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Part I: Tougher than the Rest
"A great singer has to learn how to inhabit a song. You may not be able to hit all the notes. That's OK. You may not have the clearest tone. You may not have the greatest range. but if you can inhabit your song, you can communicate."
- Bruce Springsteen, PBS, 2016
Chapter 1
My head was throbbing. Like, really throbbing, as if there was something inside it trying to get out with a sledgehammer, banging at my skull from the inside.
That's because you have a concussion.
Apparently being knocked out made my conscience talk like a disapproving schoolteacher.
Great. OhmygodshutUP.
I rubbed my head and sat up to get my bearings. The room was pitch-black and smelled slightly of bleach––like it had been scrubbed clean too many times. There were no windows that I could see, but then again, I couldn't see anything. I could be at the top of the Empire State Building right now and not know it.
The floor was cold, concrete, with remnants of dust or dirt that stuck to my fingers and cheeks. I brushed the side of my face I'd been lying on. How long had I been here? Hours? Minutes? I didn't think it had been days––I was too strong for that.
Fear set in as I remember exactly where I was and why. Each memory slapped me in the face.
Brandon, finding out about the abortion.
Brandon, looking like I'd torn out his heart.
Brandon, telling me to leave.
Sitting alone in a diner while he announced his bid for mayor.
Returning home to find Victor Messina, the gangster who seemed to be doing everything he could to ruin my family's life, waiting outside my apartment.
I tried to run.
I failed.
My head throbbed harder, and as I pressed my fingers into my temples, I willed myself to see something––anything. My eyes found a sliver of light––a door. As they adjusted more, I took in the details of the room that were only slightly evident. Cinderblock walls with no window. A few pipes angling through the ceiling.
I was in a basement, then. Underground, where no one could hear my screams.
A shadow fell in front of the light. There was someone outside, someone moving around. Voices, but they were too muffled to understand beyond the fact that they were obviously male.
Messina.
Just as I was trying to think of something to say or do to get myself out of here, the door swung open, and the short, stubby form of Victor Messina stood silhouetted in the doorframe, meaty hands on his hips like a fat Peter Pan. Behind him were the lumbering forms of the two goons who had captured me––I didn't know which one had hit me on the head, but I hoped I could return the favor.
"Well, well, well," Messina sneered over his shoulder to his cohorts. "Sleeping Beauty's awake, boys."
He turned back to the room and flicked on a light with a fat finger. The harsh fluorescent lighting made my head thump even harder, and I scooted into the corner, closing my eyes and wrapping my face in my hands. He wasn't going to kill me––even Messina wasn't stupid enough to kill his bait. But that didn't mean he wouldn't hurt me.
"Oh, come on, sweetheart," he taunted as he stepped into the room. "Ain't you glad to see me? Stand up so I can look at you."
I cowered further into the corner.
"Have it your way," Messina said, and gestured to his men, who plodded in and grabbed me roughly by both arms. One smelled like cheap cologne; the other stank of pastrami.
I immediately started pulling and twisting as hard as I could. Somehow, I managed to slither out of their grasps once, but Pastrami Breath kicked me in the ribs, hard enough to make me double over in pain. Before I could recover, I was dragged to a chair in the middle of the room.
"Let me GO!" I shrieked, knowing even as I did that my cries were swallowed by the concrete walls.
