Expressionate

by Lucy Smoke

  9

  Love

  I walk quickly through the doors of the emergency room of Piedmont Medical Center. When I stop at the desk, there are two nurses – both on phones – sitting there. I wait impatiently for one to end her call. As soon as she does, the phone rings again. I grit my teeth as she holds up a single finger and answers it.

  I turn my face away and realize I don't need her anymore. One of the pale blue curtains that allow emergency room patients some semblance of privacy is left half open, and I see Trisha sitting there, her head tilted back, staring up at the ceiling. Her arm is already wrapped. I stride over to her, and she looks up when I pull the rest of the curtain back.

  "What happened?" I demand.

  She waves the hand that isn’t wrapped. "It was nothing," she says. "It's not too bad."

  "That's not what your friend texted me," I say.

  Trish stiffens and looks away. "Holly was just freaking out. I couldn't drive so I called her. The doctor said it's not a complete break. Just a hairline fracture. I just asked her to call you to give me a ride since she has class."

  "And how did that happen?" I ask, taking a seat in the only chair available. The rush and noise of people outside the room has me standing back up to pull the curtain closed again. Before I can yank it around completely, a petite Asian woman stops me, dressed in scrubs and a doctor’s white lab coat. She slips by me and picks up the clipboard on the end of the bed.

  "Good afternoon," she says. "My name is Dr. Satō. I'll be your attending physician today. Can you tell me what happened?"

  "Yes," I say flatly, taking a seat again. "I'd like to hear this."

  Trish pointedly ignores me, addressing only the doctor. "I was moving things and I fell."

  "I see," Dr. Satō says, setting the clipboard down on the bed beside Trish's leg. "May I take a look?" Trish doesn't have a moment to protest – not that she should – before the doctor's gentle hands are moving her arm forward, pressing certain points over the wrap and then checking the skin.

  "And these bruises?" Dr. Satō asks.

  My eyes zero in on the yellow and purple splotches of color on her skin peeking out from underneath her wrap. It makes me think of Tax for some reason. I shake my head. Now is not the time to think about him.

  Trish flushes at the question. "They happened because of the fall."

  I narrow my gaze as the doctor presses a few more places and then mumbles something before pulling away. "Well, it does feel a little inflamed," she says. "That’s to be expected; your x-rays showed a few hairline fractures."

  "Is that why it hurts to move it?" Trisha asks quietly. I watch her, noting the way she avoids looking my way.

  The doctor nods. "Very likely. I would suggest keeping it immobile and icing it, and you should follow up with your primary care physician. We don't do casting for hairline fractures, so we'll give you a brace. Wait until the swelling goes down – the ice will be good for that – before you put it on." She picks up the clipboard again. "I'll prescribe some light pain medication – it looks like you don't have any prescriptions in your history. No allergies?"

  "No."

  The doctor nods in acknowledgment. "Alright then. I would suggest only using the pain meds if you actually need them."

  Trisha moves her head up and down, remaining quiet. When the doctor finishes her instructions about taking it easy and not using the arm – no lifting heavy things or running machinery – she leaves.

  "Alright," I say with a sigh, standing up. "Why don't you go check out and I'll get the car."

  "It's okay if you're busy," she says at the same time. "I can call a cab."

  I stare at her in silence for a moment. "Go check out," I say slowly. "I'm getting the car. If you are not standing at the entrance in thirty minutes, I'm coming in to get you."

  I turn around and I stride out. My palms are shaking. I'm...angry? The emotion hits my veins and fires my blood as I stomp out of the emergency room.

  My little, beat up, piece of shit car is parked at the very back of the lot. There aren't that many people in the emergency room considering it's the emergency room. So, the fact that the parking lot is packed is confusing. I pull up to the entrance and sit back to wait. I didn’t expect that she would actually take the full amount of time, but exactly thirty minutes later Trisha walks out of the hospital. She pauses outside the passenger door and through the rolled down window I ask her, "Do you need me to open the door?"

  She has another hand, and I know she’s stalling because she doesn't want to get in the car. I don’t really blame her. We are about to have a very serious discussion. One I’m sure she is not looking forward to. Trish shakes her head and pulls the door open with her uninjured hand before getting in. I wait to pull away from the hospital until she’s buckled.

