told that we should bury him. They wanted us to pull the plug on him. They wanted us to give up on him. They wanted us to stop believing that he would come back again.

              A week. That’s it. Seven days.

              They were heavy worded and short-handed, the nurses, the specialists.  I remember only parts of them, random moments. Like having to buy new shoes at the only store open past 5 p.m. because I puked on mine. I was too afraid to see him hooked to machines and lifeless in a hospital bed. The cashier was a total bitch and yet I know that that shouldn’t have mattered but it did. There were moments of that week where every part of my existence was in high-def.

              I remember the blonde woman who handed me the clear plastic bag with my new shoes in it. She didn’t smile, or tell me to have a good day. She just glared and I left. I remember her dimples. Her chin. The way she laughed at me when I left. I was only twenty years old then. Seven years have gone by so fast.

              Alex was sixteen. A kid. He wasn’t ready for what the world had in store for him, but he should have gotten to experience it. He didn’t. I can’t help but wonder sometimes if I wouldn’t have been born, if Alex has been an only child instead of the youngest, would he still be alive? People always say that when it’s your time to go, it’s fate. Nothing can change it. I don’t believe that. What happened to Alex, it wasn’t an accident? It wasn’t fate or anything like that. He was trying to protect me, and I failed him.

              I was a fuck up back then, even worse than I still am. Hard to believe isn’t it? That the current version of me is the good one and yet still, I am a reckless and horrible person.

              I hate talking about what happened to Alex. I hate thinking about it because I feel like that makes it fact. I would rather pretend like it didn’t happen, but I can’t. I hate the fact that me getting shit faced meant him trying to come get me with his best friend. He tried to rescue me alongside Torrance. They were both just kids. Innocent and sweet kids.

              Torrance never grew out of that, even though he got the chance. Every day I am so thankful that he did. Get the chance that is.

              Alex. Sweet brown eyed Alex. He had sandy blonde hair and a sweet dimpled grin. He was small and always blended in; the girls in town loved him. Actually scratch that, they adored him. Everyone did.

              Now seven years have gone by so fast and he’s still lifeless on that same fucking hospital bed. He’s brain dead and only breathing because we refuse to say goodbye to him. I can’t even find the courage to go see him, touch him. I can’t stomach seeing my parents or my old friends. What the hell happened?

              The pool hall is crowded. It’s also filthy and smells stale. The carpet is sea-foam green. The pool tables closely placed, I watch a smaller dude get elbowed with a pool cue. Laughter and shouting echoes. I feel overwhelmed. I should have expected this, but I didn’t. I walk in and head right for the back, pulling out my licence and handing it to the nice chick with the decent sized rack.

              She smiles and takes it, asking me what I want. I order beer because fuck it. I don’t care what she thought or what anyone else thought. I am a desperate man trapped in a drought. I need refreshment, and I need a lot of it. I see the sweet brunette walk in but don’t think much of it. She wonders around the edge of the room, with her hard eyes downcast.

              I take a sip. My beer tastes bad but still I swallow it. I sit on a bar stool but give the bartender my back.

              I feel like a jackass, like I should be wearing more plaid. Maybe then I would stick out less. I look at the faces that surround me. Faces that laugh and smile before taking a pretty girls hand.

              I watch all of this emotionless. Well, almost emotionless. I’m still eye stalking the cute brunette. She doesn’t look old enough to be in a place like this. She looks shy and upset. Black cords are hugging her hips. Brown jacket is hanging open. Her top looks like it’s made of some clear plastic wrap.

              Ugh. Okay then…

              I lean back and rest my arm on counter top. All I can think about is Cadence, and I hate it. I hate that I made her mad, but I’m still proud that I did. It was nice to see her react. It was nice to see her brown eyes turn blood red. She smelled of cigarettes and cinnamon.

              She couldn’t sit still for more than a moment. Right away I noticed that. She was always moving, always playing with her hands, always biting her bottom lip, always looking somewhat sad. I was indifferent to this. Indifferent to her facial expressions and her inner demons. She was just someone I had forced against, she showed up at my house a few times, we’ve gone out to eat and now that will be that. She can lay whatever sick interest she has in me it to rest. I will not be seeing her again.

