The Mute and the Menace

by A. R. Breck

  “Woohoo!” Logan shouts, a few feet ahead of me.

  My lips split in half with the wide smile on my face.

  Easton’s right next to me, and we alternate being a few inches in front of the next. He laughs, and it makes my smile bigger. Easton’s like me, he doesn’t laugh too much. But when he does, it’s filled with such freeness that I can’t help but chuckle along with him.

  Suddenly, a rock that’s bigger than the others slides beneath my front tire, making me bounce off to the side, I lose my grip, and my bike starts sliding out from underneath me.

  “Shit!” I shout.

  “What?” Easton and Logan yell in tandem, though they can’t turn around in fear they might fall themselves.

  It’s too late for me. My front wheel slips to the side and the rest of my bike follows after it. I face plant into gravel, my body slipping at such a fast pace it’s like falling into a bed of broken glass. I can feel my skin tear in multiple spots and scream as my body rolls down the rest of the way. My bike, I have no clue where that ended up.

  All I know is my body screams in horrible agony.

  “Oh my God. Jackson!” Easton shouts.

  “Holy shit, what do we do?” Logan screams from the side. I hear his bike crash down as he comes next to me. “Jackson, you all right?”

  I whimper as Easton and Logan turn me over. They both gasp at the sight of me. I don’t know what I look like, but if it’s anything like it feels, I bet I look like Freddy Kreuger.

  “Dude, are you okay?” Easton bends down and looks me in the eyes.

  “I don’t know.” I gasp, my skin feels like it’s actively burning as I speak. Like someone lit a torch and decided to trail it along my skin.

  “I-I’m going to go get my dad.” Logan says.

  “I’m coming.” I try to get up, but Easton gives me a vicious glare.

  “Stop, Jackson. You’re just going to hurt yourself more.” His eyes travel down my body. “Shit. Maybe we should at least get you across the street.”

  Logan’s already back on his bike, halfway across the street back to our park. Easton gives me a hand, his black eyes wide with worry. I look down at my shorts and tee that are covered with dirt, gravel, and pools of blood.

  It’s like I’m bleeding everywhere.

  Once I get to standing, I let out a tortured groan. It feels more like I was hit by a car then me tumbling down a hill.

  “I’ve got to get away from this hill. My dad’s going to literally kill me if he knew I got hurt biking down it.” I gasp, and Easton nods his head in understanding.

  “Let’s go. Just… take it slow, all right?” He lifts up my bike and I press into the handlebars, using it as a crutch to walk across the street.

  “You good?” He asks, walking next to me at a turtle’s pace.

  “No. Not really.” I grimace. It hurts to breathe, like I broke a rib or something. Once we get across the street, I groan out, “Can you grab me a soda? Fucking thirsty.” My tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth, and that combined with my pain is making me nauseous. My stomach starts turning.

  “Yeah. Wait right here.” We’re at the edge of our park, my house right around the corner.

  Easton sprints off, his bike beside him as he grips the handlebars. I fall down to my knees, the pain too much to remain standing. I look down on the ground and see a pool of blood below me.

  Huh, no wonder I’m feeling lightheaded.

  “Shit. Jackson?” A dainty voice comes from behind me, and I’ve never wanted to curl inside of my body more than I wanted to this very second.

  Cara walks up in front of me and plants her dainty hands on her waist. Her dirty brown hair is cropped to her chin, and I’m pretty sure she did it herself. She’s wearing her classic Paul Frank monkey shirt that looks a size too small, and jean shorts.

  “Go away.” I grumble, trying to reign in my emotions when she looks at me in the face.

  She squats down, and the wind kicks up, drifting her annoying, girly scent right into my nose. I lean back, trying to get away. She doesn’t notice my conundrum, tucking her short hair behind her ears as she stares at my bloody knee.

  “Looks like it needs stitches.” She points at my knee, the blood still trailing down my shin.

  “No shit.” I glare at her.

  She wrinkles her little nose in annoyance. Like I’m a bad taste in her mouth. “Well, you don’t have to be such a dick about it.”