  "Where are we going?" she asks.

  "We're going to your place. You're going to pack some clothes, and you're coming to stay with me."

  "I don't need to do that," she says quickly.

  I glance over at her and look down at her arms. "Oh? Where's Lawrence?"

  She sighs heavily. "He's at work, Love. He's not home."

  "Hmmm." I focus on driving.

  "He didn't hurt me," she says quietly.

  I shake my head. I don't believe it.

  "Love," Trish says. "Look at me. I'm not leaving my house."

  "I'm driving," I reply. "I can't look at you."

  She sighs. "Love, he's at work. How could he have hurt me?"

  My lips turn down. That makes sense, but it still feels wrong. I drive through the streets until I come up to the two-bedroom, brick house that my sister now calls home. I park the car and when she reaches for her belt, I stop her. "You're sure?" I asked. "He's never done anything to hurt you?"

  She's quiet for a moment before she finally talks. "People in relationships fight, Love. It's what happens when you love someone. So, yeah, we fight – but I’m fine.”

  I turn to her. I don't know if she's right or not. I can't tell. I've never been in love or in a real relationship. I've had sex. I've had lots of sex. Dirty sex. Vanilla sex. Sex with multiple people – in the same night or at the same time – men, women, it never really mattered. Even now, I can look back and still not be entirely sure who I fucked or why. Maybe I’m just blowing things out of proportion – seeing monsters where there are none.

  Trisha's hand touches my arm. It's the wrapped one. I stare at it – it's her painting arm. I put my hand over the bandages. I don't know what they are there for. They look like hospital bandages, but the way they're wrapped looks wrong. "Did you wrap this?" I ask.

  Trish looks down at her arm. "Um...yeah, I asked the nurses if I could. It looks kind of ugly to me. I didn't want to see it."

  I frown, but she stops me before I can even start again. "Please trust me, Love. If I need you to save me, I'll call you."

  "Will you?" I ask, my voice hard. I look into her eyes, remembering her as a little, blue-eyed toddler. Now, her eyes are more brown than blue. The color of our dad's instead of the icy tone of Anne's.

  "Will I what? Call you? Of course, I will." Trisha moves to pull her arm back.

  I grab it, gently circling her small wrist with my fingers. I don't apply any pressure. I don't want to hurt her, but I don't want her to pull back just yet. "Promise me," I say.

  "Promise you what?" She frowns in confusion.

  "I want you to look me in the eyes and tell me that everything is okay and mean it. Don't lie to me. If I find out he's hurting you, Trish, I'll kill him. Promise me that you're okay and that if you're not okay, you'll call."

  The pause of silence between us is so loud, Trisha flinches. She pulls her arm away again and this time, I let her go. Something is going on, even if she won't tell me. Whatever it is, I'll find out. She's my sister. I mean it. If Lawrence is hurting her, I will kill him. I don't care if I go to jail either.

  "I'm fine," she says. "I promise."

  Trish moves away, unbuckles her sea
t belt, and gets out of the car. I watch her go, not wanting to, but knowing her life is going to be filled with her own decisions. When she's in the house and it's clear she's not coming back out, I put the car in drive and pull away from the curb. I pull out my phone when I stop at a red light and quickly dial Lawrence's cell phone. I rarely use it – it's only for emergencies. He probably doesn't even know I have it. Trish gave it to me when they were first dating in case I ever needed to reach her and for some reason couldn't. He doesn't answer.

  All these emotions inside me. All this anger. I need to shut it down. I reach inside myself and find that switch. Most people can’t find it, much less bring themselves to turn it off, but I have no such qualms. I put my mental finger against the switch and suddenly, I feel very cold. It’s a safe place to be in my little ice palace.

  Lawrence never answers. Not any of the seven times I call him, and when I get home, Beverly is still gone. My eyes fall on the typewriter Tax brought over. It is a foreign idea for me, receiving presents without strings attached. Anne never gave me anything. My dad hadn't noticed. Danny had only given me things that would either suit him – like new lingerie – or to control me and feel good about himself. Whenever I look at that dusty typewriter, I know that I’ll think of Tax. He hadn't asked for anything in return.

