Hurt Like Me

by P. A. Brokenshire

  I felt my mouth water watching the bottles hit the bottom of the blue bin. Sure, the stuff tasted like water, but I craved it all the same. Almost more than the harder stuff honestly. The beer was always the first resort when the memories surfaced or to keep the nightmares at bay. Caffeine didn't do shit and there was nothing but my own body aches to shut myself down after eight hours of manual labor. I had to shower the night sweats away, bite my pillow through the screams. I wished I could say that it was getting easier, but that would be a lie. I was just getting better at surviving.

  John hopped into his truck and I got into the passenger seat, wiping the saliva from my lips. The movement made my beard itch. Damn thing always grew so fast. I shaved four days ago. I was thinking about letting it grow out. John looked good enough with his. For a dude in his early 50s he pulled off the gray in his brownish blond hair like a champ. He even kept it long, so he never gave me shit about my own hair needing a cut. The construction business kept him in good shape too. He could probably get some decent pussy if he ever tried. He wouldn't though. For him there was only one woman. It didn't make a difference that she was dead.

  "I was thinking about stopping at Bob's and getting the guys some donuts. Something special for coming in on a Sunday," he said, turning the ignition. "Thoughts?"

  "Sounds good."

  As if I could say anything different. John made things sound like my decision, but we both knew he made the choices. He told me when to sleep, when to eat, when to stop bitching about dumb shit. It's what I needed. Stability, order, routine. Without it I would probably be in that same ditch he pulled me from last year and that wasn't where I wanted to be, not anymore.

  The donuts were a hit of course. We weren't on site for more than ten minutes before they were gone. I choked down a plain one with a fake smile. I didn't want to be ungrateful. Sweets weren't really my thing. I preferred spicy food. Anything that made my chest feel like it was on fire. Masochist- through and through. I went to grab some plywood just as I heard the screaming, this time it was real for a change.

  "John? Fuck! John, are you okay?"

  I turned to find John on the ground, turning four different shades of blue. He clearly wasn't breathing. Nate came to his senses before I did, ministering CPR as someone called 911.

  Everything went by in a haze as the world turned into chaos and I couldn't seem to focus on a single thing.

  An ambulance, doctors, nurses, machines that wouldn't stop beeping- pumping life. Shouting, so much shouting and screaming that I couldn't differentiate between what was real and what was in my head. The noises were deafening. I tried to stop the pounding of my heart, to keep myself calm for John's sake. I counted so many times that the numbers bled together in my mind. I couldn't focus. I kept seeing his seizing body every time I closed my eyes and one thought led to another, one body drifted into another.

  Sometime later, when the doctors were busy doing whatever tests they needed, I curled John's cell phone tight in my hand. I tried not to squeeze it too hard as I typed out Avery's number. Voicemail. I tried again and again as the noise in the hospital around me turned into a dull roar, overshadowed by my own internal insanity.

  I left messages, trying to keep my voice steady. I didn't know what to do.

  "Do something! Garrett, do something!"

  The phone fell from my hand as I clutched my head. The voices screamed, breaking through. They wouldn't stop no matter how many times I dug my nails into my palms. My mouth ached for a drink. It felt like my tongue was so dry that it would fall out of my mouth. Surely that could happen. It would shrivel up without the alcohol. My hands shook. I wanted a pill, a needle, a line. I knew people. I could get it if I wanted it. And fuck, did I want it.

  Time passed. Doctors came and went. I lied. I claimed to be his son in law. No one questioned it, but there was no news in exchange for the lie, just fancy words and apologies. I tried Avery again, the sound of her voicemail haunting me. It was getting late. I'd have to charge the phones soon. I would need to go back to the empty house in Junction. Order a rideshare or rent a car. I would be alone, alone with booze, alone with my thoughts. No. I needed to stay at the hospital. The store around the corner would have chargers. I could just buy one. I checked in one more time with the night nurse and left for the super store. It was only a few streets down. That's the good thing about Harrow. There were no stores open this late in Junction. A blast of cold air and bright lights hit me as I walked through the door. I had to blink a few times to adjust myself to the fluorescents after the darkness.

