A Cruel and Violent Storm

by Don M. Esquibel

  There’s a moment between the words leaving my mouth, and my brain fully processing what I’ve said. Then the moment passes, and I feel as if I’ve been jerked out of a deep sleep. I want to take it back. I want to apologize. Better yet, I want her to go on the attack again: want her to yell, curse, rage, lay into me with every foul thing she can think of. Have her punch me, kick me, claw me. I don’t care. Anything would be better than this cold silence—than the stunned, wounded look of betrayal she fixes me with.

  “Lauren...” I breathe her name in one long exhale, hoping the words I need to mend this emerge. But nothing comes, and her name fades among the wind. Reeling, I make to close the distance between us, desperate to do something. But she stops me before I’ve made more than a single step, holding out her hand to halt me, her eyes flashing in warning.

  “Don’t,” she says. Her voice is an assassin's blade: quiet as a whisper and razor sharp. She’s shaking, though from what I can’t tell. My stomach churns in disgust. How could I have been so careless toward the woman I love most? Her past remains a mystery yet I know, deep down, that she was raised without the warmth of family—without that feeling of unconditional love and acceptance I had always taken for granted. But she’s felt it among us. First on the trail, and now on the farm. I can see it in the effort she puts forth in everything she does, can hear it in her voice when she speaks of those she cares for. That warmth now lives inside her, a flame amid the darkness. Finally, she knows what it means to belong to something bigger than herself. And here I am, telling her she doesn’t understand; that she was never actually part of the family at all.

  I want so badly say something, do something, but I’m frozen to the spot. Her eyes bore into mine and I force myself to meet them, praying she can see how sorry I am. She shakes her head, and I know that whether she can see it or not, she’s not ready to forgive.

  “Don’t follow me,” she says. She moves past me, and it’s only with the greatest restraint that I do not reach out to her. She steps off the porch and into the freezing rain, so desperate is she to distance herself from me. Yet I don’t call her back. I don’t stop her. I remain rooted to the spot, staring silently at the empty swing as it continues to sway gently in the wind, wondering just how badly I messed things up.

  Chapter 16: (Lauren)

  The rain hits like a shower of stinging needles, yet I hardly feel it. Tears pool inside my eyes, restricting my vision to shapes and shadow. I move toward the largest of them, stumbling half blind in the gale. I lose my footing and fall to my knees, soaking my pants through with frozen mud. Cursing, I haul myself up and stagger into the shelter of the barn. The air inside is cold and damp, filled with the earthy scent of dirt and hay. But at least it’s dry, and more importantly, it’s empty.

  Distantly, I’m aware of the effect the rain and cold are having on my body, of the way my arms instinctively cross my chest as shivers and shakes take hold of me. I feel numb, emotionally more than from the cold. A musty horse blanket hangs on the wall which I drape over myself before settling down on a hay bale. It helps, but I find myself shaking worse than ever as I sit here.

  Don’t cry, you stupid girl.

  Fight it.

  You’re stronger than that!

  Only I’m not. I can’t keep the dam behind my lids from breaking, or stop the streams of hot tears cascading down my frozen cheeks. I hate that I’ve allowed myself to be reduced to tears. I promised myself a long time ago that the days of crying over what others said and did to me where over, that I would never allow myself to be put in such a position again. But on the other hand, the position I find myself is one I never expected to be in. Strangers. Enemies. You know to keep your guard up in such company, to expect the worse. You don’t expect to be blindsided by the one person you trust above all others. I guess the old adage is true: that those you love have the power to hurt you the most.

  “They’re not your family!”

  I try not to dwell on it, but the words repeat over and over in my mind. Slowly, the tears stop and the numbing disbelief gives way to anger. I don’t even know who I’m most angry at. It would be easy to blame Morgan: to rant and rave and call him a hypocrite. He told me he loved me. He called me his family. So how could he just as easily tell me I couldn’t possibly understand—that his family is not my family regardless of how much I’ve come to care for them? But I know, deep down, that what he said was true: that I don’t understand. My memories of these people can be measured in weeks and days. I know nothing of the lives they lead before. I only know the after. And though I do care for them, I know our bond has been one of necessity, one forced upon us by circumstance. For that reason alone, I could never care for them as Morgan does. The anger remains, but it’s directed mostly at myself. After all, it’s not Morgan’s fault I looked too far into things. I should have known that just because they felt like family, didn’t actually make us family. But maybe that’s for the better.

