The Ties That Bind Us: (The Ties Duet Part One)

by Danda K.

  Damn it, why am I so awkward?

  I bend over and tie my boots, double-knotted this time, and start the journey home. A home where I know there’s nothing and no one who’s genuine. At least not right now.

  Four

  Cameron

  Walking up to my door, I take a deep breath. Chances are he’s drunk and passed out at this point anyway. If he isn’t, I’ll just ignore him. Silence is the best medicine when dealing with someone as impossible as my father, anyway.

  I open the door and, other than the TV running in the background, it’s quiet. I take a quick look around- and the mess I made still in the same spot I left it. I know he’s home because I see those awful New Balances right by the door.

  I grab a glass from the cabinet by the kitchen window, rinse it out, and add some water from the tap. Turning towards my room, I make my way down the hall. The light from my room illuminates the hallway. What the hell? I’m sure I locked my door when I came out this morning. I lock it every time I leave my room because I never want him to take it upon himself to sniff through my shit.

  As I approach the door, I can sense I’m not going to like what I find.

  Before I even see it, somehow I know he ransacked my room. My psychic guess was right. I push open my door, and that’s when I see the damage. My computer is shattered to pieces. All my pictures are broken. My favorite picture of Milla and I now lies on the floor, not only with a broken frame, but with the picture ripped to pieces and thrown everywhere, too.

  I look back at the door and realize he broke through it. He could have unlocked it with a safety pin, but no, this asshole always has to find a way to dig the knife in deeper. Now I have to pay for a new door, a new computer and hope all the pictures on my laptop can be retrieved.

  My pictures are all I care about. They’re mostly of Camilla, but some are pictures I have of the places I want to one day visit. Nothing extravagant: the beach, a Broadway show, Coney Island.

  All the places that, in another life, I would enjoy without any fear of being seen by other people.

  Luckily, I keep the list of these places with me at all times, but, as usual, this man continues to destroy any shred of hope I have left. I need to get away from here. I need to leave.

  Out there cannot be worse than what’s rotting away in these walls. I pack whatever I can...some clothes, what’s left of my laptop, whatever pieces I can grab of Camilla’s ripped up face, my charger, and an eyeglass case.

  I leave my room and walk down the small hall. The bright yellow walls have been there for so long, I’m surprised the negative energy and violence that’s taken place here hasn’t turned them black.

  I spot the chipped hallway table. My dad pushed me so hard my side gauged into the corner and a mark was left on both of us: the table got a big chip taken off from when it hit me and then the floor, and I was left with a 6-inch scar across my right rib cage.

  It took around 30 stitches to close up my side. And, of course, my dad so carefully explained how clumsy his 13-year-old was when she had her face glued to her cell phone.

  I wondered how being clumsy could also contribute to the bruised ribs they found on the x-ray, but what was the point? I hope the doctor believed it. Because the thought of someone knowing what was happening, and not doing anything about it, is too much to bear now that I’m an adult looking back.

  I glance into my dad’s room. And just like I thought, he’s passed out drunk.

  Maybe it’s better I don’t confront him and give him a chance to make things even worse. He already destroyed me, and now he’s destroyed what little belongings I have. I’m left with nothing, and the only thing to do with nothing...is to make it something.

  I check for all my essential belongings, gather up some non-perishable food and water bottles, and when I’m sure I’ve got all I need, I tie up my boots and walk out the door.

  Standing outside, the cool night air blankets my face. Taking a deep breath, I contemplate where the hell a person like me goes next.

  Then it hits me, don’t think, Cam...just do.

  So I do. I take my first step, not allowing myself to look back. There’s no point. I’m no longer going that way.

  ◆◆◆

  The smell of salt water and sand is something I’ve always imagined but never actually experienced until now.

  The moonlight shining over the ocean makes the black waves crashing towards the shore look as though they sparkle. Some may think I’m crazy for living so close to a beach but never stepping foot on one. And, let’s face it, a part of me is.

