by Linnea May
Because everyone else is dead—or lost the ability to remember.
“It was easy for me to work my way up because dominance and control come to me naturally. I did have a group of men working under my command back then, but in that very situation, I wasn’t the one who was in charge. I only thought I was, and when one of my comrades disagreed, we got into a nasty argument. Outside the base at the outskirts of Ramadi was the worst fucking place to fight with your own people,” I continue. “I was louder, more aggressive, and that’s the only reason he gave up fighting me and we ...”
Fuck. Even after all this time, I can’t say the words without choking up.
Melina doesn’t say a word; she doesn’t try to soothe me by uttering phrases that drip with cliché and that I’ve heard thousands of times before.
It’s okay. Don’t worry. It’s not your fault.
It’s bullshit, all of it. And I thank her for refraining from saying any of these things.
Instead of speaking, she places her hand on my chest, right above my heart. It’s an odd gesture, and something I didn’t see coming, but the soft pressure of her hand right on top of my beating heart provides a comfort I’ve never known before. It almost scares me how pleasant her touch is.
“We split up; my comrade and two others headed in one direction and me in another. At least, that was the plan,” I continue. “I’m furious when I turn away from him; we both are. And it was that rage that made me forget. It made me forget to warn him. I had just sent him down a road we were told not to travel because command had some information about possible mines in that area. It hit me right as I was about to get back into our truck, and as soon as it did, I turned around and ran after them. But it was too late.”
She’s holding her breath and tenses up as I’m about to conclude my horrific story.
“They walked right into it, right before my eyes,” I finish. “Two of them dead, the third almost losing an arm. He was lucky because he stayed behind. As was I. The blast was so fucking loud, it tore parts of our eardrums apart. I was thrown back by the blast and lucky enough to lose consciousness.”
I pause, adding a cold chuckle before I conclude, “The brain has a weird way of protecting you from shit like that. I don’t really remember most of it; I just reconstruct from what others have told me and what little I do remember. I remember fighting with my comrade, I remember the sound of the blast, and I remember waking up in the hospital a few hours later, not being able to hear the words as I’m told that two of them are dead and the third is in critical condition.”
Her hand is still resting on my chest, gently caressing as she processes the horrible tale I just shared with her. Still, she doesn’t say a word, and she’s no longer looking at me. I can tell without turning to her. She turned her head away from me, but it’s not a dismissive move. It’s more like she’s trying to give me space to breathe through the horrific memory.
At least that’s what it feels like.
It feels good. It felt right to share this with her. There’s no judgment in her silence, just comfort in her affectionate caress.
“That’s a terrible thing to go through,” she finally says, still not looking at me. “I’m so sorry, Rowan.”
“It was my fault,” I add, sounding stubborn even though she never disagreed with me. “It all happened because I lost my fucking temper, because I yelled at him until he just gave in. I propelled both of us into a vicious state of rage that made us forget the danger we were in, and he’s the one who paid the price.”
“You paid a price, too,” Melina insists. “And not a small one.”
I scoff coldly. I want to tell her that she doesn’t need to feel sorry for me. On the contrary, it feels wrong for her to pity me. It was my mistake, my own fault. And by saying that out loud, I just proved her right. She assumed correctly that I blame myself for what happened before I even told her about it, and I hate to give her the satisfaction of being right about that.
“I had a shitty way of dealing with it, too,” I add. “Very shitty.”
Her head shifts, and her curious eyes are back on me, wide in question. “What do you mean? Didn’t you go through therapy?”
“Eventually, yes,” I say, knowing I’m about to dig a hole for myself with what I’m about to tell her. “But I found other outlets before that. I was angry, furious, and so full of savage power that needed an outlet. I never learned how to control or channel all that brute and aggressive behavior I adapted during my years as a soldier in a nondestructive way.”
I add a pause, hoping she’ll connect the dots without me having to say it out loud. But Melina just shakes her head, signaling that she doesn’t know where I’m going with this. She’s leaving me no choice.
