Fear of Falling

by S. L. Jennings

  I winced. Not from the stinging in my scalp. Not from the oozing gash on my forehead that was dripping blood down the side of my face. Not even from the cuts inside my mouth that made it painful to talk. It was him. Seeing him so crazed and delusional. So desperate and out of control.

  I hated this man. Hated him with everything inside me, yet, I couldn’t help but hurt for him. He was a broken boy once. His father did to him what he had done to me. What he was doing to me now.

  This man was once my father. No matter how much I despised him, he was half of me. But the man before me right now was a stranger. A cracked-out, sickening stranger that I had never seen before.

  “I’ll give it to you, I swear! But I don’t have it here. It’s at the bank. If you let me go, I’ll get it for you. I promise. Just let me go, and I’ll get it all!”

  Fury washed over his ugly face, and he bared his decayed teeth, taking a step towards me. “No. I want it now!”

  I scurried back, colliding with the couch. My hands searched for something – anything—that I could use as a weapon, but the closest lamp was feet away. I whimpered in desperate resignation. “I can’t get it to you now! I have to get it from the bank!”

  “Well, if I can’t have it now, then I’ll take something else.”

  His hand went for his belt buckle, and I felt a brand of terror that I couldn’t even imagine. It was the kind of inconceivable fear that spawned nightmares. Reprehensible dread that forever ruined you. Murdered your spirit. Slaughtered your soul.

  My stomach roiled violently, causing the taste of bile to invade my mouth. Cold sweat blanketed my skin, mixing with the blood that ran from my face. Tremors assaulted every inch of my body, and my senses were overwhelmed with panic.

  No. Please don’t. Please don’t do this.

  I wanted to say the words. Wanted to beg him to spare me, but fear had seized my vocal chords. It had stolen my breath as well as my sanity. I had to be hallucinating. This couldn’t be happening. No. I refused to believe this was real.

  “You’re a little slut, aren’t you? A little slut that opens her legs for any guy. Well, now it’s time to open your legs and that nasty little mouth for Daddy.”

  “No!” The word ripped from my throat in a sob. “NoNoNo!”

  “You’ve been a very bad girl, Kamilla. A whore, just like your slut mother! So, first I’m going to beat you. Then I’m going to take what’s mine. I’m going to fuck you like the whore you are.”

  He took another step towards me, unleashing his belt from his pants. He folded it in half and slid the leather between his fingers slowly, a ritual I had seen him do dozens of times. A ritual that sucked the breath right from my lungs and demolished the tidy, fragile compartments of my psyche…

  “You’ve been a bad girl, Kamilla. A very bad girl. And now I have to punish you.”

  “No! Please, no, Daddy! Please! I’m so sorry. I promise to be good! Please, no. Don’t hurt me!”

  “See what you make me do, Kamilla? I have to. I have to hurt you because I love you.”

  “Please. Please, don’t.”

  “Don’t make me angry. Your mother made me angry, and you see what happened to her. Do you want to be like her? Do you want to be a dirty whore like your mother?”

  “No, Daddy.”

  “Then come here and get what you deserve. It’s your fault; you make me do this, Kamilla. You make me hurt you.”

  He stood before me, his pants unfastened and his brown leather belt at his side. He smelled of stale beer, and filth as if he hadn’t showered in weeks. “This is what you deserve, Kamilla. You’re a dirty, filthy whore. And whores need to be beaten. You make me do this to you. You make me hurt you. I wouldn’t do it if I didn’t love you.”

  Before I could utter a semblance of a plea, he raised his arm up over his head and brought it down in a blur of haggard skin and worn leather. I didn’t even have time to brace for the attack, let alone shield myself from it.

  The first blow landed across my shoulder and face, setting it ablaze, bursting with reds and oranges. I felt my skin split open with the impact. My eye suffered the worst of it, and I couldn’t tell if it was swollen shut or if the blow had taken out my eyesight. It was all pain. All fire. I couldn’t differentiate it. Couldn’t tell where the agony ended and relief began.

