Page 14 of Breakaway

“Fuck me,” I rasp, the pounding in my head reaching a painful crescendo.

As much as I’d love to blame my current predicament on someone else, I’m the sole person responsible for the bullshit I put myself through. When the world rights itself, and I’m no longer at risk of face-planting the ground, I blink past the haze clouding my vision and focus on my surroundings. There’s no spark of familiarity, or even the faintest hint of a memory brought forth by the homeless encampment I’ve stumbled upon and decided to call my temporary home. But it comes as no shock that this is where I ended up. It’s par for the course when it comes to my self-induced penance.

Glancing up, I note the crumbling overpass we’re sheltered beneath, shocked it hasn’t collapsed and crushed us. Judging by the multitude of sleeping bodies scattered about, it’s safe to say this isn’t a newfound spot to crash. They’ve fashioned themselves a makeshift shelter with ripped-apart tarps and damp pieces of cardboard, but it’s more than I have, so who am I to pass judgment about their living conditions?

Palming the pockets of my pants, I anxiously feel for the outline of my cell phone. As luck would always have it, she’s actively working against me, and the stupid thing is nowhere to be found. Groaning, I drop my head back and attempt to form a single thought worthy of a higher life form. Unfortunately, my brain is operating on amoeba-like levels, and intelligence has fled the building.

“Here.” My soul, or whatever’s left that resembles one, practically evaporates from the sound of a heated voice speaking directly behind me. Spinning around—an act I regret instantly—I’m met with a girl. An angry, dagger-glaring girl, with spiked blue hair and a septum piercing that makes her resemble a bull on the verge of charging every time her nostrils flare. “It wouldn’t stop ringing, so I buried it.”

“Did it not occur to you that you could simply turn it off?” I snatch my phone away before she changes her mind about returning it, and shake the dirt from its crevices.

“What about my appearance would lead you to believe that I’m up-to-date on the latest tech and how it operates?” she questions sarcastically. Cringing at my tone-deaf assumption, I mumble an insincere thanks, eager to be freed from her hostile gaze.

“You’re not welcome, but I’d be careful with that,” she adds, pointing towards my phone. “It was awfully close to the hole we shit in.” She grins, spinning on her heel and sauntering off with a noticeable pep in her step. “And by the way, everyone knows how to use an iPhone. I’m homeless, not stupid. Fucking millennials.” Her voice fades the farther away she moves, and my nose scrunches in both disgust and offense.

What the hell just happened?

Grimacing, I tap my screen, not the least bit surprised when nothing happens. I press and hold the power button, but of course, I’m met with that dreaded image of a battery prompting me to charge it. Despite the overwhelming urge I feel to hurl it as far as I can, I shove the useless device in my pocket and begin walking. I have no idea what time it is, but it’s early enough that the sun has barely started to rise. Without the ability to drop a pin and send it to one of the guys, there’s no telling how long it’ll take me to make it home.

Although home is an exaggeration of what it actually is. It’s my only allowance for consistency, frequently lost in the midst of my self-inflicted chaos, and the only place I can return to when the high fades and rock-bottom comes barreling back with a vengeance. I’m a creature of habit, so it’s become an inevitability that anytime I’m on the right track, my maladaptive tendencies come home to roost and derail any progress I’ve made.

My brain won’t allow me the options of healing or moving on, and the second I grow comfortable, that defective lump of muscle begins revolting. It doesn’t matter how many degree-wielding therapists insist it wasn’t my fault or the lengths they go to when trying to rationalize my survivor’s guilt. Their accreditations mean nothing when I can recall, with vivid clarity, the putrid scent of human decay and the broken wails of an innocent woman being raped and beaten.

As of late, the current wench assigned to infiltrate my life brings me nothing but pain. Her constant meddling has given me a fucking ulcer. She monopolizes my time, keeping tabs on my whereabouts through my tattle-tale roommates. I have no idea what day it is, but I’m certain I’ve missed a check-in. Based on our previous interactions, I feel confident she’s orchestrating a manhunt that spans three counties. I can only imagine the absurd amount of missed calls I’ll be greeted with when I finally power my phone back on.

Thinking of the unread texts and irate voicemails Colsen will have left me in a fit of rage makes a faint smile grace my lips. His ire shouldn’t be something I favor, but I’ve sought it since the day I arrived on his doorstep, armed with a duffel bag and bad news. A sane person wouldn’t seek out suffering the way I do, but a sound mind isn’t something I claim to have any longer. I’ll take it any way I can get it–physically, mentally, even emotionally. Whatever gets the job done and allows me to stew in self-hatred until I can’t breathe without it aching. Eventually, I’ll cave to the desperate pleas of my tortured mind, replacing the knife-like jabs to my psyche with a peaceful numbness that can only be achieved through something no doctor prescribes.

It feels like I’ve been walking for hours when the first sign of civilization finally comes into view. I’d think luck was on my side for once after picking a random direction and it actually working in my favor, but the old firehouse is still several miles away, and there’s a good chance I’ll die from dehydration before making it there. What a comical, but justified, ending that would be: succumbing to death because I got lost after partying my electrolytes out with a bunch of homeless people. By some miracle, I make the trek across town without flatlining or waltzing into traffic.