“I took it out on others,” I explain. “On women, mostly.”
Her eyes widen in shock. “You beat up women?”
I shake my head, grabbing her hand as she’s about to withdraw it from my chest.
“No, not like that,” I say, squeezing her. “I thought I’d chosen a smarter path, a controlled setting with strict rules. I fucked them, hard, and I played with them even harder.”
Her face enlightens with understanding. “You mean ... like the people in the red rooms?”
“Yes, like that,” I say. “I needed it. I needed an outlet like that; a place where I could still be that furious beast raging inside me, and I thought this was it. I thought I could control it just enough to deal with the agonizing fury without hurting anyone.”
She swallows, her expression now laced with fear and worry.
“But you did,” she whispers. “You did hurt them.”
I nod, witnessing how her heart sinks in disappointment.
“Yes, I did hurt them,” I say. “I couldn’t do it. They had their safe words to protect them, and that worked. It put me in my place. But they all had to use it and several times. There wasn’t a single time when I wasn’t reminded that I’m no good at this, that I can’t be this man with a woman, ever.”
I can see it all on her face. The disappointment, the fear, the worry. I’m not an abuser, but I know that my blunt and honest reveal must sound just like that. It sounds like it because there’s some truth to it. I’ve been a customer at the Violent Delights agency for about a year, but I did not get access to this club until Dwight’s referral. The reason for that was not a lack of wealth or influence—my family name alone provides all that—but from the number of complaints submitted by the girls I bought. Not all of them left a note with the madam, but none of them ever wanted to service me again.
I can’t blame them, and it has been my biggest fear with Melina. That I would hurt her the same way I’d hurt others. That I wouldn’t be able to control myself once I was alone with her. I didn’t come to the club to play for that very reason.
With her, everything changed. But I doubt she sees the extent of it all; the way she helped me find a new side of myself, a new side of pleasure. A new way of being with a woman that provides me with the same cathartic release I crave without hurting another soul.
She doesn’t get it. How could she?
It’s evident in her eyes, now overcast with doubt and fear as her mind wanders back to the very first night we spent together, the night when that feral beast shone through for but a moment. Right now, all she sees is that dark side I just shared with her.
And it frightens the hell out of her.
21
Melina
I made it. I’m so freaking lucky.
Here I am, dressed in black, all posh and proper, looking way too fancy for this place, which is barely more than a local waterhole for heavy drinkers. But I don’t care. Dress for the job you want, not for the job you have, they say. And I know where I want to go with this. I want to serve the best and most elaborate drinks—maybe even my own creations—to the richest and fanciest people in town.
One day. Despite my recent setback, I know I have the potential to get there.
Coming from Jack ‘
n’ Jon’s, one of the more upscale taverns in town, to this place, Captain Seaweeds, a small neighborhood joint, doesn’t exactly look like I’m on my way up but rather dwindling downward.
And maybe I am. Maybe this is a step back, but I refuse to only see the negative aspects of this involuntary job change. I may not have come here by choice, but I did come here with a mission.
Jack ‘n’ Jon’s was the first place that I could call home. I’m not just talking career wise but in general. My young life was shaped by ever-changing homes, a new mom and dad every few years, and sometimes siblings, sometimes not. Some of them were nice, and some weren’t, but either way, I never stayed long, and I never understood what it felt like to truly belong to someone, to something.
I started working as a waitress at Jack ‘n’ Jon’s shortly before I turned eighteen, around the time when I finished high school and knew I’d have to take care of myself sooner rather than later. I considered myself lucky because my last foster home turned out to be one of the best. I lived with them for more than two years, the longest I’ve ever stayed at any home, and my foster mom was a sweet, middle-aged lady with no hurry to get rid of me. She wanted me to attend college, but I knew that wouldn’t be for me. I wanted to stand on my own two feet and make my own money as soon as possible. College would have postponed my independence.
