AllFreeNovel
Share Us
My skin feels tight, and my sweater suddenly suffocates. I look around the bar, distracting myself from the conversation before another question pops into my mind. “That is … wait, is that what you were doing at Lasso’s that night? Looking for a young, hot twenty-something to pass the time.”
“Youwere also at Lasso’s, and you’re a young, hot twenty-something.”
I place my palm over my heart. “I’m anoldertwenty-something. There is a big difference.”
“Sure, there is.” He nods, mumbling to the bartender as she comes over with a fresh beer. “I don’t want you to assume I’m meeting and banging a new chick every weekend. I’m not out to see how many women I can sleep with or set any personal record. It’s not nearly as bad as what you’re imagining in that little head of yours.”
“Why do you care what I think of you?”
He brings his gaze back to mine, beer bottle pausing at his lips before he tips back for a slow sip. He holds my stare, unnerving me, neither of us willing to admit yet what is brewing between us.
“How’s your other job treating you?”
“It’s fine, I guess.” I knew what I was getting myself into when I applied and accepted the position but hadn’t imagined how emotional some of the cases would make me. Lately, I’ve been dreading hearing my phone ringing and knowing I have to go in.
“How come just fine? What type of department do you work in?”
“I’m a SANE nurse.”
“What’s a SANE nurse?”
“Sexual Assault Nurse Examiner, also called a forensics nurse. When someone comes to the ER who was abused or sexually assaulted, the hospital calls me and I meet the patient there, do an exam, get their story documented, make outside referrals for follow-up counseling, stuff like that.” The hands-on experience it has given me is unlike any other I could get in preparation for being an NP, if I ever choose that route.
“Ihatethat,” he says quietly.
“Which part?”
“I hate we live in a world where there is a specific job for that because it happens so often. Sexual assault … abuse. Even when I was young and dumb, I wasn’t one to get into bar fights. Maybe it’s because I don’t care about anything enough to fight over it, but I’ll never be able to understand how someone will call himself a man and hurt a woman or a child.”
His voice lowers as he continues. “My mom … she was a spineless woman. My dad ran off when my sister and I were little kids, and my mom wanted so badly to feel that connection again with someone she gave attention to any guy that looked at her. Usually, it was the wrong kind of attention. She’d let them takewhat little money we had or use our apartment as a place to stay since they couldn’t afford their own. Eventually, she got involved with guys who would throw her around.”
I hold my breath on an inhale and stare at him, utterly invested in the story and wanting to know his past, and all together shocked that he’s opening up to me.He’s not looking at me, eyes focused on slowly wiping away the droplets of condensation forming on his drink, completely oblivious to the others surrounding us. Drinking, laughing, clinking glasses—all the noises that make up a loud bar go quiet as he’s trapped in his memories.
“One night, when I was eight, I woke up to a loud crash. At first, I thought mom had dropped a dish or something, but then I heard it again. I opened my door and could hear people fighting, so I crawled to the banister in time to see her latest boyfriend with his fist cocked. He had her down on the kitchen floor, the broken chair next to her must have been what woke me up. I was a skinny little shit back then, but always had my height. I ran down the stairs screaming and hopped on his back, trying like hell to get him off of her. He was drunk enough that I could take him down, at least distract him, and keep him away. The noise woke my sister, and she called the cops. That’s the last time I’ve ever been in a fight.”
“Jesus, Ryan.”
He clears his throat roughly. “The police came, Child Protective Services got involved, and that night we went to live with my grandparents. My mom was agreeable to going to rehab. She completed a sixty-day program, and after she got out, they set her up with a job. She had this little apartment above the deli that was barely big enough for one person. My sister would have moved back with her, but I told her I wanted to keep living with our grandparents, so she stayed with me. My mom never fought it.”
“Where is your mom now?” I ask, my voice hovering above a whisper. His words are harsh, but I can see the pain behind his eyes. The awful scenes he most likely replays in his head that he uses to keep himself bitter.
“She’s here in the city still, I think. I don’t know. I don’t talk to her anymore. Even after that night and all the progress she made, she still went back to her old ways. Drinking, partying, shitty men. I overheard my grandparents talking one night that they thought she had gotten into drugs. I decided then and there that I was done with her.”
“Did they … did they ever hurt you or your sister?” As soon as the words come out, I realize how personal that is. I wave my hands in front of me to bat the question away. “You don’t have to answer that. Sorry. I’m too nosy, sometimes.”
“It’s okay. No, they never hurt us. I should be thankful for that, I guess. But my sister and I had to fend for ourselves. We were too young to know what to do.”
“Sometimes neglect or apathy is just as bad as abuse.” My heart shatters for him, thinking of a young kid witnessing something so harrowing. My heart also breaks for the anger he still clearly holds towards his mother. I don’t know her, and likely will never meet her, but a small part of me aches for her. It’s hard to explain to someone who hasn’t lived it. I’ve learned if they haven’t experienced it, they often don’t understand that feeling of being trapped. A caged animal doesn’t necessarily run the second the door is opened.
“My grandparents were amazing,” he says, continuing in his memories. “They got me through high school, undergrad, and into med school. They both passed within a year of each other towards the end of med school. That was my equivalent to what everyone else feels when they lose their parents.”
“I’m sure they were amazing people.” I turn again to face him, reaching a hand up to grasp the underside of his bicep. “I’m gladyou had them … Do you ever wonder about her? Wonder if she’s changed or is thinking of reconnecting?”
“Nope,” he says, letting the ‘p’ pop. “She didn’t care about us as kids, so I don’t owe her anything. My sister is on my case all the time, worse now than ever.”
“No, you don’t owe her,” I agree. “But don’t you owe it to yourself to resolve the feelings?”
“Who says they aren’t resolved?” He almost spits the words at me.