  “Fuck off.” I hate that I’m being such an idiot, because Cara’s actually cool. She doesn’t hangout with us like she used to. A few months ago, she grew a pair of perky tits and ass. Since then, it’s like we don’t exist. She’s been holed up in her house, not hanging out with any of us anymore.

  I think Logan would wring my neck if he knew I was being so callous towards her. But the truth is, if she doesn’t get out of here soon, she might see me shed a tear.

  Yeah, the pain is that bad.

  She stands up straight and brushes off the back of her shorts. “You know what, Jackson? I came over here to try and help. Just because we don’t hangout anymore doesn’t mean I don’t care about you guys. But I guess you don’t feel the same. Whatever, bleed out on the corner for all I care.” She kicks dust towards me and turns back for home, and I swear I saw the shiny glow of tears in her eyes.

  Fucking hell.

  I bury my head in my hands, hiding my wet eyes and hating that I’m showing any emotion. Not only that, but the stabbing in my chest is a new feeling I’ve never felt before. It’s like the gravel burn went through the skin and all the way to my heart.

  Why do I feel this bad? It’s just a stupid girl.

  “Dude, you okay?” Easton runs back towards me with a can of soda in hand, Logan trailing behind him.

  I discreetly wipe my eyes and grab the can from his hands.

  “No.” I mutter, cracking open the top and guzzling down the contents.

  “My dad wasn’t home, but Rich was. He told your dad.” Logan says, cringing at the end.

  No one really knows what goes on behind my closed doors, but I think they have an inkling.

  “What?” I drop the soda, letting the brown liquid soak into the yellow grass. I hoist myself up, groaning with each movement. “I gotta go.”

  “Whoah, dude. Hold up.” Easton comes to grab onto me, but I give him a look. He steps back, holding his hands up. “I don’t know what you want me to do.”

  I feel nauseous, dizzy, lightheaded, still thirsty, and fucking angry.

  “I just… need to go.” I gasp.

  “Want help?” Logan asks.

  “No.” I’m not really angry with them, I’m just angry in general.

  I limp home, trailing my bike alongside me. The sun shining down on me makes my vision flutter with darkness. It’s too much, the pain, the bleeding, it’s too fucking much. And now my dad knows what happened. Fuck. I’m dead.

  I can hear Logan and Easton quietly trailing behind me. Probably making sure I make it home in one piece. I’d walk beside them, but I can’t talk. I’m afraid if I do, I’m going to act like a big pussy. I’d never hear the end of it.

  I turn the corner and see my front door come into view. Behind the screen, I see my dad standing there with a stoic look on his face.

  I pause. Shit.

  I drop my bike, and with my head down, limp towards the door. My dad opens the screen and I lower my head, wiping some dripping blood from my forehead. The moment I step through the doorway, I can feel the impending doom dripping into my bones, thick as tar.

  “Get in the bathroom.” He says, voice flat and baritone.

  I grab onto the counter, feeling my legs weaken into jello. He walks behind me, his presence a constant darkness. Stepping into the bathroom, I fall onto the toilet, hissing through my teeth.

  “What the hell happened?” My dad sighs as he comes in behind me, like I’m more of an inconvenience and isn’t the least bit concerned of my injuries. He rifles under the sink and grabs the first aid
kid.

  “We were just screwing around.” I mumble, leaning against the wall as my eyes drift shut. The pain has gotten so bad I’ve gone completely numb.

  “Screwing around where?” He already knows. I can tell by his voice. Barely restrained anger. Bubbling rage.

  “The hill by the yellow slide.”

  Silence.

  “You really are a fucking idiot. Fucking no-brained idiot.” What feels like lit flames fall on my shin, and I screech out in terror.

  My eyes fly open and I see my dad kneeled in front of me with a wet cloth. When the scent of alcohol permeates the air, nausea overwhelms me.

  “Don’t you fuckin’ puke on me.” He spits in my face.

  I swallow down the acid as he cleans up my leg. Clearly the most severe cut, the rest of them—at least from what I can tell—are just surface injuries.