  The second one made me see stars. Not the beautiful, twinkling ones that inhabited the night sky. The ones that appeared in blurry splotches behind swollen eyelids. The ones that told you that unconsciousness was near, whispering promises of vivid dreams, if you just succumbed to it. It hurt too much to scream, and I was too weak to even cry. I was tired. So tired. I wanted to sleep and escape this pain. I wanted those dreams that the stars boasted. I needed them.

  The third slash across my face claimed me. Dragged me under in a deep sea of numbness and detachment. A place where pain was no longer felt, fear was not my captor, and my father’s love did not rip me apart and scatter each piece of me, making it impossible to ever be whole again.

  I almost felt this peace once. I was five, and it was waiting for me, beckoning me to the bottom of a swimming pool.

  And now… now I had found it. I found the peace that came with death. And this time, I didn’t fight against it. I ran to it with outstretched arms.

  “Can’t you drive any faster?”

  “If you have a problem with my driving, maybe you should’ve driven your own car. Oops! You can’t, can you? Because you’re fucking drunk. So just sit back and shut up,” Angel sneered from over her shoulder.

  Normally, I would’ve shot back with my own assholish comment, but she was right. I was fucking drunk. But I had miraculously sobered up quite a bit once I saw what was lying amongst a clutter of shot glasses and peanut shells almost fifteen minutes ago.

  I had to get away from CJ’s groupies, and had only marginally escaped the pressure to suck a shot of tequila from Wendy’s rack. They were nice tits; I couldn’t deny that fact. But they weren’t Kami’s tits. Kami had great tits. Perky and soft. Perfect, sweet nipples. Just the right size to fit in my hands…

  Fuck. Even my thoughts were drunk and stupid.

  I slumped back and tried calling her again, hoping the reminder would defog my mind. I screwed up. I know I did. But I really hadn’t done anything with those chicks. I didn’t want to.

  I had just been about to grab a bottle of water and a cab home when I saw it. A small, red paper heart. It felt like a bucket of ice water had been dumped over my head, and I immediately woke the fuck up. Kami was here. At least she had been. And if she glimpsed what was going on over at CJ’s table, I knew I had some serious groveling to do, whether or not she wanted anything to do with me.

  I couldn’t let her believe I was that guy. The guy that got drunk and stupid whenever shit hit the fan. The guy that hooked up with any girl with a warm hole and a wet mouth. Ok, maybe I was that drunk and stupid guy. But Random Hookup Guy? That wasn’t me. Not anymore. Not since Kami.

  I don’t know how long I stood there holding that red paper heart in my hand, looking as if I had been tasered in the nuts in the middle of that crowded bar. But I knew I had royally fucked up.

  “Where did you get this?” I snapped at Corey just as he passed by to grab a bottle of vodka.

  His brows knit together, and he shrugged. “Oh, uh, I can’t be sure but I think Kami had it in her hand when she…”

  “Kami’s here?”

  “Yeah. Only for like a second though. Then she just left.”

  “When?” I asked stepping into his personal space. I was tempted to grab his collar to shake the shit out of him, cheesy soap opera style. Maybe a dramatic backhand to drive my point home.

  “Like maybe 5-10 minutes ago?”

  “And you didn’t think to tell me?” I shouted, drawing the attention of just about every bar patron. I didn’t care what they thought about my behavior. Not where Kami was concerned.

  “What the hell is going on?” Angel said, sauntering up to the
bar with Dom in tow, looking like he was ready to break some skulls. Probably my skull.

  “Kami was here.” I lifted the paper heart for her to see, but I didn’t hand it over. It was mine. It was meant for me.

  “What? I didn’t see her come in,” Angel frowned.

  “Probably because she took one look at you and your table of bleach blonde cum dumpsters and left,” Dominic nearly growled, taking a step towards me. “I swear to God, if you fucking hurt her, if she shed one fucking tear over you, I will…”

  “I didn’t do shit, and you know it,” I interjected before Dom’s mouth started writing checks that his pretty boy ass couldn’t cash. Yeah, he may have been stockier but I was a good two to three inches taller and known for my quick fists. Besides, if anyone was worth fighting like hell for, it was Kami.