  The combination of cold air and rain-soaked clothes are starting to take a toll on me. I think longingly of the fire blazing in the living room hearth, of changing into something dry and curling up under the thick comforters covering the beds upstairs. But to do either would require going back to the house, would put me face to face with Morgan again. I’m not ready for that. Instead, I make do with wrapping the horse blanket tighter around myself until the worse of my shivers subside.

  I lose track of time out here. My mind feels numb, thoughts out of focus. I don’t even feel angry anymore. Just tired. I feel my eyelids begin to flutter closed. I’m not asleep, yet not quite awake either. I’m in between, the dream world and real world blurring. I hear the sound of approaching footsteps squelching through the mud. I open my eyes wide enough to confirm it’s him. There he stands silhouetted against the open entrance, face lost in shadow. I turn my face away. Of course, he followed. I’m surprised he’s waited this long.

  He approaches slowly, footsteps cautious as if I were a wild animal he doesn’t want to spook. But he doesn’t speak, nor do I. He sought me out. He can be the one to break the silence. His mud covered boots stop at the corner of my vision, droplets of water beading off him and falling to the ground. Still, I don’t turn to face him, keeping my eyes fixed on the earthy floor. He pauses, then sits beside me on the hay bale, his arm snaking around my shoulders and squeezing me close.

  I exhale a long breath as I sink against his touch, pressure building behind my eyes. For once, I don’t try and fight it. I let it out: the anger, the guilt, the frustration, all the things I usually suppress, it all comes pouring out of me. I can’t do this anymore. Whatever walls Morgan and I have built around each other these past weeks need to come down. If there’s one thing I’m certain of, it’s that we need each other to see this through.

  “I don’t want to fight anymore,” I say, voice thick.

  “I knew you would come around.”

  My body stiffens. Blood turns to ice. The words linger in the frosty air, the triumphant sneer in his voice curling my stomach. I try to break free but his arms are a vice around me. Desperate, I stomp on his foot with as hard as I can. He grunts in pain and swears, his grip on me momentarily going slack. It’s the edge I need to wriggle myself free and gain my feet. I make toward the entrance, hand flying toward my holstered pistol, but he’s already recovered from my attack, bearing down on me once more. My hand closes around the pistol grip just as his hand clamps around my wrist. I twist and struggle with everything I have. My pistol clears the holster and I pull the trigger, aiming for his leg. I miss. I shoot again. Miss. With a violent jerk, he forces my hand upward even as I fire twice more, both shots missing by inches.

  “Enough!” he yells, spit flying from his mouth, voice full of rage. He uses that rage now and slams me against the wall. The air leaves my body, but somehow I hold onto the gun. He slams me again, the back of my head meeting the wood with a hard thump, and I feel the gun fall from my hand. I’m dazed, a deep pain radiating from the back of my skull as
the fight leaves my body. Gently he lowers me to the ground.

  “I didn’t want it to be this way,” he says, voice almost tender. He strokes my hair and I feel myself shudder at his touch.

  “Please...no...” My voice comes out as a whimper. I can’t move, his body too heavy atop mine. His face looms above me, the look in his eyes filling me with a cold dread. I know those eyes: hungry, dark, cruel. They are an echo of a past I thought I had escaped. Those nights of tears and pain return to me, past and present overlapping with one another so that my concussed mind can barely keep them apart.

  I’m on a twin bed, eye black, the taste of blood in my mouth from my bleeding lip.

  I’m on a cold dirt floor, mouth dry, face slick with frozen tears.

  Above me shine an arrayment of faux stars, their glowing bodies giving me something to focus on, a distraction from my reality.

  Above me, there are no stars, no light, only a leering face staring down at me. There’s no escape from this reality.

  “Mitch...” I plead.

  “Ooooh,” he breathes. He draws nearer, so close I can feel his stagnant breath wash across my face. “I love the way you say my name.” He brushes the hair away from my face and kisses me lightly on the forehead.

