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I hurry across the empty, frozen plot, trying to recall details about the flashback. Like always, my memory falters. I remember the matchbox, the smell of cinnamon—then things blur. The prison showers, a hand in my hair. Pain. A long corridor. Shadows. Fear. Feeling trapped. Trying to escape.
Nothing new. Same nightmare shit.
Except, at the end, Cassie was there, waiting for me. Waiting to take me home. And that changed everything—wait, that’s not true. But it made it bearable—the pain, the fear. It gave me hope.
The door of the trailer is half-open. I knock anyway before I enter, take off my heavy helmet and pull wet hair from my face.
Peter is looking at me, brows drawn together, fingers steepled on the table. Judge and jury.
Fuck. This ain’t looking good.
“Tucker. Have a seat.”
Yeah. Ain’t looking good at all. I drag a plastic chair closer to the desk and sink in it. Rub a hand over my face.
Wait for his speech.
When it comes, the blow is swift and final.
“I’m afraid I have to let you go, Tucker.” Peter has the grace to look regretful even as he hurls at me words that cut like broken glass. “You punched Mitch Cartwright yesterday, and fought with Jamie Henrik. Most importantly…” He sighs. “You had another episode. The fifth in the past couple of months. I’ve been keeping score. You should seek professional help, and I’d advise you to look for a profession with less danger.”
Episodes. Flashbacks. Here.
I can’t remember any of that. “Before…” I wipe my mouth on the back of my hand. “Before these past couple of months, didn’t I have any episodes?”
“None that I know of, Tucker. What does it matter? Get yourself checked out. This is nothing personal, you understand.”
He’s right. It doesn’t fucking matter.
So this is what it’s about. Me going off the rails. That’s what he’s afraid of. Maybe he thinks that next I’ll start biting people and eating their brains.
Shit. I’m being unfair, I know. He’s right. I’m a loose cannon. Can’t control myself, can’t tell past from present.
Not his fault. Not his goddamn fault.
I look down at the wet helmet in my lap and fight the urge to throw it against the wall of the container, then kick at the desk and chairs on my way out.
“I understand,” I say, my voice flat, no real meaning behind the words. A familiar smell is teasing my senses, painting the corners of the container black, pulling shadows out of the walls.
>
Cinnamon.
What the fuck?
“I’m honestly sorry about this, Tucker.”
Yeah. Me too. I watch as he reaches for a pack of gum in his shirt pocket, takes one out, and puts it in his mouth.
The smell wraps around my chest until I can’t breathe.
“These are damn good,” he says. “Someone left them on my desk the other day. Want one?”
“No.” I’m already on my feet and moving away.
Paranoia. Coincidences.
As I stumble out of the container and cross the plot like a drunk, weaving on my feet and fumbling at the pendant around my neck, I wonder if I’ll ever know what’s real and what’s not.