  Shit.

  I should’ve fought for her. I should’ve stayed and made her see that she had nothing to be afraid of. That being with me—loving me—could never hurt her.

  SHIT!

  I had hurt her. Instead of staying by her side, despite the bullshit she spewed to push me away, I got drunk and let her witness a couple of grab-happy broads damn near dry-hump my leg. I had let her down. I had proved to her that men couldn’t be trusted. That I couldn’t be trusted. I had to change her mind. I just hoped she’d hear me out long enough to let me do just that.

  I wanted to book it to the apartment as soon as we parked, but I needed to be patient long enough to get past the doorman. However, he was nowhere to be found, and a few food delivery guys were waiting to be buzzed up. That should have been a red flag. I should have sensed something wasn’t right, but I was anxious to get upstairs to Kami and plead my case. Anxious to just be in her presence again.

  An inexplicable sense of dread twisted my stomach into a giant knot as we approached their door. That should have been the second sign. That should have put me on high alert and made me barge into the apartment, figurative guns blazing. But I chalked it up to alcohol and nerves. I had to make this right. Knowing that I had a small window of opportunity had me worried as hell.

  “Well, playboy, it’s your funeral,” Angel sniggered as she placed her hand on the doorknob. “I’ll just come back after Kam is done making earrings out of your nuts. I’m sure she’ll want to go shopping for a matching handbag.”

  What happened next was beyond incomprehensible. Not because the scene in the living room was something out of a horror film. Not because there was a man perched over Kami with his dingy pants around his ankles while she lay on the ground, lifeless, in a pool of her own blood. And not because the stench of death instantly permeated our skin and clothing.

  It was because I couldn’t understand it. I couldn’t describe what I did to that sick fuck that had tortured her. I couldn’t express the feeling of holding her still, limp body in my arms as I cried into her blood-matted hair, apologizing for leaving her. For not saving her.

  There was blood on my hands. Blood everywhere, saturated into the cream carpeting and blanketing the side of the leather couch. I looked over at Dom who was just as coated in the red, sticky substance as he spoke to a police officer. I didn’t know why he was speaking to him, his horror-stricken eyes red and puffy. I couldn’t remember.

  “She’s fading fast. We have to get her to the hospital.”

  “I’m riding with her!” Angel cried, her body shaking with uncontrollable sobs. She was covered in blood too. Her hands, her clothes, her…knees? Like she was kneeling in it. Like she had been on her knees in a pool of blood. Cradling her. Begging her to wake up. Crying her name over and over again.

  “Ok, but only one of you can. We have to go now.”

  I wanted to go. I wanted to be the one to ride in the ambulance, but I couldn’t say the words. I couldn’t do much of anything. I sat in my own slow motion sequence while the rest of the world zoomed by me on hyper speed. I looked down at the blood covering my hands. Felt the ache in my knuckles as I flexed them.

  I needed that pain to remind me. To remind me of her.

  “Sir, I need to get your statement.”

  I looked up to see that the officer was now in front of me. Dominic stood beside him, his bloodied fists shaking at his sides.

  “Sir? Your statement?”

  “Sure,” I nodded.

  “OK, your name?”

  “Blaine. Blaine Daniel Jacobs.”

  “Relation to the victim?”

  The victim. Victim.

  Kami.

  It all came crashing in like a wrecking ball, demolishing the single slice of sanity I had left. The knot of emotion in my throat swelled and erupted, spilling its bile down into my stomach. I felt sick. Dizzy. Out of control and unable to get a grip on reality.

  “He’s her boyfriend,” Dom spoke up, gripping my shoulder to steady me. He gave me a reassuring nod before mouthing “Breathe.” I did as I was told. Breathing was all I could do.

  “Hey, can we do this at the hospital? We need to hurry up and get there,” Dom asked the police officer.

  He gave us both a sympathetic look and nodded. “Sure. I’ll meet you guys over there.”

  Less than twenty minutes later, we were racing through the entrance of the emergency department, demanding that a nurse, doctor, technician, anybody direct us to Kami.

  “She’s in surgery,” we were told soon after we found Angel pacing in the waiting room.

