Not My Heart to Break

by W Winters

  The memory makes me smile; it’s a welcome distraction.

  * * *

  The door creaked open and I stood there in my thin pajamas as the wind shook through the house. I folded my arms over my chest because I wasn’t wearing a bra, and although I knew that when I opened the door, I hadn’t anticipated the cold. The wind blew by though, forcing the door to open wider and I struggled to keep myself covered while still keeping a handle on the door.

  “Why aren’t you dressed?” Seth’s eyes roamed down my body leisurely. It may have been cold that day, but he made me feel hot from head to toe. Ever since we’d had sex, with one look he turned my knees weak.

  I wasn’t his girlfriend though and I couldn’t keep going like that. He didn’t want anything more from me and I was convinced I was only going to get my heart broken. At the thought, my heart did an odd thing. I opened my lips to lie to him, but my heart protested.

  I gripped it, telling it to shut up and calm down. That was the first time I remember feeling my heart acting up.

  “You all right?” he asked.

  “I’m sick,” I said and the lie came out tight. I just need to be away from him right now. I need a chance to think. Because when I’m around him, I can’t think right.

  He stood there in jeans and a leather jacket, a jacket he’d put around my shoulders a week ago. I don’t know how I could have lied to him back then so easily, especially with the way he made me feel. “I’m not going to school today.”

  He nodded, a short nod, and asked if he could do anything for me. Even as I shook my head he kept asking, “No homework to turn in?”

  It physically hurt to lie to him, but I didn’t want him to keep walking me to and from school. I didn’t want him to feel obligated to do anything at all with me. My heart was all sorts of tangled up in his touch and the way he cared for me... it wasn’t right. He never made a single move; I did it all. I knew what that meant. That’s not how love happens. I could easily see a new woman walking by, catching his eye, and then I’d be gone.

  When I shut the door, I hated myself. I spent the next twenty minutes doing what I’d done all morning, figuring out how to get the hell out of Tremont. I didn’t have much money and I didn’t have any family outside of this town, but I knew Grandma would let me if I found a way.

  That’s what I was doing when the knock sounded at my door. My jaw dropped when I looked through the peephole.

  There Seth stood, with a plastic bag from the corner store a few blocks down. I couldn’t unlock and open the door fast enough.

  “What are you doing here?” I questioned him as if he was crazy and it only made him smirk.

  He lifted the bag and said, “I got you soup and a few other things.” I didn’t offer for him to come in, but he did anyway, like he belonged there. As if he was supposed to be there in that moment, taking care of me.

  The little pitter-patter in my chest lifted, trying to stop any words of protest I had from coming out.

  “Sorry you’re sick, Babygirl, but I hope you like chicken noodle soup.” As I stood there, my back falling against the door, I watched him make his way to my kitchen, fully prepared to take care of me. I knew in that moment, I was utterly and completely in love. I was certain there was no way I could ever run from him. I knew I should. I knew it with everything in me.

  * * *

  The butterfly feeling hits me again, only this time it’s harder and much worse than it was before. I don’t remember it ever feeling like this, so painful that I can’t ignore it.

  It’s probably just from the lack of sleep and stress. There’s nothing here to distract me either; I’m focusing too much on it. The squeezing sensation and irregular, weak beats are okay. I’m sure it’s fine. Why didn’t I take my medicine?

  Panic attacks are not uncommon and I sure as hell have a reason to dissolve into one. Seth was shot and I don’t know if he’s dead or alive. That’s my first thought. My first reason. As if being charged with the murder of a cop isn’t reason enough.

  I would give anything for Bethany to be here right now. I could tell her everything and she’d make sure that Seth was all right and he knew. My one phone call went to her voicemail though. It’s ludicrous that every situation keeps getting worse and worse.

  A whimper leaves me, a pathetic sound as I hunch over, pressing against my chest even harder when the next pain hits.