  I try and wriggle free, but I can’t budge him, can’t free my arms pinned to my sides. All I manage is to make my head pound harder. He smiles at my feeble attempt and I have to close my eyes. I channel all my energy in making my mind go blank, to retreat deep inside itself. But I’m still too aware of all that’s happening. I can still feel him. Hear him. Smell him. I feel paralyzed—feel as if I were trapped in a nightmare, unable to move, shout, defend myself. I can see how this will end, and I’m powerless to stop it.

  “Don’t worry,” he says. “I’m going to take good care of you.”

  He fumbles with my belt and then hastily yanks my pants down till they reach my knees. His belt comes next, his breaths growing fast and loud. The sound of a zipper. Cold hands on my hip. Fingers playing with the edge of my underwear. A muttered curse, surprised. Alarmed. My eyes open to see him turn quickly toward the entrance, eyes wide, panicked. Not a moment later he’s lifted off my body, a dark blur crashing into him in a violent rush.

  I shuffle backward while simultaneously trying to pull up my pants and making sense of the scene playing out before me. It’s not easy, my vision full of shifting shadows, ears full of swearing and fighting. A dark figure approaches me and I recoil, my danger meter overloaded.

  “It’s me, Lauren,” calls a familiar voice. “It’s going to be alright.” Felix kneels beside me, looking me over. His eyes land on my unfastened pants resting halfway up my thighs and I hear him inhale sharply. “The dirty bastard,” he says in an angry whisper. I barely hear him, my eyes drawn toward another familiar voice—one I barely recognize, contorted as it is in rage.

  Morgan has Mitch pinned to the ground, curses flying from his mouth in an endless torrent as he rains down punches, merciless in his fury. Mitch tries in vain to protect himself, his hands doing nothing to stop Morgan from bashing in his face. Three more dark figures rush into the barn, and it takes all of them to pull Morgan off. Even then they can barely hold onto him, desperate as he is to continue his assault.

  “Morgan,” I breathe. Only at my voice does he cease his attempt to get at Mitch. A moment later Felix stands and Morgan takes his place, a deep sob released from deep within him as he sinks to his knees. He wraps me in his arms and I can’t believe I could have ever confused Mitch’s touch for his.

  “I’m sorry,” he says, voice raw and wounded. He’s shaking, overcome with emotion. “I’m so fucking sorry.”

  “I’m safe now,” I whisper. It’s all I can think to say, the only thing I feel in this moment as I lose myself in his embrace.

  I wake in a fog of confusion and dull aches. My thoughts sluggish, head tender. Focus. One thing at a time. A soft bed. Thick blankets cocooning me in warmth. The storm has passed. Sunlight streams through the window for the first time in days. It’s early. The house quiet. The light creeping along the walls glowing with the golden tinge of morning. Deep breathing. The feel of another’s hand cradling my own. I turn my head to look, a small throb beating in the back of my skull as I do so. Must close my eyes against the pain. Open them once more to find Morgan, slumped over and fast asleep on the chair he’s pulled beside the bed. My eyes land on his busted knuckles, the sight of them reminding me of what happened.

  I squeeze his hand, the pressure rousing him awake. He lifts his head sleepily, eyes bloodshot, rimmed with dark bags beneath. I doubt he got more than a few hours sleep. He sees that I’m awake and he snaps to attention, the last vestiges of sleep gone in an instant.

  “How are you feeling?” he asks, voice thick and constricted.

  “Shitty,” I reply, deciding to go with honesty. My mind is too fuzzy for much else right now. He tries to smile, but the effort proves too difficult for him, his mouth set in a slight frown.

  “I’m sorry this happened,” he says. He covers my hand with both of his, holding on as if afraid I’ll disappear should he let go. “I’m sorry for everything.” He speaks now not only of what transpired in the barn but of our argument which preceded it. I hear it in the guilt in his voice.

  “We both said things we wish we could take back,” I say. “I don’t blame you. It’s nobody’s fault but Mitch.”

  He tenses at the mention of his uncle, a cold anger radiating under the surface. “I still can’t believe he did that. I mean, he’s sort of always been a screw-up. Drugs and alcohol. Theft. Trespassing. That sort of thing...But this?” He shakes his head. “I never would have thought he was capable of something so heinous.”

