Burn

by Jc Emery

  “No,” I say as loud as I can. Ian said he wouldn’t be by tomorrow morning. That he won’t disappear but that he’s got club business. I know what that means—he’s tired of babysitting me and taking care of me like I’m an infant.

  I push off from the toilet as quickly as I can and clamber to my room in search of a pair of shoes. Any shoes will do. I just have to get out of here. I grab the first pair I can find—a new set of runners that I haven’t touched since last summer when I thought I might take up running one day. I shove my socked feet into the runners, and lace them up as quickly and as tightly as I can before sprinting from my room and rushing down the hall to the front door. I don’t see Mom or Dad as I fling the front door open and rush onto the front lawn. The cool spring breeze feels wonderful on my heated skin. I don’t spend enough time outside. Somewhere in the house Mom is asking where I am and instead of telling her a truth I can’t explain, I head for the street on hurried feet and don’t slow at the curb, instead opting to take off in the direction Ian’s left. Soon, my lungs are burning and the coastal breeze is doing nothing to keep me cool. My body is heated and my feet ache in the unfamiliar set of runners.

  Watch, you fucking slut!

  The voice propels me forward at a speed I didn’t know I was capable of. My strawberry blonde hair flies around my face, blocking my view in parts as I race toward the edge of town. I strain to get oxygen into my lungs and the muscles of my little used legs ache under the punishment I’m delivering them. It hurts, the exertion of pushing myself to a limit I’m unfamiliar with. Everything in me hurts, both physically and emotionally and it never gets better—except when Ian is around. Only then do I feel less dirty, and broken, and hopeless. But Ian’s not an option anymore, so I keep running. I run past the library, and further away from town, and into the outlying neighborhoods with larger homes and better manicured lawns, and better concealed secrets. The faux perfection churns my stomach so I keep going despite the painful ache that’s set in. I just want out of this—out of here—and to keep running until I find a place where I can feel some semblance of normal. Maybe it doesn’t exist.

  Only, it does with Ian. I have to try to get better on my own though, without him. I don’t want to, but it looks like I don’t have a choice so I keep running until I literally fall into a tree on the side of Sherwood Road and scream and cry and kick at the goddamn thing until I’m exhausted and I head back for the house.

  12 months to Mancuso’s downfall

  Chapter 1

  FIFTY-NINE DAYS AND counting since Ian’s stopped coming by every day. Fifty-nine mornings I’ve been left to wonder where he is, what he’s doing, and if he’s drinking his disgusting black coffee. I don’t know why he punishes himself with black coffee, nor do I know why he’s punishing me by staying away from me. All I really know is that it’s painful for him to be so distant.

  My only relief is my daily run. I make it as painful as possible, pushing myself to my limit every time. I haven’t reached my limit until I’m close to pitching myself in front of the next vehicle that passes to stop the ache in my muscles. It used to be a few miles before the punishment got to be too much to bear and I’d be doubled over on the side of the road flipping out because I’d maxed out my ability to torture myself. It was always so much easier to hit that high with a needle in my arm or a bottle to my lips. Now, though, I can make it around Ruby and Jim’s property, which is an eight-mile loop from start to finish. It’s the only thing I have now since Ian’s left me.

  I want to ask Holly about him, but I don’t dare. She’s got a big mouth and is likely to tell Grady I’ve asked about Ian, and the next thing I know, Ian will be showing up out of obligation rather than because he wants to. As it is, he had promised to take me to the hospital when Nic gave birth, and he didn’t. He probably got busy, but still.

  But he doesn’t want to show up, or he would be showing up a hell of a lot more often.

  I let out a heavy sigh and try to push away my disappointment. This morning when he arrived, it marked the eleventh time he’s shown up since he stopped coming every day. Unlike before, now he’s short-tempered and grouchy. He’s still silent, as always, but it’s different. There’s a frustrating aloofness to his presence that makes him more unreachable than ever.