  I wonder if I should have told him why I went to his apartment. I sit at my desk and my head sinks into my hands, letting my eyes close. I bite my lip. Hard. Until I feel the skin break, and I taste coppery blood in my mouth. When I open my eyes again, I can’t see a damn thing in front of me. There’s one drop of blood from my mouth on my desk and the only reason I can tell is because it’s the only color in my line of sight. Just one blurry little dot of dark red.

  When the evidence of my shame slides over my cheeks, burning paths across my skin, I gasp in a breath. Air sinks into my lungs. Then out again, and in. Breathing is like swallowing knives into my gut. They come inside, slicing me to ribbons, making me feel better; I need to feel this pain because if I was someone else, if I were different, maybe bad things wouldn’t happen.

  Maybe Todd wouldn’t know about my secrets. Maybe Trish would feel like she could trust me. Maybe I wouldn’t feel so fucking suffocated. So trapped in my own body. I need an out. I need salvation. I need a door, or even a fucking window. Something to relieve some of the pressure that is crushing me.

  I don’t know how long I sit there, crying into my palms – feeling like I’m slowly being murdered by the weight of my chains. I drop my hands away, and my blood smears across the desk until the edge of my fingers hit the typewriter and I’m jerked back to reality.

  The lyrics.

  Tax.

  I sit there, staring at the hunk of metal and plastic – and emotions. Tax is like a flaming candle, his emotions burning bright. His rage, his anger, his desire – a beacon for me to follow. I skim my fingertips over the keys. He’s the one overflowing with emotion, tightly wrapped inside all that masculinity. The brutal cage fighter. The red hot, burning fire in those oceanic eyes of his as blood smudges his knuckles. The electric kiss that seemed to both breathe life into me and break me of my expressionless silence.

  Maybe I’m a fool for being drawn to the flames. Maybe I’ll get burned, but maybe that’s what I crave. I need something to separate myself from Trisha and Lawrence and Todd and fucking Danny right now. I need Tax.

  My chest coils tight and my head hurts. By the time Beverly comes crashing into the apartment. It's barely 9pm, but I can tell from her raucous giggles and obnoxious banging around that she's already drunk. I think about locking my bedroom door, putting in earbuds, and just ignoring her for the rest of the night, but I feel restless. I flipped the switch on the wall outside my bedroom to turn the air conditioner off and despite the lack of chilled air coming from the vents above my bed, I feel impossibly colder.

  I stare up at the vent, before I pick up my purse and stride into the hallway. I ignore Beverly's open bedroom door and the sounds of moaning – both male and female – as I pass by and leave the apartment. Though I didn’t plan it, it almost seems prophetic that when I shut the door, Tax's opens and he and his roommates stride out, dressed for a night on the town it seems, though a little differently than before. My eyes skim over Cross’ dark wash jeans and simple band t-shirt, and Blake’s similar ensemble until I reach Tax. Tax is the only one not wearing jeans. His leathers fit his ass like a glove and his sleeveless shirt is white with splashes of a trash polka design across the front.

  "Going out?" Tax asks as Blake heads for the stairs.

  Cross – looking more relaxed than when I last saw him – winks my way before following his friend. He's a little confusing that one, sometimes flirty and playful – like he had been with Beverly – and sometimes overly serious and kind of an asshole. I guess tonight he's the playful flirt.

  "Yeah," I answer Tax's question.

  He raises an eyebrow. "Where to?"

  I pause before answering. "I don't know," I admit.

  He hums. "Well, then," he holds a hand out, "want to come with us? We could use another hand with set up."

  I hesitate to take his hand. It feels like every time I turn around, he's right there. That hand held out for me. I'm not sure I trust it or those eyes of his. Eyes filled with the sea, a rocky sea, flanked by rough edges and cliffs. Sure enough, I know I'll find myself diving off one of those cliffs and landing on the spiky rocks below.

