by T. G. Ayer
His words rolled over me and I tried to absorb as much as I could, following his instructions as closely as possible. At last he stood back and said, "So you must look at the target and take aim." I obeyed, training the gun on the big bullseye.
The target was huge, so I was confident I could hit what I aimed for.
"Now, when you are ready, ease your finger on the trigger, you don't need to pull hard."
I nodded and maintained my stance. I aimed at the center of the bullseye, brought the sights in line and pressed the trigger softly. The gun went off and I flinched, my hands lifting upward automatically. Despite the sound half-deafening my ears I could hear Alexei making that tsk tsk sound with his tongue. I felt awful having disappointed him. I did everything he'd said not to.
But when I looked around at him I saw he was not so much disappointed at me as he was at himself. He had a finger in his ear and was rubbing it hard. My guard was walking toward us hand outstretched with two little packets of earplugs on his palm.
Alexei handed me one and proceeded to insert his before saying. "Very good for first try. Now try again and remember, no flinching. The sound won't hurt you."
I nodded and inserted my earplugs before returning to take the stance he'd shown me. We practiced for almost an hour, and the more I pulled the trigger the better I got, until my last bullet entered two inches from the bullseye. I'd learned early that Alexei was right. I was flinching at the sound of the gun and that was stupid, so once I got used to the noise I was able to tune it out and concentrate on the actual shooting.
When it was over Alexei walked over to me and patted me on the shoulder. "Now you can protect yourself. You just remember, shoot first, later doesn't matter."
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Gray
I shiver, the memory of learning to shoot a deadly weapon courses through me and my knees shake. I'd never thought I'd pull that trigger, even after all the training Alexei had given me. I'd never thought I'd actually kill someone with it.
Defend myself maybe but not kill someone.
My hands are shaking and I grip them hard into tight fists. It's over. It's in the past. I can't let it control my life.
I suck in a breath and then exhale even though it hurts, and I look around the room. My mind balks. I can't think straight, can't think logically. What am I doing? What was I about to do? I track a path through my actions since I walked into the room and then sigh softly.
I shake my head, trying to pull myself out of my memories. I take the gun out of the draw, grab the easel then head to the spare room where I spend some time setting up. I've always been the type of person to do things as soon as the idea occurs to me. And now the idea is to set up my art studio.
Other than the bed, the room is furnished with a old wooden dresser containing numerous draws of varying sizes. Each drawer bears a black wrought iron handle. It looks like an antique and as far as I am concerned it's perfect.
I place the gun inside the top drawer and close it, satisfied the weapon is safe, and close enough should I need it.
There's an even smaller nightstand which matched the dresser in color and design, and also a little empty bookshelf that didn't match anything. It's pale beech and screams Ikea. In fact, I like it more for its mismatched quirkiness.
I push the bed against the window, planning to use it as a lounger. It could do with a bright throw and some comfy cushions. Then I stand the easel against the right wall, positioning it so it catches the natural light from the window.
Excitement trills through me as I drag the dresser over beside the easel. I fetch the rest of the bags and use it to store the pencils and crayons. It seems like the drawers had been made specifically for my clutter. On the polished surface, I spread out my pencils, which I know I will use first.
Soon, I step back and everything is ready, college textbooks in the shelf, sketch pad on the easel and curtains open to let in as much light as possible. It is only then that I realise it has gotten so late that there is no longer much light left in the day at all.
As if on cue, my stomach gurgles and I laugh out loud as I head into the kitchen. I'll have to rustle up a dinner from my meager stock but I'm in a good mood so I'd be happy with peanut butter on toast. I'm about to start toasting bread when I smell food.
For a moment, I'm disoriented and I wonder if I'm hallucinating. But then, I inhale again and this time I'm positive I'm smelling hot food. I sniff and follow the aroma until I'm finally standing in front of a covered plate just inside the front door.
I'm frowning as I crouch down and lift the cloth to find a steaming hot pie.
Smelled like chicken.
But I'm still frowning and my chest tightens almost painfully as I glance at the closed door. There were no chains or deadbolts on the apartment door, and until now that hadn't bothered me.
A chill runs through me as I lift the plate off the floor. A note falls from it and drifts to the floor and I watch it sway back and forth until it lands silently. I tilt my head to read it; "Pie is from Kate. She was on her way out. Thanks for the rent. M."
I'm relieved but the knowledge that the scrawled message was from Marcus doesn't ease my worry. He'd come into my apartment without knocking, without permission.
But, as I look at the pie I begin to believe there were extenuating circumstances. I could imagine a rushed Kate banging down old Marcus's door and shoving the pie in his hands with her instructions as she flies out the front door.
The old man wouldn't have had much choice. And he'd left it right at the door. Instead of coming inside. Had I heard him knock? I wrack my brain trying to eke out a memory of a knock on the door and when I come up blank I give up.
I am reading way too much into Marcus' neighborliness. The surly man didn't seem the type to come barging into my apartment whenever he wanted to. Fresh food may have constituted a legitimate emergency.
But I made a mental note to make it clear to him that he can't come inside without asking permission first. I did have a cell phone.
Then I stiffened.