Of course, waitressing was never the end game. I don’t think it is for anybody, but it was a good start, and I had way more luck than most people have with their first employer.
The guy who ran Jack ‘n’ Jon’s was a longtime friend of my foster mom’s, and the fact I knew him outside work made a big difference in the way he treated me. He paid attention to me. He listened. And he noticed my talent before I did. He helped me get a minor service permit so I could serve, pour, and mix beverages even though I wasn’t old enough to drink yet.
It made all the difference. I finally felt like I had found my calling; something that was mine. Something I was good at. Something I loved doing. In a way, I figure it’s no different than finding your passion for cooking. Some people are born to be chefs—I was born to create drinks.
Jack ‘n’ Jon’s didn’t want to let me go, but after being in the red for too long, they were forced to cut back drastically and let people go based on their seniority. I was one of the newest and last to join the team, so I was one of the first to go.
Finding work at my age and with little experience in the area is extremely hard. That’s why I can’t see this job as anything but the greatest gift I could ask for.
The location may be a step down, but my position itself is a clear step up. I’m the main bartender, the person who leads everyone else, the person most responsible for the customer’s happiness all night long.
It took some time to get used to this new role at this new place, but I think I’m starting to like it here. I found my routine; I have a few regulars who sometimes share a little too much of their lives with me, but I’m making good money, especially with the tips I receive.
I can’t complain, and I won’t.
I may have to put up with some unwanted attention by guys who don’t know when to stop, but I’m a strong girl, and I know how to defend myself. Their unwelcome advances don’t get to me. Most of them are easily put in place, and those who won’t listen to me will always listen to Anthony, the guy who works most shifts with me. I never work alone, which is comforting but also necessary in this environment.
And tonight, I couldn’t be more grateful for his presence.
It’s a Friday night and as busy as can be. We’ve been pouring drinks nonstop, most of them beers and ciders. Occasionally, one of the guys will ask for a whiskey, but when I ask them what kind, listing all the options we serve, I usually hear nothing but a slurred “the cheapest you got.” It’s disheartening, to say the least. I don’t feel like a bartender tonight; I feel like I’m thrown back to my days as a waitress, just throwing out drink after drink without so much as a second thought. There’s a stag night group, and they are by far the worst I’ve had to endure since I started this job. Anthony is equally miffed by their behavior, but he doesn’t get tired of reminding me that they bring in good money. It’s hard to argue with that.
As the night goes on and the stags get more intoxicated, we witness more and more complaints by other customers. Quite a few by regulars who feel disturbed in their calm Friday night routine. This bar is always busier on the weekends, as is any bar, but it rarely gets this loud and crowded. While we share their disdain, there’s very little we can do. Anthony beckons the group to quiet down, but to no avail.
Midnight is approaching. It’s about six minutes to twelve when I last checked the time, which is shortly before it happens. I will never forget the time, nor will I forget the face that appears at the counter as things turn for the worst. The guy is drunk beyond measure, his face red and distorted, and his movements sloppy and violent as he leans over the bar, slurring his words.
“Gimme that.”
His words are etched into my brain just like the time and the look on his face, but to this day, I have no idea what exactly he was asking for. What did he want me to give him? Does it matter?
Everything following that moment is nothing but a blur. It was loud, that is all I remember. Loud and messy, loud and quick, loud and chaotic. It was a nightmare. A nightmare that only lasted a few seconds, but those few seconds left a mark on me.
Men and their rage. I’ve never feared anything more. Growing up, I was lucky enough never to have that rage directed at me, but I witnessed it more than once. Foster homes are supposed to be a haven for less fortunate kids; a home, if only temporary, that provides them with shelter and care. But that doesn’t mean evil doesn’t lurk in the shadows behind the pristine white curtains. Angry men who take to the bottle can turn into monsters under the influence, and it’s most often their wives who endure that fury.