  I tell myself it’s fine again and open my eyes to see a stainless steel toilet with no lid across the small cell from me. That’s the only other object in this room. A metal bench and a toilet. Simple enough I suppose. At least it’s not cold in here. There’s a man at the end of the hall, so at least one other person is around and the lights are dim, probably because it’s early morning or very late at night. I don’t know either way, because there’s no clock and the man doesn’t speak.

  I thought he’d gone for the longest time until I heard that horribly loud beep that goes off before the heavy doors open. He came from nowhere, his boots shuffling across the cement to open the doors, tell someone something lowly, I couldn’t hear a thing, and then they shut again. He walked back to his post and silently stayed there.

  The dark blues of his uniform complement his brown skin and light blue eyes. He must be mixed race, with one parent white and one black maybe, to have features like that. Cleanly shaved, he’s handsome because of the sharpness of his masculine jaw. Any other day, I’d smile at him, make small talk. But the attractive police officer is not my friend. Not in the least.

  He’s the only company I have. I could tell him about being on the verge of a panic attack but the idea of him ignoring me, or not doing anything at all hurts more, making my heart thump wildly in protest. I’m not a criminal, yet I’m here. In a fucking holding cell.

  The jail cells are nicer. I’ve been back here more than a few times for patients. I’ve hated that oppressive beep of the locked doors since the first time they made me shudder. I hate the sound even more now.

  The jail is not unfamiliar with psychiatric patients. Oftentimes, a mental illness goes unidentified until a patient has done something worthy of being locked up. Behind bars they can’t hide their symptoms and it’s so much easier to see and identify.

  So I’ve been here before, accompanying a doctor to diagnose or treat someone. It was never a good feeling. The sound of the doors opening and closing gave me nightmares the first time I came here.

  I thought it was because of my family history, my father being a drug dealer and all, that I had such an aversion to jails. That’s ridiculous though, no one likes a jail. No one likes the reason a jail needs to exist and they certainly don’t want to be inside of one.

  Sure as hell not behind these bars. Not alone in this cell, apart from the silent guard who I can’t even see because he stands at the far end, tucked away.

  The last patient I saw here died in her cell. She wasn’t in the holding area; she’d been in jail a while for assault, I think. The cells are past this hall and through two sets of doors. I remember it well. She didn’t tell anyone she was seeing things. She didn’t tell them about the voices. It took another inmate being scared shitless for the guards to be informed.

  The voices in my patient’s head told her to hurt herself, which they’d done before. She told me about them in therapy. She went from thinking the pills caused the voices, to knowing she needed the pills to shut them out.

  Maybe she was lonely in that cell. Maybe that’s why she didn’t say anything.

  Either way, when I got to her cell, we were all too late. I can still see her wide eyes, staring blankly ahead when the orderly rolled her over. Death has a certain look to it. It stains your memory and waits there, refusing to leave you be.

  “I’m on medication,” I say, finally giving in to the sudden fear and the nurse in me, calling out to the man I know is here even if he’s silent and out of view. I have to shake away the memory of that woman. I don’t remember her name and somehow that makes me feel even worse. “I t
hink I need my medication,” I call out. My words run ragged as the pain gets worse.

  I can’t die in here from a heart condition because of my pride or shame. I can’t die in here at all. I need to know Seth’s all right.

  Just breathe. Everything’s all right. He’ll be all right.

  The hall is quiet behind the bars and I haven’t seen a soul in a few hours, I think. So when the guard doesn’t respond right away, I start thinking he’s actually left this time. I have no idea how much time has passed. I couldn’t sleep, not even with the blanket they left in here. I can’t do anything but blink away horrible visions, go over every regret, and notice how erratic my heart is right now.

  “Please!” I cry out and I’m immediately met with the sound of a heavy door creaking open and even heavier boots smacking against the cement.