  I’m afraid to be anywhere other than where I’m comfortable. And throughout my whole life, the only place I was comfortable was in the place that broke me down. I was so conditioned to believe my way of life was normal that the simplicity of sitting on a beach was too intimidating.

  The noise infiltrates the solace, not the other way around.

  At home, I know what’s coming. Places like a seemingly calm boardwalk can somehow feel threatening. My fear lies in the quiet before the storm...it’s the storm I’ve adapted to.

  But, now that I’m here, I find it hard to believe a place this beautiful can be terrifying at all. Or at least more terrifying than my life at home.

  After admiring the view in front of me, I go through the list in my head of things I need to do. Finding a place to live is my first priority. With winter approaching in a few months, life on the street could get complicated fast. A shelter could never be an option for me. I’d be forced to sleep next to complete strangers. Shelters in New York City are poorly run and a breeding ground for addicts and predators.

  A girl like me wouldn’t last a night without incident.

  I could probably take a semester off school to get settled somewhere if need be. I know my grades are great, but I’ll need a new laptop. And there’s no use in signing up for new classes when I have no Wi-Fi to complete my assignments.

  Then there’s my job. I also need Wi-Fi to work. Even if I find a small studio, I’m not sure if U-Haul pays enough to cover the rent. Doubt stirs in my gut now after conjuring up potential scenarios.

  I put a mental pin on the list for now and allow myself to enjoy this moment. I finally left. It’s me against this great big world now.

  I just hope the world goes easier on me than my parents did.

  Five

  Jaxon

  “Ughhhh, fuck these boots.”

  Exhausted, I throw them across the room, barely missing Magnet.

  For a cat, he’s not agile at all. In fact, he defies every feline law. The little leech got his name the day he decided to cling to my leg on my short walk home from work not too long after I moved in. I was minding my own business when this black and grey flea-infested fur ball rubbed up against my leg.

  I may play the macho-guy on the outside, but deep down, I’m nothing but an undercover cat person. That black spot around his eye that reaches his clipped right ear reminded me of myself- bruised and clawing my way to my next stop. I fell for Magnet, hook, line, and sinker. He still follows me around everywhere, so, technically, it’s his fault for almost getting socked with my boot.

  He doesn’t scurry off as most cats would. Magnet just stares at me with a go screw yourself and feed me look, so I do just that.

  In the kitchen, I pick up Magnet’s blue bowl and place it on the table. I fill it with tuna and a dab of peanut butter, just how he likes. When I bend over to place his dish back on the floor, a piece of paper drops out of my pocket. Well, a receipt, really.

  I don’t know why I kept it, but there was something about the haunted look in the girl’s eyes that seemed all too familiar. Almost like I’ve been where she is, and I can’t shake it.

  A troubled soul can always spot a troubled soul.

  Even in a place as insignificant as a 7-Eleven. Buying the third installment of what’s actually a really good enemies-to-lovers romance, but everyone knows you have to read the first two to grasp the tension between the character
s.

  You’re doing it again, Jax. Rein in the inner romance novel enthusiast.

  I don’t know much about romance right now because my heart and I haven’t been on the best of terms. Since Gelissa, I’ve sworn off the estrogen. I’ve been too busy trying to turn my life around, and a girlfriend’s the last thing on my mind.

  Besides, Jaxon Carter’s future was decided the day I was left at a Shoprite when I was just a few days old. Not even a hospital or firehouse was good enough for me.

  No, whoever pushed me out of her hellhole twenty-three years ago decided supermarkets were where all the heroes resided.

  I was left screaming, practically naked, in a box with nothing but a sailboat, receiving blanket, and a blue bunny to console me. This story doesn’t end with a doting couple finding me and knowing they wanted me from the second they laid their eyes on me either.