  He rode up on his bike, same time, same path he always takes, but he left in one of the club’s vans. He and Dad had a few words on the front lawn before he climbed in and the van sped off. When the van returned this evening, he walked straight to his bike, started her up, and disappeared down the road without a single look at the house. It’s for the best, I guess. Otherwise he’d have seen me peeled to the window in the living room, staring out at him hopelessly like a lost puppy just begging for love. God, I’m pathetic.

  “Eat, please,” my mother says in her most stern voice. Even trying to be firm, she’s still soft.

  My mother, Claire Mercer, tries her hardest to be relatable to me but fails miserably at almost every turn. I’m her only child, and she’s insistent on reforming our relationship. She’s even stopped going to church every Sunday to spend more time with me. She’s trying to be kind, really she is, but I used to look forward to that time alone. Now I’m forced into awkward family brunches with Uncle Edgar and Aunt Naomi, who try their best to act like everything is fine. Not that I make it easy on them. I mean, anyone would be off their game if their niece had a breakdown every time she heard a loud noise or touched the wrong surface. God forbid they look at me wrong when I start dry heaving and sobbing in the corner of the room. That only makes it worse.

  “Melinda.” Mom’s voice is harder this time, and I know she means business.

  I shake my head of my thoughts and take the plate she’s offering. Pulling my legs up on the couch, I reposition to get comfortable as I stare at the sandwich and chips she’s assembled for me. Mom made soup for her and Dad earlier, but the steam of the bowl had me straining to breathe through the violent shaking of my body. The white bread hasn’t been toasted, and the meat is from a cold deli package. Nothing hot—good. Maybe I’ll be able to keep this down. She’s even cut the sandwich into quarters to make it easier for me to eat.

  “Thank you,” I say and meet her eyes.

  “You shouldn’t run right after you eat,” she says with a soft smile. She’s trying, I know she is, but damn it if she isn’t annoying the hell out of me. She’s worried that eating and pushing myself so soon after will make me sick. I bet it will. In fact, I’m counting on it.

  “I’ll be fine.” If she knew I actually enjoy the sickening discomfort that settles in a few miles into my run, she’d be horrified. Claire Mercer isn’t doing so well with knowing how fucked-up her daughter is. Nervously, she eyes my sandwich on my plate. To appease her, I scarf it down as quickly as I can without looking like a maniac.

  Fifty-nine days since Ian’s left me, and it’s time that I start acting like a normal person. Funny that I know how long it’s been since he’s disengaged himself from me, and yet I don’t have much of a clue how long it’s been since that day. I stifle the humorless laugh that creeps up at the thought. I never imagined my nightmares would be eclipsed by the absence of my dreams.

  “I’m proud of you for taking up running. Maybe tomorrow I can go with you?”

  No, you can’t.

  You absolutely can’t.

  “Yeah, maybe.” I finish the sandwich and start in on the chips and try my best to ignore my mother’s curious stare.

  “Mindy, I’d like to talk about therapy again,” she says carefully. Her voice trails off at the end, and she’s speaking slowly as to not offend me. The topic itself is as offensive as they come. What am I supposed to talk to a therapist about? That day, or Ian, or the tracks on my feet? What damage am I supposed to work on exactly?

  “I’d rather not.”

  “Running is great, but you’re not working through your trauma. You have to speak to someone about it. You have to get past this so you can have a normal life again.”<
br />
  “Normal? What precisely is normal?”

  She’s hit a nerve with me, and she knows it. “Working, having friends, even dating. You haven’t dated since Heath.”

  “I’m not discussing Heath with you.”

  “Why not? You never even talked about it. One day he was here and the next he was gone. You can’t just keep everything bottled up forever.”

  “Sure I can,” I say and hand her the now empty plate. I grab the glass of water at my right and down half of it before setting the glass back down and standing from the couch.

  “Mindy, talk to me. Please.”

  “We talked.” I open the front door and close it behind me with a hard thud. Of course she thinks this is about Heath. I don’t even really know what this is—I’m just dealing in the only way I know how. I take off from the front stoop and run toward town. The sun has already set, and it’s later than I would normally be running, but I placated my mother this morning by promising to spend the day with her. I can only handle so much pampering and sly begging before I give in. Maybe it’s not a total loss. The evening air is cooler than it is earlier in the day when the sun is out. The chill feels wonderful on my skin. It seems I can never get cool enough these days, regardless of the temperature around me.