I had a phone yes, but I hadn't given him the number yet. I slapped a hand to my forehead and then shook my head at my forgetfulness. A mental note to put the number on a piece of paper and shove it under his door the next time I go out. And it would probably help if Kate has my number too, considering she is the one providing the meal.
I pour myself a juice then gorge on chicken and mushroom pie. Seems I'd gotten way too used to life on the run, and measly meals that were sometimes so far apart I may as well have been living on air.
After washing up, I grab a bar stool from beside the kitchen counter and head back to my art studio - boy, did I love the sound of that. My very own studio. I sigh with the pleasure of it and perch on the stool to open a page in my sketch pad.
I smooth my fingers over the fresh, clean surface, so white and untouched, just waiting for me to lay my pencil on it and slide the lead slowly across it, just waiting to bear my next creation.
I lean close to the paper, my fingers moving slowly at first as I settle back into the rhythm of my hands and fingers. Then as I loosen up and relax, I let my mind and my hands communicate, let my imagination control the pencil.
I can't say how much time had passed. All I know is that I am stiff. And chilled. My fingers are icy and my neck tight but both were the most pleasurable sensations I'd felt in ages.
Sitting back, I stare at the drawing. His cheekbones are high, his chin firm with a hint of a dimple that I know would deepen when he smiles. The sketch is done in charcoal and pencil and the only thing wrong with it is the color of his eyes. They should be green.
Thane.
He stares out of the page at me, so realistic that I'm reaching out and almost touching the paper before I sense what I'm doing. I clench my fist, ignoring the blackened tips of my fingers from all the smudging and shading.
My face reddens as I take in the rest of the drawing and I shake my head. Talk about dreams. I consider ri
pping it up and throwing it in the trash but the image, though sexy, is far too personal.
I push myself to my feet. Maybe I should be doing some actual studying instead of drawing strange guys with gorgeous green eyes, doing things they shouldn't be doing.
Pulling an Art History book out of the shelf, I curl up on the bed with it on my lap. Most people would find it all boring but to me it's fascinating. Sculptures and paintings of a time gone by that live on forever, that have influenced so much in the modern world.
I'd never dreamed I'd get this chance, this opportunity to follow a dream. I'm light-headed, unable to believe that my future is here, just a step away. And despite the fear in my heart I know I can make a new life for myself.
I'd kept my eyes on the path behind me for so long, perhaps it is now time to look ahead. I rest my head on the wall behind me and stare at the ceiling, slowly making plans, slowly making wishes. Slowly trying to put the reality of my past behind me.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Gray
Six Months Ago
I wake slowly, easing from heavy sleep to wakefulness in a smooth transition, barely noticing the faint throbbing emanating from my various injuries. My mouth and throat is so dry that it hurts to swallow, and my mind drifts to two blue pills in my palm.
Memories return slowly. Images of Anthony, his face filled with rage, memories of pain in my face and ankle, pain exacerbated by the hurt I feel over what he'd done to me.
I'm lying flat, covers twisted around my hips, not moving a muscle and I think maybe if I stay that way, I won't feel the pain. It's true, too. If I remain very still my injuries just give off a soft throb that beats in time to my heart. And I can handle throbbing.
I turn my head and the light outside of my window says I've slept to almost noon. I stiffen with shock. "Fuck," is the first word I say but it comes out all weird and smooshed and the swearword certainly isn't as satisfying as I'd hoped. I exhale and warm air skims my swollen lips, gently tracing broken skin and clotted blood. I remind myself to take care not to break the cut open again.
I can't deal with more pain, or more blood either. Then I blink and the action involves both lids because I can't help it. And I feel the throbbing in my face telling me my eye is probably double its size.
I sigh as I stare at the pale pink ceiling, bordered by a pattern of pink roses and bright green leaves, and dotted with glow-in-the-dark stars. I had to admit in the end that I wouldn't have gone to school even if I'd woken up on time. Not looking the way I did. I want to laugh. I would have probably caused a riot had I entered school looking like someone used me as a punching bag.
I touch a cool finger to my heated lips and then hiss as pain spikes through my flesh. Whatever the drug was that Anthony's nice friend had given me last night, it's worn off now so I'd best get myself moving to shower and look for some painkillers before my dear brother returns.
After one of his overnight binges he'd usually only return in the afternoon. But this time I wasn't entirely sure when he'd show his face around here again. Not after he'd had his lights punched out so brutally. Beefcake certainly hadn't wasted time slamming his fist into his drinking buddy. I had to wonder if Anthony really knew the type of people he associated with and then I want to laugh.
In my mind they are probably the best type of people since they'd seen to protecting me first instead of worrying what my asshole brother would think about the state of their loyalty.
But one thing I do know is Anthony is going to be furious. And when Anthony gets furious I need to get gone. It's that urgency that gets me moving, swinging my leg gingerly to the floor and reaching for my phone to ring Suzi, my bestie. Then I realized it isn't on the nightstand. Seeing that said nightstand is broken into pieces did not surprise me.