  I spent almost eighteen years being tossed around in the shitty foster care system hoping for adoption, then graduated high school and left. After several months sleeping on the streets I came across Gunner, otherwise known as Gunner the Runner. He scouted potential fighters for a percentage of the cut.

  When he stood in front of me with his black leather jacket, greasy hair, and large skull tattoo on his neck, I thought for sure he was gonna try and rob the tent I found. So, I did the first thing any sane and homeless person would do when he approached me. I punched him in the face...

  “You pack quite the punch for such a little dude.” Shaking his head, Gunner laughs while cradling his jaw with his bony hand.

  The sarcastic chuckle leaves my lips before I even process the irony. “I find that hilarious since you’re obviously like five years older than I am, but just about the same size.”

  A strand of Gunner’s jet black hair falls over his eyebrow piercing.

  “You just go around punching strangers in the face?” His dark eyes have a bit of menace to them, but he recovers quickly and returns to a friendlier demeanor.

  “You gotta shoot first and ask questions later living out here, man.” I cross my arms over my chest and shrug.

  He steps closer to me. I assume he’s around 6’1”, but I’ve got about two inches on him and more muscle.

  Gunner looks me over, sizing me up. “What if you didn’t have to? What if I told you that I know a way you can continue punching people and actually get paid for it?”

  He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a cigarette. The smell of the lighter and acrid tobacco singes my nostrils as I wait for him to continue.

  I raise my eyebrow at him as he exhales. “You could make a ton of cash fighting these rich chumps who think their cocks are made of brass. Typical rich and privileged party boys with a God complex. Most of ’em can’t fight for shit, so it’ll be an easy win, and you can get yourself off the street and somewhere stable.”

  I pretend to think about it for a minute. “Thanks, but no thanks.” I point my thumb towards the tent next to mine. “I’ll take my chances with my neighbor Charlie.” I continue in a whisper, “He’s got a crossbow.”

  A look of confusion crosses his face, but he shakes it off. “Unless you’re expecting a zombie apocalypse, Charlie won’t help you any more than sitting on your ass in this tent will. Trust me, kid, you won’t regret it.”

  So I took him up on his offer, and I got by for four years. Fighting earned me enough money to chip in and help my best friend, Morgan, with some groceries and utility bills while I crashed with him. It helped in some ways but almost cost me my life. Well, that, and a fiery redhead named Gelissa.

  I need to move. Being on the go so much growing up makes it very hard to just stay put. It’s almost as if my body hasn’t caught up with the fact I’ve settled down in this small two-bedroom apartment.

  This two-family house is owned by Sayeed, my boss and landlord. He left Pakistan and came to the States thirty years ago and owns the 7-Eleven where I work. He offered me a job and a place to live with very low rent.

  I pick up my boots and side-eye Magnet, trying to decide whether he’s over his resentment towards me for almost costing him one of his nine lives.

  “Let’s go see what trouble we can get into tonight, my guy.” I rub his head, and he purrs, swiping his side up against my leg a few times.

  Just as I grab my wallet, a piercing pain penetrates my ankle. “Fuck! You bit me, you little shit!”

  He strolls off in front of me, heading towards the door. I guess he isn’t over it. I roll my eyes and grab my keys off the entrance table. “I’ll give you that one, you serpent, but only because I did kinda deserve it.”

  I open the door for us and step out into the night. The cool September breeze decides exactly where I--or we--need to be. The beach.

  ◆◆◆

  “It’s not a damn litter box!” I whisper yell to Magnet as he kicks the sand over and hides all traces of evidence.

  Whatever, it’s not like anyone digs under the docks anyway. And, well, I do see where the confusion may lie.

  I live about three blocks from the beach, so I visit often. But the close proximity isn’t the only reason I find myself navigating towards the sand and ocean. It’s the serenity, the peace, especially at night.

  The beach is the one place that, no matter the weather, the time, the day, the condition of the world...is always beautiful. The ocean is the most wide-open entity; you can see it for miles, but somehow it still harbors the most secrets.