  The guard. I finally catch sight of his badge and it says Walters. He’s accompanied by another man who looks like he’s in his fifties and is a little too round to work in the field. He stops behind the bars, so I can’t see his name tag. Walters is quick to speak into a walkie-talkie on his sleeve while the other man stares at me. His wide eyes are the same shade of brown as his khaki pants. “Miss?” he questions. “Did you say medication?”

  His brow is pinched and concern is etched there. It’s only then that I realize I haven’t stopped rocking and my hand is a fist around the fabric at the front of my shirt.

  “What’s going on?” I recognize Walsh’s voice along with the door beeping and opening again. The pain is unforgiving as I catch sight of Walters’s back as he speaks to Walsh. Again, the other man just stares at me, maybe bewildered, maybe wondering if I’m acting.

  A cold sweat breaks out along my skin and my head feels faint.

  “Walsh.” His name comes out stronger than I thought I could say it. I force myself to let go of my shirt and stare down the long hall until the officer finally looks at me. The gaze from Walters burns into me. He never takes his eyes off me. Even when he gives a command to the unnamed guard who then departs, Walters’s steely blues stay pinned on me.

  “Are you going to let me go?” I manage to squeeze out the question the moment Walsh comes over to me. “I need to get out of here.”

  The pain in my chest spreads and it feels like it’s in my throat, hollowing it out but also burrowing inside of it. I can’t describe it. I’ve never felt this before. My hand drops as I sway forward slightly, closing my eyes and focusing.

  “I need to get out of here,” I say again, louder and with enough forlorn sincerity to make sure Walsh both heard me and knows something’s wrong.

  “That isn’t going to happen,” Walsh says and he sounds resigned to the fact. “The state is pressing charges.”

  My heart skids to a halt. No longer tumbling uncontrollably, it simply stops and I sit there, shocked and waiting. Waiting for it to start again.

  “I wanted to release you.” Thud, my heart’s weak but it’s working. “I told them to watch where you go if we released you.”

  “So nice of you,” I whisper because that’s all I can manage. It hurts to talk. My chest is so tight. I’m fighting to breathe but trying to look strong.

  What did he say?

  I can’t even focus. Officer Walsh said something. He’s fuzzy. The room is so hazy.

  “Open it up!” he screams, his grip tight on the bars across from me. “Who did she talk to?” he questions the silent Walters.

  “No one, I swear. No one saw her! This doesn’t make sense.” Whether he’s my friend or my foe, Walters’s eyes flash with fear. I see it. I’m sure of it. At least he doesn’t want me to die. It’s a minor consolation as needles dance on my skin.

  Their voices blend and blur. I’m upright one moment, then in the next I’m falling. Walsh grabs me, his fingers in a bruising hold. I can’t breathe, but I can’t move either. I can’t swallow.

  I’m blinking though. I can blink for a moment.

  “You aren’t getting out of this, Laura.” Walsh uses my first name but it’s shaky. My lips twitch in an effort to respond. Nothing comes out though. Still, I can blink. Even as I get colder and fear wraps itself around me. “Not this way,” he adds as he shakes his head.

  “Medic!” Cody Walsh screams. His skin reddens, panic overriding every other expression. “Medic,” he screams out again behind him, laying me down on the hard cement floor.

  His hands push against my chest, and then his mouth is on mine. It takes me a long moment to realize it’s CPR. I can’t breathe. I’m not breathing.

  “Is there a pulse?” a new voice says. I barely hear it as my vision turns black.

  My hearing is the last sense to go. “I’m losing her!”

  Seth

  A thick coat of dirt and blood covers my hands. That’s why the knob slips at first. I tell myself that’s why it slips and not because I’m on death’s doorstep.

  The rusted metal turns in my hand on the second try and even that small movement sends a bolt of pain through my right side. Still on my knees, I lean against the doorframe as the backdoor to the worn, wood-paneled lodge creaks open. Someone built a house back here. The three windows in front were the only light in the darkness on this side of the forest. I could barely see it in the woods but as I came closer, I knew there was someone here. The red paint is long worn off and the back porch is barely stable, but at the very least, the lights are on.