  “Stupid boy. Thinks he’s on top of the world until he gets hurt. Huh… pussy.”

  My eyes burn with emotions. Where is my mom? Probably passed out somewhere. I need her. I wish my dad were at work. My mom might be fucked up, but she would at least tend to my injuries without insulting me in the process.

  “You need stitches. Hold still.” When the needles pokes through the skin, it feels like he’s jabbing my bone with a knife. His movements give away that he’s not being the slightest gentle, if anything, he’s being more forceful than he would usually be.

  I puff out my cheeks and breathe through my nose, but it doesn’t help. A tear falls, then two, then three, and finally continuous rivers flow down my cheeks unashamed even though my soul fucking hates to be crying in front of my dad.

  I feel the thread pull tight through my skin and then thick fingers grasp my chin. “Are you cryin’, boy?”

  Blinding pain lances through my cheek. The back of my dad’s hand sits in front of my face, and stares at me in utter disgust.

  “Quit your fuckin’ cryin’, boy, or I’ll give you something to cry about.”

  He stabs my shin again, and the pain is too much.

  I pass out

  11

  Cara

  “Come on, Cara.” I sit at my kitchen table, knee bobbing. Talking to myself. Biting my nails down to stubs. Yeah, fucking normal pregnant lady I am.

  I’ve been sitting here for the last hour, trying to get myself to open the damn envelope filled with potential parents for my unborn child. Rose called me two hours ago and said she’s going to be over later this evening and threatened that if I didn’t narrow the potential parents down, she was going to do it herself.

  So, here I am. One step closer to the envelope but mentally I’m miles away from being ready to pick out parents.

  Deep in my bones I know I’m hesitating because a part of me doesn’t know what the right thing to do is. My head knows I’m not financially, emotionally, or physically ready to take care of a child. My heart on the other hand… I don’t know. There’s some lump of uncertainty sitting in the pit of my stomach and I can’t get rid of it.

  No matter what I do, I can’t get rid of the lump. It’s heavy and filled with doubt that won’t leave.

  “Fuck it.” I reach forward and slap my clammy hand on the envelope, sliding it towards me and swallowing down the ball of fear. Turning it over, I rip it open and pull out the contents. Inside are various folders filled with different people hoping to be chosen. I spread all the folders out in front of me without opening them.

  I count them, coming up with twenty different people that want to be parents. Twenty different people that could be my child’s mom and dad. Are they good people? I can’t very well open these up and determine if my child will go into a serial killer’s home. I can’t read through their paper profiles and come to a conclusion that the people won’t love my child as much as the next profile. How would I ever be able to find the perfect parent for my little bean?

  I open up the first one and read through, eyes blurring as I stare at their pictures. I slap the folder closed and open up the next, only to slap it closed again.

  When I see a tall figure pass my window, I roll my eyes and wonder what I’ve done to have such bad luck.

  Does Jackson seriously need to come over right now? What kind of timing is this? I mean seriously.

  I debate whether I should hide the folders, but then decide it doesn’t matter. He should be a part of this process, and the sooner he comes to terms with the fact the better.

  He knocks, and I get up and walk towards the door. When I go to open, I stop in my tracks. My eyes go wide and I bend over to clutch my stomach.

  What the fuck?

  It feels like gas or something. I don’t know, but when it happens again, I let out a little squeak.

  “Cara?” He opens up the door, and when he sees me curled over, his eyes go wide and he rushes to me. “Cara? Are you all right? Is it the baby?”

  If I wasn’t in such shock, I would laugh my ass off. This emotionless man looks overwhelmed right now.

  Here’s this tall, overgrown eighteen-year-old in basketball shorts and a black hoodie. The hood is pulled over the tops of his eyes and makes him look cold. His hair pokes out from the hood and his eyes glow with unease in the dim light. He’s handsome. I never realized it, but he’s seriously good looking.

  Why did I never notice this before?

  And why the fuck am I noticing it right now?

  But he’s also a jackass. Can’t forget that.

  “I’m fine.” I gasp, slowly straightening and keeping my hand on my stomach. Eyes wide, I feel it again.