  The downside with running through town is that there’s a lot more traffic, so a lot more stop and go. I can’t just take off and run at full hilt through town like I can on the outskirts along the country roads. The days it hurts less, I run in town, and even though I’m feeling it something awful today, I can’t bring myself to run along the woods at this time of night. I might enjoy the self-inflicted pain, but that doesn’t mean I’m a total masochist.

  So instead, I opt for the lesser evil and manage my run through town all the while ignoring the occasional wave and verbal greeting. I used to just be a local, and now I’m something else—something I never wanted to be. I’m somebody people want to protect and to care for, and it makes me so fucking angry that my skin crawls with their pity.

  I’m a few miles into my run when Mr. Hill, of the hardware store, gives me a sad smile and a kind wave. He is—or was—a lonely old widower who never quite got over his wife’s death—that is until he started spending time with Lisa Grady. According to Holly, Old Man Hill is caught up in a torrid affair with Forsaken’s sergeant-at-arm’s mother, and the old goat couldn’t be happier. I try to summon up some happiness for him, but I don’t even have any for myself, let alone some to share. The forced wave and smile is enough to make my sandwich want to come up.

  I hate feeling this way—bitter and angry—but I can’t help it. The hate of that day has seeped into my soul, and I can’t seem to get it out. The insidious hatred spreads through my veins, bringing on a craving that I don’t want. I try to block it out, but before I realize what I’m doing, my feet have taken me in the direction of the house I used to buy from. It’s a run-down old thing.

  I don’t want this, but I’m here. Only a couple hundred feet away and I’ll be on the front porch. I don’t have any cash with me, but that’s never been a problem before. They know I’m good for it.

  But I can’t. I’ve worked too hard for my sobriety. I’ve done too much, been through too much, and come too far to throw it all away on a high that can’t and won’t last.

  And where has that gotten me? I’m a bitter as fuck recluse who wants nothing to do with the real world and only finds refuge in a man who has abandoned her for God only knows what. A new project, maybe. Or a woman who won’t throw up at the idea of being touched sexually. Maybe there’s more than one—several most likely. He’s Forsaken. They must throw themselves at him shamelessly, and I’ll bet he doesn’t turn them down. I’m never going to be for Ian what he is for me. I can’t be, not with how goddamn broken and fearful I am.

  I take a few steps toward the house and pause before continuing. If I’m too fucked-up for Ian, then what’s the fucking point in even trying to stay sober?

  There is no point.

  Unless . . .

  No. If I had a chance with him, I could find the strength to deny myself the bliss I know will come once I get my fix. But I don’t have enough strength on my own.

  I walk up to the front door like I have a hundred times before, ring the bell, and wait. My brain remembers this, hasn’t forgotten how to score. So when the voice comes through the intercom, all slimy and up to no good, I’m not startled.

  “What?” the disgusting voice says. I can’t remember his name. It’s something stupid, like Smirk or something, that he calls himself.

  “I’m looking for some H,” I say.

  There’s silence on the other end, which is normal. Except that it stretches out longer than I expect. Nobody comes to the door, and nobody says anything through the speaker. And still I wait and try to be patient. Every instinct I have tells me to make a run for it and to back out now. The moment I have it in hand, there won’t be any turning back. I’m not strong enough. Bouncing from foot to foot, I wait impatiently. Two minutes pass, and then five, and I’m about to chicken out and give up. This part always made me nervous and disgusted with myself. Now it’s too difficult to even think about who I was back then, when I was scoring on the regular.

  “Nothing here for you,” the voice on the other end of the intercom says.

  “Well, what do you have?” I ask instinctively. He knows it’s me. It wasn’t that long ago that he was trying to bargain my body for a baggie. The knee to his groin was memorable, I’m sure.

  “Nothing for you.”