I saw it happen. I hid in closets and behind doors when it did, often hugging children younger than me and speaking soothing words to them while I tried to contain my own horror. At least he’s not yelling at me, I thought. At least he’s not hitting me, I thought.
But tonight, I turn into the target before realizing what’s happening. Words are thrown at me, incomprehensible and incoherent, making no sense to me or anyone else around. The spat of insults and threats hits me as if I was physically beaten, and before I know it, there are two, three, four men yelling at me and raising their fists.
Anthony is there, stepping in front of me and taking the hit when the first fist reaches out to hurt us. The scene turns into a brawl when other guests come to our rescue, all too happy to use their strength against the intruders who’ve ruined their night. I hide under the bar counter as the men smash their faces in, destroying the place as their drunken temper gets the better of them. Glass shatters, wood splinters, mixing with angry groans and yelling as I’ve never heard before. I crawl deeper into my hiding space, feeling terribly guilty as I know Anthony is still out there, fending everyone off while I seek cover under the bar. I’m such a coward.
The terror paralyzes me. I clamp up, pulling my legs close to my body and wrapping my arms around them, holding tight as I rock back and forth, waiting to wake up from the nightmare.
A single gunshot tears through the ruckus, causing me to freeze in shock. Did someone just die? For a few seconds, I’m left to believe that happened. The harsh sound sets an end to the horrifying commotion, and I listen. I listen for someone to yell for help; I listen for another shot, I listen for ... anything. The gunshot echoes inside my head, bringing with it a deadly promise and a haunting prospect.
But before my mental cinema can come up with its own plot, reality reveals itself before my eyes. My vision is blurred with tears when I see movement to my left. People are coming for me in a nonthreatening manner. They’re here to help.
I don’t succumb to merciful unconsciousness, but my brain still manages to shield myself in a way I’ve never experience
d before.
Shock.
It disables you just as much as it keeps you safe from insanity.
22
Melina
I feel like an idiot, and I don’t even know why.
Is it because I still dwell on that night? Because I just can’t let go of it? Was it even that bad? So what if a bunch of guys got into a fight while I was working at the bar? Big deal. It must happen all the time, and it’s not like I was even hurt in the process.
The gunshot that ended it all came from a policeman because someone in there actually thought to call the police instead of curl up into a little ball beneath the bar top as I did.
I’m not only filled with fear and horror as I remember that night. There’s another emotion weighs on me a lot stronger than everything else.
Shame.
I feel shame when I think back. I’m ashamed of my own actions; I’m ashamed at my inactivity. Fine, I was the only woman in the room, but that doesn’t excuse my behavior, does it? Anthony is not a fighter either. He later told me that despite having worked at the bar for years, he’s never faced a situation like that before. It’s not like he’s trained or even experienced in handling such a brawl, but he still stood his ground. He was out there, not with flying fists, but with appeasing exclamations drowned out by the ruckus as the men attacked each other. He was the one who called the police, the one who tried to establish order, while I did nothing.
I shake my head, trying to chase the sinister memories aside while I move around behind the bar, getting things ready for the night. Why do these memories keep coming back to me? Why now? It has been months since that night, and on the face of it, I should be fine.
But I am not. My body escaped the night without any bruises or cuts—unlike others—but my mind took a severe hit from it, opening a wound I didn’t even know was there.
My therapist wasn’t surprised in the least when I broke down in front of him, trying to talk about what happened that night. I felt like I was going crazy; I felt so weak and helpless. I just wanted to be normal, to be strong, to work, to make drinks, and make money. I wanted to return to my place, and I felt like it had been taken from me because my dumb brain was too traumatized to let this go. Every time I stepped into the bar after that incident, I began shaking. I flinched at every sound, every chair scrape across the floor as it moved, every time the door closed with a loud bang. Everything scared me, and I hated myself for it. Anthony sent me home every time I tried to work, and that made me feel even worse. He was there, in the middle of it, yet he was fine, and I was not?