  It has to be hours since I’ve been shot. Hours of losing blood. Hours of fighting to stay alive. All I can hear is the rush of my breath as I sneak into the backdoor of the house.

  The last thing I need is to get caught, or to unknowingly walk into the enemy’s territory. I don’t know shit about who lives here or how far I’ve traveled. It feels like miles and miles.

  I swallow thickly, forcing myself to stand up and lean against the wall. I’m quiet enough, but the dirt comes with me, serving as evidence of my arrival.

  The creak of the door is muted in the kitchen. The old linoleum floors haven’t been swept in a long damn time. It takes three steps for me to close the distance to the counter and reach for a neatly folded dishrag. The kitchen is darker than I was expecting, faintly lit by a single light from the room beside it, most likely the living room since a dining room can be seen to my left.

  The blood is still damp on the gunshot wound, but some of the skin has dried to my shirt. I grimace as I pull it back, revealing that the bullet passed through me cleanly.

  Sucking in a breath, I press the dish towel to the wound both on my front and back and then open every drawer searching for plastic wrap or duct tape—anything to keep the cloth pressed against the wound. I’ve already lost too much blood. The lightheadedness tells me that.

  I only spare a few minutes to address the gunshot. I don’t have any more time to give it. I need a phone. Bracing myself against the counter, I eye the place. It looks like it hasn’t been updated since the ’80s and I’m praying that means there’s a landline somewhere. Every step I take elicits a short groan from the warped floorboards.

  There are no photos to go by, nothing to tell me if this is a family home or an old man living alone in this house. It could be a hunting lodge this far out in the woods, but I don’t see any guns or trophy mounts. I have no fucking idea. I search the walls of the kitchen then the outlets before coming up empty-handed and moving to the living room. A TV was left on, but no one’s there. Someone is in this house; I don’t know who and I don’t know where, but I know there’s someone here. I wish I had my gun on me. I wish I had anything to go by. Anything at all, but I have nothing. It only takes me half a second to see the house phone, complete with a curled-up cord, on what looks like a foldout dinner table next to the worn, brown reclining chair in the back right of the room.

  If I had to guess, I’d say an old man lives here. It reminds me of my grandfather’s place when I was younger. The foldout dinner tables, the bared shag rug and the faux wood panel walls. Even the off-white color of the ceiling and the scent that
lingers. It’s from years of smoke.

  If I close my eyes a second too long, I can see my pops rocking in the corner chair, smoking a cigar and telling me to keep it down because he can’t hear the TV.

  For a moment, it’s too real. Too lifelike in my mind.

  The vision is quickly wiped away at the sound of a toilet being flushed behind me. From the back hall.

  The realization is jarring and I hide behind the threshold of the door. My back is pressed against it as the sound of a door opening and closing echoes through the first floor. There’s no light in this hall, although it looks like it leads to a garage or maybe a basement. The stairs to the second floor are to the left, back by the dining room.

  I pray whoever it is takes their ass upstairs to bed.

  I don’t have a gun or a weapon; I don’t have the energy or strength to defend myself. If my grandfather saw a strange man with a gunshot wound in his house late at night, I can guarantee he wouldn’t have asked questions. Shoot first. Or else the other guy might.

  I’m as still as can be, barely breathing as I listen to the heavy footsteps. They’re slow, giving more evidence that whoever is here is older or at the very least tired.

  I listen to him open the fridge, every sound he makes sounding fainter and fainter as I wait with bated breath, feeling the life slowly slip from me.

  He grabs whatever he was looking for and goes back into the living room. I’m just behind the wall, so close to the phone, but blocked by his presence.

  My mind immediately wanders to Laura and in a helpless moment, I contemplate begging the man to listen and not attack me. I picture myself walking out into the light, hands up in the air, pleading with him to let me use the phone. How would he react to a dying man who snuck into his house?

  I don’t trust him. I don’t trust the situation. I trust no one and if I fail, Laura dies.