  "Are you just going to fucking stand there?"

  I started counting again.1...2...3...It was useless, but it was better than the alternatives. I went straight for the back of the store, to the electronics, where I grabbed the first charger that I saw would fit without looking at how much it cost. It wasn't until I was halfway up to the front of the store that I stopped dead in my tracks. Glasses, bottles, cans. They lined the shelves like glittering jewelry beckoning a thief. Drink me! They screamed at me and I heard their call. I caressed the side of a vodka bottle. I could almost taste the reprieve, the silence. Almost as quiet as death.

  She wasn't moving. Her arm stopped a breath away from my foot, blood seeped onto the clean floors. I couldn't hear the gurgle in her throat anymore.

  My teeth clenched, sweat coating my skin. 395 days sober. I couldn't ruin that now. John would be so disappointed. John...would he live? And if he didn't what would that mean for me? The darkness would swallow me whole this time. There would be no more redemption.

  I stood there for much longer than I should have, contemplating how I would do it. Would it be the heroin? Or would I finally buck up the courage to just throw myself in oncoming traffic. One of the phones in my pocket chimed and brought my attention back to the present. It was mine. 10% battery left. It was running out of power and I needed to get back to the hospital, back to John. I sprinted to the registers and started counting again. 1...2...3

  Chapter 17

  Avery- Present

  "Just get them to me by the end of next week," I said, ending the call.

  It had been a long day. 14 hours. I was ready to get back to my apartment and open the bottle of wine that was calling my name. I had never been so glad for the weekend. My bed and a book were about to be my only companions for the next two days. That and maybe some reruns of Inflictions. I needed the nostalgia boost. I rubbed at my face, ignoring the makeup there. It didn't matter if I ruined it. No one would notice. Everyone had left hours ago. I arranged my post its and pens into their proper place and stood, slinging my purse over my shoulder.

  "Are you ready?"

  I jumped at the sound of his voice.

  "Shit, Michael!" I said, clutching my chest with my purse as I took sight of my boyfriend, casually dressed in a dark blue sweater and slacks, leaning against my office door. "You scared the hell out of me."

  "Sorry," he replied, not looking all that sorry. He looked amused and his dimples were showing, making him look like a chastised angel with his blond hair and gray green eyes. The sight of him used to make my stomach flutter. All I felt now was irritation. "You told me to be here at eight."

  I looked at the calendar on my desk. Fuck. I forgot we had drinks with his friends and I'm pretty sure he could tell by the look on my face that I forgot. We had been together for a year. He could guess my expressions at this point, and he had to have known this would slip my mind. Why hadn't he reminded me this morning when he had been at my place?

  "Seriously, Avery? Again?"

  His irritation was justified, but he had to see that I was tired. He knew that I worked long hours and I needed time to recover, to refresh my soul's batteries. And I always knew he was extroverted, but recently he seemed to constantly be pushing me. I hadn't had time to truly relax in weeks. I was trying. Couldn't he see that?

  "I'm so sorry. I get why you're upset-"

  "Whatever. Let's just go," he said, cutting me off. I felt my skin
boil, but I tried to keep my cool. I was too tired to play his games tonight. I didn't want to go and even more so now that he was deciding to just order me around.

  "You're going to have to go without me," I said, pulling out my phone to alert a rideshare. Even my voice sounded tired. I was too exhausted to take the subway back to my apartment. Just the thought of walking to the platform and riding on the train made me yawn. Michael's eyes were burning into mine when the yawn had abated.

  "I thought you were going to meet me halfway, Avery? You're always doing this!"

  It's the way he said it. He made everything sound like it was my fault. As if he didn't have any part to play in our relationship. He was supposed to meet me halfway too. He was supposed to give me space when I asked for it, not treat me like a disobedient child when I was struggling to even keep my eyes open. He was supposed to spend the occasional night inside with me or make me feel relaxed after a hard day. He was supposed to make me feel content, satisfied. Instead, all I felt was annoyed more often than not.

