Page 2 of The Way We Rot
Dealing with my own quiet form of coping. Like the lame jokes, like the disassociation I tried to force on myself.
But when everyone went outside to smoke, and I stayed inside, my ears snagged on the conversation in the next booth over. It was this guy bragging to his friend about his brother — aboutme.
His big brother was a detective, hot on my tail, apparently. He knew things about the case that had been kept hidden from the public. When he told them about my methods with a twinkle in his eye, acid churned in my stomach.
“She sounds scary,” I said, popping my head over the short wall.
Soft brown eyes caught mine, warm and smiling. A lie.
“Oh, she definitely is,” he replied, dipping his gaze to my cleavage before even asking my name. He should have asked my name.
That was his death sentence, I think, though I never quite knew what moments triggered my decisions.
We flirted for a few more minutes before I invited him to the alleyway for a smoke, letting my eyes rake over him, taking in his wide shoulders, the way his hands curled around his beer bottle. He understood what I wanted.
I followed him outside — Jackson, I think — and right away, he whirled on me, tried to kiss me, touched my cheek.
Always proven right. Painful and disappointing, every damn time. My mind didn’t want this, but my body had no choice.
So, Jase and I took a little trip into the warehouse next to the club while he lost consciousness and I almost popped a vein in my temple dragging his heavy frame inside. Thanks to the roofie in his drink, he was a deadweight and I couldn’t get him far. It was too close, I knew that. I could still hear the music from the bar, the drunken yelling of happy patrons.
It was about 3am when I left him in that warehouse, unable to touch another woman, hurt another woman. I had to wait until the last of the late night stragglers were gone too, because I was either going covered in blood or ass naked, and I wasn’t sure what would get me more attention.
There were a few times I thought I’d been caught as I snooped from the windows, a group of men shouting for their friend, arguing as they blamed each other for his disappearing. I watched riveted, knowing the man they sought was beginning his long rot behind me.
My current home away from home wasn’t great. I stayed away from my family as much as I could, as this grew into something more, not wanting to see who I was becoming. It wasn’t shamefulness that kept me from admitting it; it was that if I told them, or if they suspected, they’d do something to stop me.
So tonight, and for the last week, a dive of a converted motel filled with vagrants and runaways was where I rested my head. It wasn’t great, but it worked for me. They didn’t care about someone coming back all dirty. Most of them were too messed up to realize.
I hummed to myself to keep calm and relaxed, distant, as I strolled down the street, past the bar, now quiet, reminiscing about Joe’s last hour. Every time, I was desperate to know what they were thinking as that last second of life ticked over - but they were always too scared or in too much pain to give me a coherent answer.
Next time. Because there would have to be a next time.
I didn’t notice as the road got busier. Didn’t notice it was a swarm of police cars coming down both ends of the street, trapping me in.
Definitely didn’t realize they were all falling from their cars, yelling, pointing their guns atmeuntil one of them begged to know why I’d hurt his brother, and my attention snapped.
I think I lost time somewhere. The sun might have even been on the horizon. But the bright beams of the headlights, the torches they all shone at me, dazzled me.
I tried to look at each of the officers, to study their faces, but they were all shouty, in shadow with big lights behind them, pointing way too many guns at one woman.
My hands shook, bile churned in my gut, boiling up my throat. Too many, there were too many to stop, to remember.
“Don’t move!” one of them screamed.
And then there were hands on me.
One
Penny
Hands on me. Too many, too much. Clawing hands digging into skin, holding me down, forcing and pushing. Even when I cried, tried to fight back, used my teeth in their palms to make them stop, it never happened.
Flashes of the before, standing and smiling at the table, handing him his drink, warred with the during, the pressure and pain. The after, when I turned the tables, that’s what made me strong. Those moments, when I made him bleed, made him cry, that’s what got me through everything.
Through the look of despair on my mother’s face when she saw me in my orange jumpsuit for the first time. Through the accusations and evidence on display, the disgust from the reporters, from the families.
Yeah, those last glimpses of life, in my control, after they were so evil. That could get me through almost anything.