  You can only see the surface of the beauty it holds from the shore, but underneath the glittering moonlight mirrored over the quiet, dancing waves is a whole world not for us. A whole world that exists without our help but is slowly dying by no fault of its own.

  The blame lies solely in the hands of humans.

  We’re sitting far enough from the shore to not get wet but close enough to watch the waves slowly pull back into the abyss they came from. One minute you see it, the next it’s gone, blending completely with the rest of the water and never knowing which part it was that swept the shoreline.

  There’s no doubt there’s a far more beautiful ocean somewhere else in the world...with far nicer sand, fish, and trees. Somewhere that would probably make Coney Island Beach look like the ocean’s personal toilet bowl, but here’s the thing. I’m nowhere else but here right now.

  And I find beauty in the imperfections because that’s where the truth lies.

  Calling it a night around eleven, I pick up a very lazy and stubborn Magnet. Heading towards the boardwalk, I see it. The bottoms of big, black combat boots perched on the railing of the boardwalk. It’s not unusual to have homeless folks use the benches to sleep for a night, but what is unusual is what I spot laying across this one’s stomach. A laptop.

  It’s broken, but still, that’s like drawing a bullseye across your forehead for predators and other victims of circumstance looking to make a buck. I walk up the steps, and the closer I get, the clearer the face comes into view.

  I see the same dark, beautiful hair that makes her fair skin almost glow. I don’t see her eyes, but I just know those same haunting brown orbs are just under the surface of those closed, fluttering eyelids.

  Maybe she’s dreaming?

  The way her mouth slightly hangs open shows she must be in a deep sleep and the way her chest slowly rises and falls tells me this may be the best sleep she’s had in a very long time. Where it’s taking place, though, makes the situation all too familiar.

  “What the fuck?” I realize I said that out loud, but does this girl have a damn death wish?

  Drinking in alleys alone, and now, flashing her broken laptop to the world, making it that much easier to harm her?

  She jumps up suddenly, her hands in a poor fighting stance and wavy hair covering half her face. She blows the strands away, but it’s useless as they fall right back in place. She’s looking at me through the one eye not covered by hair.

  Her voice is frantic when she yells, “I’ve got training in Krav Maga! Just back away now, and I won’t hur
t you!”

  I almost laugh out loud at that, her shaky posture painting a very different picture.

  Crossing my arms, I raise an eyebrow as I stare at her pitiful stance. “Really? Where’d you learn your technique? Kids ‘N’ Shape?”

  She drops her arms. “For your information, I completely lied. I don’t know shit about Krav Maga, but I do have a pocket knife that cuts through flesh quite efficiently.” She pulls out the few strings of hair stuck in her mouth and straightens.

  I shrug. “Eh, it’s no crossbow, but I’m sure it could do the trick against some people.”

  She seems confused at my response, but then she recognizes me.

  “YOU!” She takes a step towards me. “You are following me!” She pauses briefly and then continues, “And before you accuse me of trespassing again, I’m pretty sure you don’t own the beach!” She waves her arms, gesturing to the open space between us.

  “You got me there. I don’t own the beach. But I do live three blocks away. We come here often to relax after I finish work. I can’t help it if you decided to rent a bench that happens to be in my happy place.”

  She looks around and then back at me. “We?” she questions, obviously confused.

  “Oh, yeah. Me and Magnet. We like to come here a lot.”

  “Magnet?” she asks in disbelief.

  I gesture for her to turn around. “Look in your backpack.”

  Cameron turns around then screams, surprising me by jumping into my arms and practically climbing up my body to escape the little demon. I’ve been there, and she should just quit while she’s ahead. There’s no escaping him.

  A jolt of electricity fires through me, shooting up my spine and down into my fingertips.

  “IS THAT A RACOON?!” she screams, turning to look me in the face.

  As if she just realized she’s touching me, Cameron quickly lets go and runs behind me. I immediately feel the loss of contact.