  "I'm trying!" I snapped, rushing past him. I wanted to get away from him. I hated fighting with him. I felt like that's all we ever did now. "We've gone out every night for weeks! I've met you more than halfway. I need time to recharge. Hell, I need time to myself. You know that."

  He chased after me, meeting me at the elevator.

  "You always need space. That's why we haven't moved in together despite my begging and pleading for more time with you. I'm getting tired of this. Our friends are counting on us to be there tonight."

  "Your friends, Michael," I corrected him, pressing the arrow for the elevator. "I can't stand those people. They're awful."

  "You're one to talk. All your friends moved after college. You barely even talk to them."

  "At least my friends don't smother me," I practically growled the words out, smashing the button for the lobby. My friends had lives. Most people had less friends after college. It wasn't unheard of. "You are suffocating me. It's always about you. Your wants, your needs, your desires."

  With the elevator door closed, I felt far too close to him. The air was hot with anger and my eyes stung with tears. Fat angry tears. He was getting on my last nerve and I needed some relief, some release. I laughed to myself. Release. That's what I really needed, an orgasm, a really good one, but no, everything was always about Michael, even sex. I couldn't remember the last time I had cum during sex. I had to fake it and get myself off after. Every. Single. Time.

  "Is that what you think? Like I haven't catered to your shit for the past year!"

  The elevator opened and not a moment too soon. I lost it as I stormed out into the lobby.

  "Cater to me? You can't even get me off, Michael!"

  The words echoed off the tile and granite. I thought I heard the night guard chuckle. I clamped my hand over my mouth as my cheeks reddened. It had been a cruel thing to say. I watched his face crumble. A part of me knew that I should say something, apologize maybe, but I couldn't find it in me to be sorry. I wasn't sorry. This didn't work. It hadn't worked for a while.

  "Do you mean that?" He asked, quietly. He was hurt. I was done hurting him, and me.

  "I think we should call this quits," I finally said, and my cell phone chimed. The rideshare was here and my eyes watered more now with tears of regret. Regret for all the time that I had wasted. I was over the night, the week. Hell, I was over the last year. "Don't call me, Michael."

  I couldn't even look at him before walking away, but of course he didn't listen. He never listened to me. After paying the rideshare, I had to shut off my phone just to get some silence from the calls and texts. First from Michael then his friends. They all messaged me one right after the other until I couldn't take it anymore. A weekend off the grid is exactly what I needed. With the phone off, I could finally breathe and the exhaustion I felt earlier came back with a vengeance.

  My head barely touched the pillow.

  I woke up some time around 8 and took my time brewing coffee as I dove into the book at the top of my TBR pile. I thought about eating something, but I was never hungry this early. Instead, I took my coffee with a blanket onto the tiny balcony that overlooked my chunk of the city. It was just starting to get cold. September in New York City was almost as perfect as it was back in Junction, but so entirely different. I'll admit that I missed the leaves.

  I took my time, enjoying the weather as long as possible before my stomach started to growl. It's only when I put the book down to make myself breakfast that I realized I hadn't thought of Michael at all. I didn't miss him; I didn't mourn the breakup in the way I would have in college. In those days I would have binged on Inflictions, a giant bag of chips, and chocolate. Instead, I was eating my usual yogurt with granola and couldn't keep the smile of contentment off my face. After reading the first book I picked up another. It was a perfect weekend. Relaxed. Alone. The way I preferred it. Without anyone breathing down my neck.

  I always thought that I wanted more friends. Mainly in high school. At least until the party. The memories of skin and sweat and pleasure and shame barreled into me. I shook off those old feelings, the strange desire that still somehow clung to the trauma. My college experience had given me a taste of what seemed to be normal dating and friendships of course, but nothing felt like that night. Like being consumed and reborn all at once. The normal friends I made wouldn't understand that side of me, the part of me that called out to the dark desires I could somehow only find on the Internet. Now in my late 20s I had grown to appreciate the silence of solitude instead and accepted that I would have to hide myself and my desires. Thankfully, I liked my own company and if relationships couldn't feel like that then what was the point in giving up my quiet happiness for disappointment?