              Saturday was awful from beginning to end. I woke up in my bed, for once actually in it instead of you know, just thrown haphazardly on top of it. I blink at my alarm clock. The sun is out; my room is full of it. Someone has been brave enough to push the curtains back, illumining my paper thin walls with the sun’s eerie glow.

              Was it Torrance? No. he won’t come in here again for fear of me becoming possibly unhinged. I don’t blame him. I’m scary as hell when I’m mad.  I rub the sleep out of my eyes and roll out of bed. I am sure that I look like an ass and I feel like death. There is something gross about my breath. I look around my room and am briefly amazed by the niceness of it. I see neatness where yesterday I saw a mess. My roll-top desk is cleaned off. My eyes graze over the posters pinned up above it. Fan-girl images of movies I used to be obsessed with.  I can see my laptop instead of all of the papers surrounding it. Manuscripts I never finished.

              I used to enjoy writing; actually that’s complete and utter bullshit. I one-hundred-percent totally loved it. I was addicted to it. It made me sick. I dropped it; I killed it and after Alex I could never find the will in myself to pick it up again. It felt pointless. Selfish. How could I enjoy myself when my brother was dead? I would say that I got past feeling like that because I guess in a way I did, but grief is repetitive. It is a tidal wave, ever present but in some moments, more heightened. More intense. You always feel it.

              I get up and head towards my closet. I need to get dressed, or re-dressed I guess since I’m still in my red shirt and skin hugging denim pants. They are very hard to sit down in. I have no idea how I slept in them. I see a grey sweatshirt hanging onto a hanger, and I pull on it. The hanger falls into the pits of my closet, and I let it, turning around as I start to strip off my pants. I need to shower, like bad.

              I see something silver on the edge of my bed: a Swiss army knife like the kind that Alex used to collect. I have no idea why I have it so close to my bed. That could be seriously dangerous. I hate the part of myself that fears longing to use it, a fear I struggle and push against.             

              I will not hurt myself again.

              I see a pair of camo shorts and pick them out of the overflowing drawer. I know that there’s some skanky underwear somewhere in there, but right now I’m just happy to wear a pair of my ex-boyfriend’s boxers. I think his name was Mark or Omar? I honestly can’t be sure.

              I pick up the Swiss army knife and hold it with the blade pointed outwards, crossing my mirror I once again glance at my reflection and my hair. Burnt orange and falling well past my shoulders. I decide to do something that I’ve never done before. I want to cut my hair. I hold up my bangs and pull the knife backwards, slicing and trimming the hair at an angle that doesn’t hurt.

              I want short hair. I don’t want my looks to matter. I want to be fierce, a true terror. I want everyone on earth to know that Cadence Smalls is here. I will be remembered, for better or worse.

              I chop off the back until it is razor short, leaving the front part a little longer as I shape it over. I have a mullet, only backwards. Business in the back, the party in the front. I want the orange gone. I want to bleach and dye my hair and fry it a little more. What could it possibility hurt?

              I head out of my bedroom after pulling on my sweatshirt; it’s so long that it covers way more than just my boxers. I have yet to pull on my camo shorts. I head downstairs. I know right away that Torrance is here. I can smell his little boy cologne all over. Like
Axe™
and
Old Spice™
mixed. He is trying way too hard. “Do you have a girl over?” I call, listening into the dead air. I think he’s in the shower.

              Who in the hell is he trying to smell good for?

              “Hello? Torrance? I know that you’re here so ignoring me isn’t going to fucking work.” I call over my shoulder before I head downstairs.

              We have our own super small basement that is just as creepy as it dark. It’s more like a storage dungeon. The floor is little more than dirt with a piece of plywood placed down over top of it. The roof is low hanging; I can’t imagine Mal coming down here without hitting his head.

              I have to flick on the crappy light halfway down the stairs. It flickers, I have to duck when I reach the bottom and jump over a patch of gross carpet from there. There is literally one square piece of red carpet someone glued to the wood at the base of the stairs.