  Even with that image in my mind, even with that knowledge, I have nowhere else to be, nowhere else to go. So, I take his hand. I let him lead me into the stairwell and out into the warm August night. I’d let him lead me straight into the fire, I think, if all he did was smile at me and promise a reprieve from my own darkness.

  The band is playing somewhere new tonight. I thought they had a contract with City Limits, but Cross is the one that informs me that their contracts are limited. They can play at other places if there's preplanned entertainment at the bar that they usually play. Apparently tonight there's a wedding reception and the wedding party requested a DJ rather than a band.

  I'm unfamiliar with the idea of anyone wanting to host their wedding reception at a bar of all places. It seems a little backwoods and redneck, but I suppose if that's what a couple wants, then they should have whatever makes them happy. Fuck what anyone else says. There is already too little happiness in the world. Let them dance the night away surrounded by cigarette smoke and the scratch of country music.

  The new place is a bar even smaller than City Limits called the Key Hole. We arrive, and I help them set up. It's done rather quickly; other than carrying a few speakers and microphones into the building, I don't do much of anything. It's barely 10pm and they're already set and ready to go, simply waiting for the go-ahead from the bar owner.

  "Why don't you go sit at the bar?" Tax suggests. "We get a fifteen-minute break in about an hour and a half. Think you can wait that long?"

  I nod. "I'll be fine," I assure him, fingering the hurricane I've ordered for myself. I don't normally drink them, but I'm branching out tonight.

  Tax takes a moment to look me over as if trying to decide if I truly am as okay as I tell him I am. But he doesn't really have much time to determine his own answer before the guys are calling him to the stage. I suck back another quarter of my drink as he starts out by talking to the crowd. Despite the quaint interior, there are a number of people. Almost every seat is filled – I was lucky enough to get a single barstool on the end near the front door – and there are even a few people standing.

  The first time I heard Tax sing, his voice hit me like a freight train. Since then, I somehow managed to convince myself that it wasn't as powerful. But when he opens his mouth tonight and I hear him sing again, I know I was only fooling myself. I close my eyes, the alcohol buzzing through my system as his voice hits me once more. The low vocal tones are like a drug that makes everything in the room hazy. The sound of people talking, of glasses clinking together, of the ice machine in t
he corner rumbling – it all disappears. But I hear every sound – every syllable – out of Tax's mouth. The accompanying drums and guitar feel more or less like background noise as well – just really well-played background noise. It serves to heighten the experience of this particular drug.

  Baby, alone and broken.

  The blood frozen in your veins

  needs to be lit from within

  without turning you to flames.

  Does he even know? I wonder absently. How much of a weapon his voice is? Shivers skate along the ridges of my spine. When the first song breaks and ends, I rise to the surface of my little Tax induced bubble. Heat slides along my spine. My drink is almost gone. I didn’t even realize. I quickly finish it and order another before Tax can start up his next song. This time, I order my classic, all-time favorite – a screwdriver.

  Too scorched to move,

  call me to your side.

  I’ll come at any hour and

  Let you cry in my arms, until

  we’re just two damaged souls

  holding each other together

  The lyrics aren’t complete. They filter into my mind like bubbles that need to be trapped and popped or else I won’t understand what they mean. I reach for a napkin and pull out a pen from my purse. More lyrics flow from my mind to the ink in my hands. Sometimes the pen malfunctions and splatters on the bar top or the corner of the napkin – staining the surfaces. I can't stop now, though. I'm tired of trying to fight this. As Tax sings, I write. Words flow from my fingertips and I know if Tax sings them, they will be reborn and made into something new.

  It's hard to reconcile the idea of Tax – the cage fighter, the dark harbinger of the storms in his eyes – as this…entertainer. Because he's not an entertainer to me. He's not just a voice. He's a God among men.

  When the set finally ends and the guys wave to the clapping crowd, descending from the stage to get away for a bit, I've had another few drinks and there is a pile of notes and lyrics on napkins at my side. Before Tax or one of the others can see anything, I stuff them into my purse. Cross passes me and finds a pretty redhead toward the other end of the bar. I watch as he strides over, a man confident in his sexuality, and hungry for satisfaction. The redhead stands no chance.