  Sunday night came quickly. It always worked that way. I set my alarm clock and prepped for the morning. It wasn't until I was back in the office on Monday morning that I bothered to turn my phone back on. It practically exploded in my hand. One chime after another. I didn't know what to do with the influx of texts and calls. I expected the ones from Michael, from his friends. What I didn't expect were the texts and calls from the Junction area code, and one in particular from a hospital in Harrow. My heart sank.

  Chapter 18

  Avery- Present

  The drive to Harrow from the airport was nerve racking. My skin crawled. I didn't stop anywhere. Didn't let myself rest. I had listened to one of the dozens of voicemails on my phone and bought a ticket on the first flight home. I'd spoken with the hospital briefly. A stroke. They were still running tests, but Dad wasn't able to speak clearly. They didn't know when or if he would be able to string coherent words together again. They told me that he was resting, that there wasn't anything I could do to speed up the process. That didn't stop me from coming to his side. I sprinted into the room the nurse pointed me to, still in my dress from work, tears fresh in my eyes.

  As soon as I had him in my grip the floodgates truly burst open. I held him in a hug until I had cried myself free of tears. Only then did I sit back in a chair and take note of Garrett's presence for the first time in a year. My cheeks burned with embarrassment as he handed me a box of tissues to clean my face and sat in the chair next to mine. He looked casual in blue jeans and a flannel and so much like the Garrett I knew in high school, but with more muscle. I hated myself for noticing. Although It was impossible not to. He had gotten chiseled working at the construction site and he had a nice tan. He looked like a hot Italian lumberjack. A hot Italian lumberjack that hadn't gotten any sleep.

  His dark hair was tousled. It grazed his neck, brushing against a short beard. He clearly hadn't shaved in a few days. The nurse told me he had been in the ambulance with my father yesterday morning and had barely left his side for more than an hour at a time. While I had been working, sleeping, and basically ignoring the world around me to hide from some stupid boy Garrett had been there, taking care of the man that raised me and loved me. I'd never hated myself more.

  The
TV played in the background. The monitors beeped. Nurses floated in and out of the room. Neither of us spoke. There was nothing to say. He wasn't leaving and neither was I. Hours passed as I held my father's hand in mine. I knew the drugs would keep him in a deep sleep. I wanted to hold onto him anyway, even after my fingers were sore and my body stiff.

  "Do you mind if I change the channel?" He finally said with a sigh, reaching across me for the remote on the bedside table.

  The sudden movement caused his scent to hit me. He'd always smelled like cinnamon and sandalwood in high school. Last time I had seen him, he'd smelled like withdrawal. He'd spent the entire week I'd been visiting my father held up in the guest room, puking, while my father and I feigned at visiting despite his attention being on Garrett. I should have had the balls to tell Dad about senior year then, but I didn't. I couldn't when I could hear Garrett retching down the hall an inch from death. It made the whole hallway stink of vomit. I wish he smelled that way now, but no, he smelled like him. That smell was connected with so much terror in my earlier years and as much as I hated to admit it, arousal. It caused an immediate reaction. My heart fluttered and I had to hold back the urge to growl at him.

  "Whatever."

  His forearm tensed at the sound of my voice and I spared a glance at him. He looked frustrated, but so tired, his blue eyes soft and sad. My treacherous hands itched to touch his arm, to comfort him as I would anybody else. I hated myself for the thought. Kindness wasn't in his nature; it shouldn't be in mine.

  His arm retreated from my space and I felt the heat rolling off him as he moved away. The same fiery, angry heat from so long ago. The air in the hospital was cold. That had to be why I wanted so badly to touch him. I wouldn't let myself think of the other reason.

  A sound at the door caught our attention, it was the nurse from earlier. She came in to take vitals and asked us both to wait outside while she changed the bed pan. With my heart still flustered I let go of my dad's hand, stretching my fingers. My body ached as I got up from the chair.