Sagging in relief, I glance at the last obstacle standing between myself and a hot shower: the six, very intimidating stairs I have to climb. Psyching myself up, I force my legs to move, as if doing it quicker will make it suck any less. When my foot fails to connect with the first step, I know the next few days are going to hurt like a motherfucker. My forehead smacks the solid piece of concrete, imprinting my skull for years to come, and I slink to the ground like an overcooked noodle.

I’m convinced my existence is nothing but a cosmic joke for some bored deity to poke and prod at when nothing else interests them. My life used to be easy; I was privileged, and the hardest thing I had to go through was eight years of medical school. And then December 3rd happened, and I haven’t known easy a day since. It’s a constant fight to stay alive, so what’s the point in trying? I think I’m cursed to endure the awful things that happen to me, but none of them come close to making up for my failures.

When the ringing in my ears subsides, I crawl to my hands and knees, resigned to using all fours if I want to make it up the stairs before night falls. It’s a slow and painful process, mostly for my ego, but I finally make it. I’m disoriented and breathing heavily after exerting so much energy, a fact made hard to swallow when I think of how active I used to be. Much like the rest of me, that desire has faded, making the person I once was feel alien. There’s no common ground to bridge a path between my two personalities–just who I was then and who I am now.

Exhausted beyond belief, I stumble across the stoop and fumble with the old-fashioned handle. From what I can tell, there isn’t a pile of my shit resting by the door, so I take it I haven’t been kicked out on my ass just yet. Shoving my way inside, I trip on air, crashing in a heap of tangled limbs. Splayed across the floor, I ponder the likelihood of my entrance going unnoticed. Only a few seconds later, the patter of feet makes my eyes flutter open, and I’m stunned to find a woman standing above me.

“You look like an angel,” I state dreamily, my concussed mind going rogue. “Am I dead?”

10

Andilyn

Today was supposed to signify a fresh start. Instead, it feels like my shackles are tighter than ever. I should’ve had the best sleep of my life last night, but I spent it tossing and turning, unable to quiet the dangerous thoughts infiltrating my mind. I’ve vacillated between such a range of emotions that I can’t tell up from down or right from wrong. The amount of white-hot anger pulsing through my veins is astronomical. It’s searing me from the inside out, changing the makeup of who I am and the woman I was so excited about becoming.

Every hope and dream I relied on to get me through to the next day is nothing more than a sad mirage that will never eventuate. I was close enough to taste it, the tips of my fingers within touching distance, but a few words from the emergency room doctor was all it took to make my future disintegrate. In a matter of seconds, my carefully laid plans went up in flames, and all that’s left are the ashes at my feet.

Tobias promised me that he’d always be one step ahead of any underhanded ideas I thought about acting on, but I genuinely believed I’d outsmarted him. The kicker of it all is that he isn’t even aware of how royally he’s fucked me, and with any luck, he never will. But I know, and I’ll have to live every day with a constant reminder of the man who took everything from me. Like the thief he is, he stole my love with a bed of lies, destroying my trust in the process, and now he’s taken something I swore he’d never have. The only reason I’m not lost in the throes of a full-fledged breakdown is that I refuse to give him the satisfaction.

I’ve been awake for hours, rummaging around for something to take my mind off the crisis I’m actively ignoring. Raiden’s a terrible liar, but there are worse things to be bad at. I knew this place was his the second we arrived. For starters, there’s a parking sticker attached to the back glass of his truck, and the number matches the assigned space he used yesterday. Aside from that key detail, the inside smells exactly like him, especially the clothing he loaned me. For whatever reason, it was obvious he didn’t want me to know, so I played the part of a clueless houseguest, biding my time until I was more comfortable broaching the subject.

As I’m standing in the kitchen, debating what to do next to keep my mind occupied, the front door is flung open. A man ambles in like he owns the place, his body swaying unsteadily before falling face-first into the hard, unforgiving floor. His pained groan is the only indication he’s still breathing and not succumbing to a head wound. Edging closer, I watch in fascination as he flops to his back, content with his current resting place and showing no signs of moving anytime soon. When I come to a stop, he blinks up at me, his dark eyes resembling two pieces of coal. My gaze drifts downward to his neck, cringing at the graphic tattoo that resembles a gaping wound.

“You look like an angel,” he mumbles deliriously. “Am I dead?”

His question catches me off guard, and I can't help but laugh at the absurdity of it. I’ve been likened to a demon, or at the very least harboring one, since before I could draw my first breath. To hear him giving voice to something that embodies such a juxtaposing idea is the salve of comedic relief I didn’t know I needed. Presumably drawn by all the noise, another man enters the apartment, his chest heaving as he searches for the source of all the racket. But this one I recognize, and the sight of him in the flesh and not a grainy picture on an outdated phone screen causes my breath to hitch.

“Jesus Christ, Briggs,” Colsen exclaims, bending in half as he works to catch his breath. Extending his hand, he helps his friend to his feet. “Where the hell have you been?!” His question is accompanied by a firm slap to Briggs’ chest.