              It smells like mold down here. The walls are fake wood and dark all over, bending with the dampness that hangs in the air. I need to make this quick. I do not want to meander down here. I hurry towards a stack of old hangers and a bunny-eared television that no longer works. There’s also a green fridge that I’m terrified to open and the washer and dryer, both of which rest against the far corner.

              I know exactly what I’m after. I packed all of my useless shit away down here, all of my nice makeup and concealer. Anything that made me appears prettier and or nicer. I tucked it all away down here to watch it silently burn. I wanted every part of the before to be shattered. My life in the after is a whole different world.

              I find the box I’m searching for.

              I took the brunette home after my third or fourth beer. I knew this was a bad idea from beginning to end. I found out her name was Emelia Winters, and she was hoping to get into doing hair full-time, out in the real world. I told her that I totally supported her. I told her I liked the way her thick brown hair rested on her delicate shoulders. Her clear blue eyes looked silver. I lied and said I had never seen anything as beautiful, I kissed her shoulder, stripping her.

              And then I fucked her.

              God, those are the wrong words. The totally wrong and hurtful words. I did not fuck her. I used her. I brought her home to my townhouse and bent her over after fiercely kissing her. I pulled down her corduroy’s and her soft pink underwear. I pulled down my jeans and unleashed my dick on her, forcing her legs apart as she whimpered, aching for more. I sought out her heat and entered her. I didn’t even make sure that she was wet enough first. Fuck. My knees are almost crumbled. She was so tight and so God damn warm. Fuck. I pulled out and pushed back in.

              Gentler.

              Harder.

              Faster.

              Heavier.

              She was bent right over, precious little ass in the air. I reached down to grab her hair and smiled at the sound of my flesh meeting hers. We did not fit well together, but the sweat made us both stickier. This felt like heaven only purer. Real. Warmer. I could grab this girl and touch her. I wanted to do all of this with her until the daylight forced us to start over. I pushed my hands up and under the front of her plastic shirt. It felt like sort of thick rubber. Maybe Emelia was a hipster.

              I didn’t care. I fucked her harder. I felt the end start when my body convulsed into hers. Fuck. I forgot to wear a rubber. I moaned and said the only name that truly mattered, thank God I said it as a whisper. I’m glad Emelia did not hear because of course; the name was not hers.

              It belongs to a stranger. A girl who is no longer here.

              She tossed her hair back and tried to push herself off of the armrest of my couch/love chair. I stepped away from her, looking her sweet ass over. She was short and curvy in all the ways that mattered. I pulled up my underwear after grabbing a tissue to clean my dick off, tossing the grossness into the trash.

              Emelia turned and looked me over, her dark eyes seeming scattered. She pulled down her shirt and pulled up her underwear.

              “Thanks.” She said, pushing up at her hair. It was thick and strong, and I wanted to pull it again as I fucked her.

              Wait, what was she thanking me for?

              “You’re welcome.” Okay, this was awkward. I had somehow ended up shirtless during this precious and not so precious sudden encounter. I suddenly felt like a dick for bringing her back here. I wanted to show her the door.

              “I should probably go home and shower.” Emelia wasn’t looking me over; she just looked bored. I was anxious and unsure.

              “Great. Yes, everyone loves a good shower.” I wasn’t trying to charm her. She pushed herself fully off of the chair and started back towards the front door. My entire place was pitch dark.

              I opened the door for her, breathing in the cold evening air.

              My lungs felt sore. My eyes tired. I hid my hand in my pocket and leaned against the door jam, just watching her, waiting for her to say something that I could remember. Instead she just nodded, as if I had just body charged her.

              She was ready and warm.

              “See you never.” She swore. Winking before stepping away and heading towards her car. Had she driven us here?

              I suddenly couldn’t remember.

              I slowly shut the door and leaned against it, hanging my head in the dark. For a moment, I allowed myself to feel despair. Only for a moment because I could not allow my emotions to take over, and once again, I headed upstairs, eager to fall asleep and dream of only her. The only her I was searching for.