  The rejection is a welcome relief, like it gives me permission to back out. I don’t want this, I really don’t. I’m just on autopilot. I don’t let myself wonder why he’s turning down a customer, and instead I take the steps two at a time and run toward the street. I push myself to run at a speed I can’t maintain and ignore the blaring car horns that sound as I haphazardly fly in front of evening traffic—well, what little traffic we get here in Fort Bragg.

  Somewhere in the distance, a motorcycle revs its engine and closes in on me. Like the crazy-obsessed bitch that I am, I’m convinced it’s Ian and he’s going to pass me any minute. It’s unrealistic to think he’d be in this neighborhood at exactly this time. Even more unrealistic to think he’d stop and offer me a ride home. I don’t need it, but I’d take it because it’s him and I’ll do anything to get him to touch me. Even if it means swallowing the panic and ache that sets in when another person tries to offer me comfort. I wouldn’t know if I’d freak out if he were to touch me, though, since he never has, which is actually more painful than the running and the trying to score combined.

  The guttural sound of the Harley closes in on me, pushing me to run faster. I round the block, and soon I’ve run so far that I’m back in the lush neighborhood that looks too perfect to be real. It is. I recognize two of the houses I pass. One belongs to a local teacher I’ve seen at my NA meetings in Willits, and the other belongs to one of Smirk’s best customers. Nothing’s perfect, I guess.

  A landscaping truck pulls out in front of me suddenly, knocking me out of my reverie and sending me onto a lawn so pristine that it must cost a mint to maintain. The driver waves his hand apologetically but keeps going and zips away. I fight back the urge to yell at him about residential speed limits and instead stand from the grass and dust myself off.

  Once the truck is around the bend in the road and has disappeared, I refocus my attention on picking up where I left off. Without the landscaper distracting me, I realize how loud the motorcycle is behind me. It’s practically deafening, sucking me in and swallowing me whole at the same time. I used to think Nic was nuts when she would know who was passing by on their bikes. Somehow, she could always tell the difference in the sounds of their engines. I thought she was nuts or it was one of those things you have to grow up with to understand, but I think I’m getting it now. I can’t explain why Ian’s bike sounds different, but it does somehow. The engine sounds darker, more menacing and, in a way, inviting
than the others’ bikes. It doesn’t make any sense, and I might just be insane, but I swear I know the sound of his bike. It’s unique, just like the man himself.

  Just to confirm my suspicions, I cast a glance over my shoulder at the approaching Harley. I expect to find Forsaken, of course, but someone I’m not very familiar with. I’m feeling all kinds of guilty and hopeful that it’s not actually Ian after all. He’d stop if he saw me in passing, wouldn’t he? He said he would always be here for me, didn’t he? Of course, he also said he wouldn’t disappear. Even if he did see me on the side of the road, would he even bother to slow down enough to wave?

  None of my stupid worries or fantasies matter, though, because when I see the rider come into view, I gasp and turn around and take off running. Just barely, through the glare of the bike’s headlight, I see his light brown hair flowing freely from underneath his half helmet. It is Ian, and he looks pissed. Not that he doesn’t always look like something crawled up his ass, but there’s something in the hard set of his features that worries me. Most likely, it’s the guilt from almost fucking up my sobriety that’s got me so paranoid. I mean, he’s too far away to really be able to tell if he’s pissed or not. On further thought, yeah, I’m insane.

  “Mindy!” Ian’s deep voice screams over the sound of his ridiculously loud engine. I’ve heard the man yell before, both when he’s pissed and when he’s not, and now I know I’m not crazy. He is pissed.

  I don’t know what I did to anger him. Running at night, maybe? I might be bothered by how much of a hermit I’ve become, but Ian doesn’t seem to think it’s a problem. At least when I’ve rambled about being worried about it, he’s just shaken his head and said, “Don’t push yourself, babe.” The idea that he’s worried about my safely sends a glorious fluttering to my belly. I grin through strained breaths and keep going. I’ve been wanting Ian’s attention for months now, and in this moment I have it, so why the hell am I running? I’m being a bit silly, but my gut tells me that I’m not going to like his mood if I stop, so I don’t.