  “He’s family,” I reply. “Nobody wants to think their loved ones capable of such things.”

  “No,” he says, voice suddenly harsh. Raw. “He’s not family; not anymore. He’s lost that privilege.” He scoots closer, squeezing my hand tighter. “You’re my family. You’re the most important thing I have in this world. I’m sorry if I ever made you doubt that.” His eyes bore deep into mine with a quiet intensity, imploring me to believe him. It’s a look I’ve seen him give before: in Denver, when he offered Grace and me the chance to join them; after returning from Salida, beaten and exhausted, when he first said he was in love with me; the night after the forest fire, when he said he would never lose hope things could get better, and that he would die trying to create a future we deserved. Each time I’ve put my faith in him, and each time he has delivered. I’d be a fool not to believe him now.

  I bring his hands to my lips and kiss them gently. “I’ve never doubted you,” I say, my turn to make him believe me. “I just wish you wouldn’t doubt yourself.”

  He stares long at our entwined hands, brow heavy, furrowed in thought. Slowly, a small smile spreads across his lips, lightening the gloom that has settled in his features. “Even after all you’ve been through, you’re more worried about me?” he asks. “Your strength is inspiring.”

  His says this with such certainty, as if there could be no debating the fact. It makes me wonder what he sees when he looks at me. Not the truth. That much I’m sure of.

  “I’m not as strong as you think,” I say. He’s given me everything. Heart and soul. I’ve never been strong enough to do the same.

  “What do you mean?” he asks. “Of course you are.” I grow quiet. Can’t meet his eyes. Even now I’m afraid to go there, to break the facade he’s created of me. “Is this about Mitch?” he asks. “Because you don’t have to worry about him. He’s never going to touch you again.”

  I shake my head. “I’m not worried about Mitch,” I say. “I stopped being afraid of men like him a long time ago.” Confusion ripples across his face at my words. He wants the truth. I can feel the questions burning inside him—those he’s always had, but which I made him swear never to ask. I love him, but I’ve never trusted him enough to reveal what lies hidden in the darkest corners of my past. I suppos
e I haven’t changed as much as I thought I had. That secluded, mistrusting girl I once was is still a part of me. She exists still, hiding in that darkness, whispering, reminding me to keep my guard up—that to trust is a mistake and that the only person I can rely on is myself. And I know she will remain there, a voice I can’t mute, a shadow I can’t shake, not until I trust someone enough to let them inside that darkness; to go against every instinct I’ve engraved in my psyche, and allow myself to be completely vulnerable in the eyes of another. If I can’t do that with Morgan, I’ll never be able to with anyone.

  I sit up straighter, ignoring the throb flaring in the back of my head. A nervous twinge flutters inside me, a thousand trapped butterflies spreading from my stomach throughout my body. My heart beats faster. Mouth goes dry. I’ve faced so many challenges since the world fell apart, but in so many ways, this is the hardest. Finally, I meet his eyes, the love and concern in his stare helping me find my voice.

  “Do you remember when I asked you not to question me about my past?” I ask.

  He studies me for a long moment, curious, but also wary. The implications of my question are not lost on him. He may not know the truth, but the man’s not stupid. He knows enough to surmise that my story isn’t a happy one. Only now, he’s about to find out just how unhappy.

  “I remember,” he says.

  “Thank you for keeping that promise. But it’s time you knew the truth.” I take a deep, steadying breath. It’s time to trust, to have faith. “What happened last night...it’s not the first time I’ve been attacked like that.”

  Chapter 17: (Morgan)

  The dam has broken. In streams and waves, the truth pours out of the girl I love. It’s crushing. Long have I wondered about the ghosts of her past—how terrorizing they must be to haunt someone as strong and brave as her. Seeing them with my own eyes, I now realize just how strong she truly is. Still, I can tell how much each revelation costs her. I want so badly to wipe the tears from her eyes, to hold her in my arms, to tell her it’s all going to be alright. More than anything, I want to take her pain away. But I can’t. All I can do is sit quietly. Let her squeeze my hand. Force myself to stay strong as she continues her confession.