  “Well, what is it? What happened?” He barks at me.

  “It’s the baby.” I only say, bringing my other hand and curling both hands around my bump.

  “Is something wrong? Should we go to the hospital?”

  “No, I… I think the baby is moving.” I look up at him with shimmering eyes and grab onto his hand, bringing it to my stomach and pressing where I’ve felt the movements.

  His face pales, eyes going wide as he stares down at my stomach. Crouching down, his fingers clench around my shirt, trying to remain still but I can see the slight tremor in them. When I feel it again, I shoot my eyes down to his, the same moment he looks up at me.

  “Feel it?” I whisper.

  He nods his head.

  We stare at each other for so long, the rest of the room fades out and it’s just us, connecting on a level we’ve never been before.

  I don’t think I’ve ever had such a deep connection with Logan—ever.

  Is it because of the baby? Or is it us?

  Memories flood my mind. The day I first met Jackson and how closed off he was. His sad face throughout his childhood that turned into an angry stare when he became older. The night we slept together, how broken he seemed and how he brought me pure ecstasy with his anger and hurt. Then the next morning, how he shut me out and hurt me when I was already in pieces. How it’s been a roller coaster of emotions with him since the beginning. How he left me in the dark after I told him I was pregnant.

  I blink, clarity making my skin turn from hot to ice cold. I step out of his hand and watch the wonder in his eyes turn cloudy with uncertainty. His shoulders flex and stiffen as he comes to a stand, and his mood darkens the entire room.

  I brush my hand through my hair and back away from his intense stare.

  “What’re you doing here?” I turn my back towards him and sit down in front of the many folders again.

  I feel him walk up behind me and I want to shrink away from his heavy stare. It’s too much. These pregnancy hormones around Jackson are too fucking much.

  “Came to check on you.”

  I look over my shoulder and see his gaze focused on the folders in front of me. “What are these?”

  I gather them all and straighten them into two piles. I’m about halfway through, but I feel like I’m nowhere closer to figuring out who to pick.

  “Looking at adoption families.” I close my eyes in resignation when I hear him sigh. Time for another
argument.

  “How long are you goin’ to keep up this charade?” His voice is a bowl of exhaustion. He’s tired of this merry go round as much as I am. I don’t blame him.

  I turn around, hands on the tops of my chair. My fingernails dig into the aged, softened wood in aggravation. I’m going to tear his eyes out of their sockets if he brings up keeping the baby again.

  “Jackson, please don’t start.”

  He pushes his hands over his head, shoving his hood down. He grabs onto his head, pulling it up and leaving it in disarray. “Start what, Cara? Continuously begging you to let me keep my child? How is this even a question? I don’t want you to give it up for adoption. Is that a fucking crime?” The beginning of his sentence starts in a plea, but he ends up roaring in my face.

  I slam my palm into the center of my chest, although his solid form barely moves an inch. His dark eyes turn into charcoal and he curls his lip up in frustration. He grabs me by the base of the skull, wrapping his fingers into my hair. He pulls me towards him, and I wince from the slight pain. He pushes me up against the wall and gets right in my face. “You’ve got some big balls on your little body, Cara. Don’t fucking lay your hands on me if you don’t want the outcome.” He spits through his teeth, his eyes alit with pure rage.

  “I wish I wasn’t pregnant, Jackson. I’d knock your ass out.” I try to pull out of his hold, but he still holds an iron grip on my hair.

  His scowl turns into a ferocious smile. “You could try, babe. But I’ll lay your ass out in a heartbeat.”

  “Urgh!” I scream, pulling away until he finally releases me. “Sometimes, I seriously just want to kill you!”

  “The feeling’s mutual.” He sneers.

  “You know what? I think you should leave.” I point to the door, suddenly exhausted of our constant back and forth.

  “No.”

  I blink. Then blink again. “No?”

  “No.” He rumbles, rubbing his thumb across his lower lip. My gaze zeros in on his movements, and my body suddenly prickles with warmth. “What’re you lookin’ at?”