  That’s all we were offered. We weren’t family. No. Her family was handcuffed to his own hospital bed, courtesy of Dom and me. Her family had abandoned her when she needed them the most.

  We were her family. Hell, at least Kami was ours.

  “We should call her mother,” Angel said, fishing her cell phone out from her bag.

  “What the fuck for? That woman wouldn’t know what to do. Do you think she’d even care?” Dom scoffed.

  “But it’s her mother,” Angel tried to reason. “Of course, she’d want to know what happened to her daughter.”

  Dom snorted and continued his incessant pacing. I resumed looking at my hands. No matter how hard I scrubbed them, I couldn’t get the blood off. It had seeped into the tiny cracks of my cuticles and stained my fingernails. I still felt it all over me. Still smelled the metallic scent on my clothing and skin.

  Kami’s blood. His blood.

  And while I knew they were genetically linked, I hated that his blood had tainted hers. That he had touched her. Abused her.

  And I had let him.

  If it hadn’t been for me leaving her apartment, he would have never been able to get inside. If it hadn’t been for me getting drunk with a bunch of bar sluts, Kami would have never left Dive and gone home alone.

  This was my fault. I had failed Kami when I had vowed to protect her. To never hurt her. To never leave her. I failed yet another woman that I cared about.

  I didn’t save my mother from the sickness that ate away at her sanity. I didn’t save Amanda from her weakness. And I didn’t save Kami, the woman I loved more than I loved myself.

  I had failed.

  I didn’t deserve her. I knew that now. I would just keep hurting her. Would just keep fucking things up. Kami deserved someone who could protect her. Someone to love her enough to heal her. And I had proven that I wasn’t equipped to do either of those things.

  Without a word or look in Angel and Dom’s direction, I stood up and walked right out of that hospital. Away from the woman I loved. Away from the woman I failed. And I didn’t look back.

  “Young lady, what the hell is this?”

  I stepped all the way through the front door while trying to steady my wobbly legs. Holy fuck, I was buzzing. Shit! But at least I wasn’t late for curfew.

  My mother stood before me, her face screwed into a scowl, one hand on her hip, the other holding up a little white rolled piece of paper.

  “Well? You want to explain what you’re doing with marijuana in your room?”

  I walked farther into the room, making sure to kick my shoes off f
irst. That was a must. My mom could care less about the nightmares I had every night, but all hell froze over if I wore shoes in the house.

  I shrugged and tossed my purse onto the couch. “Not really.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I said ‘Not really.’ I don’t feel like explaining it. You don’t care anyway.”

  “Langga, you know that isn’t true,” she deadpanned with a flat voice. Even the use of the term of endearment was more out of habit than anything else. There was no emotion behind it, no truth.

  “Mom, give it up. You don’t have to pretend to care. Not now, when you didn’t care when it counted.”

  She rolled her eyes and let out an annoyed breath. “What are you talking about? Of course I care.”

  “Really, Mom? Did you care about my 4.0 GPA for the past six semesters? Or my early acceptance letters to half the colleges I applied to? Or how about the fact that I missed my class trip to the water park because I am freakin’ terrified of what could happen? Did you care about any of that?”

  “Don’t try to turn this around on me. You still need to explain why I found a joint in your sock drawer.”

  “It’s not mine,” I lied. I was just glad she hadn’t found the rest of my stash. Lately, it was the only way I could get through the night without jerking awake from another nightmare.

  “And what were you doing in my sock drawer?” I glared at her.

  “Never mind that,” she said, her accent sounding thicker than usual. “You can’t get out of this one, Langga. You can’t manipulate me like you do everyone else.”

  “Manipulate you?” I glowered. “Like everyone else? What the hell are you talking about?”

  “Mmm hmm. Want to make everyone believe your lies. Want them to think I’m a bad mother. Now you’re on drugs? And don’t think I don’t smell alcohol on your breath every weekend.”

  I rolled my eyes. She was doing it again. She was imagining things, being paranoid. Sometimes I thought she was seriously delusional. “What lies? You aren’t making any sense.”