My stomach hardens as my searching gaze falls on the cell phone. It lay on the floor in so many pieces it doesn't seem possible the device could contain so many parts. I slide onto the floor, ignoring the agony in my ankle, and pick the remnants up, holding them in my hands as if I had some magic rite that would fix it and make it whole again.
But it was broken.
And I am broken.
And then, like a dam breaking loose, and all because of a stupid broken phone, the tears begin. I sit on the floor, and sob loudly as salty tears streak my skin, and soak into my fingers.
I can't recall how long I spent crying, letting all the fear and shock of last night out of my tightly wound core of control. It was only the thought that Anthony's friends may soon set him free that moved me to stagger to my feet. I couldn't see through my left eye so I moved a little slower than normal, holding onto stuff as I made my way to the bathroom.
I used the toilet and wince as I stung from the bruises Anthony left on my body. In that moment I wanted to cry again. How could he have done that? Touched me like that, hurt me that way and spoken to me like I was just a piece of trash.
My mind stilled. What had happened to my brother to make him do that to me? I'd seen the anger and the hatred in his eyes before he'd landed the first blow. And I couldn't understand what I'd done to make him feel that way about me. Tears blurred my eyes.
I worked hard, tried to get good grades. My job at the Burger King brought us some extra money, which I always gave straight to Anthony. I never minded him taking the money because I've always wanted to contribute. My summer job at Suzi's mom's catering business had paid well, and even then I'd given Anthony every cent of it and never asked where the money went because I knew he'd had such a hard time finding a job. I knew he was most likely throwing it away on booze and drugs. But it didn't matter as long as he had money, he spent less time hitting me.
But, I never resented Anthony the way he seemed to resent me. He deserved my resentment. Lazy asshole. He'd always hated any kind of hard work. Even the simplest things like taking out the trash or washing the car had worked him into a rage.
Dad used to just shake his head at Anthony when he'd yelled that he shouldn't be asked to do such jobs. Most of it had gone over my head but I could never understand how he could speak to Mom and Dad the way he did.
Such beautiful people did not deserve a child like Anthony.
And I didn't deserve a brother like Anthony.
I sniffed and wiped away the tears. I was half undressed when I realized I hadn't brought my clothes with me. I gritted my teeth then winced as pain blasted through my jaw. But, I was determined there was no way I was running around the apartment in a towel when anyone could barge in.
I re-dressed as quickly as I was able to, considering I was balancing on one good foot for the most part. I opened the door carefully, peering into the corridor for intruders. Nothing made a sound. I hobbled to the room, sucking in the pain of my throbbing ankle. I quickly grabbed fresh clothes and a chair from the dining room. My head was spinning with pain as I reached the bathroom and once inside I jammed the chair under the doorknob tightly so nobody could open it from the outside. They'd have to break the door and even that would be difficult. At last I feel safe.
I spent a long time under the stream of water, turning the faucets up as hot as I could bear it. The heat prickled my skin and I sighed, the feeling so good. My injuries stung and when I soaped my face I couldn't stop myself from crying out loud. I remained under the heat of the water a little while longer, before getting out and drying off.
I'd chosen a long skirt because jamming my swollen foot into the legs of my skinny jeans wouldn't be the smartest undertaking. I'd opted for a black, floor-length, skirt and stuck my feet into sandals.
I blow-dried my hair while staring at my damaged reflection in the steamed up mirror.
The girl in the mirror didn't look much like me with her busted up over-sized lip and her eye that was now fully closed and swollen to thrice its size. I looked well beaten up. Considering that's what had happened I'd say Anthony had succeeded. But I'm not dead yet.
My hair was dry, and I was dressed and ready to face the apartment again. I remov
ed the chair and listened at the bathroom door. Not a sound from outside. And then I remembered. Of course, any intruder including Anthony, would need to get through that deadbolt - a sound I'm sure I would have heard even through the noise of the shower or blow dryer.
The apartment was silent as I limped to my room and grabbed a backpack from the floor of my closet. I filled it with clothing and then stuffed my schoolbag with all my books. As I rummaged on the floor for my Chemistry textbook I saw my laptop lying on the floor. It'wasn't in as bad a shape as my phone but it still looked pretty much ruined to me.
The screen had come apart from the keyboard and all the wires were showing. They didn't look broken though so there may still be hope. The keyboard plate had come off and was lying on the floor, a foot away. I picked it up gingerly, and noticed it was almost broken in half, but it too looked like I might be able to put it back in its place.
I set the black base over the keyboard, aligning all the spaces for the keys then press down until I heard a click. Good. Now my keyboard looked like black lighting had struck across its center, the crack traveling diagonally from corner to corner. I placed the two pieces on the bed with extra care but the wires didn't show any sign of breaking apart and I crossed my fingers.
Then I pressed the on switch and held my breath.
The laptop switched on and I whooped with joy, then immediately cried out as I broke my lip open again. Blood dripped hot and moist onto my bed and I grabbed the sheet and held it to my lip. With my eyes filled with tears, I could barely see the screen, but I made out enough to see that the device was working fine.
I tested a few of my files and found them all in perfect order. And then I sank to the floor and sighed with relief. At least he hadn't broken the one thing I desperately needed if I'm going to make it through finals.