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There’s so much wrong with that statement that I don’t even know where to start. But you know what? It doesn’t matter. Like me, Blake lives a lie. Let Ashley think he’s a decent human. With one conversation, she’ll realize quickly that he’s Satan’s number one toe sucker.
“I need a drink.” I groan. “Maybe several.”
I had way more than several drinks.
I couldn’t endure one more sober second of Blake’s bullshit stories about playing the back nine or sandbox—whatever that means.
It was socialized torture.
And I was done.
The first three beers went down like water. Blake’s friends clapped and cheered for my lack of gag reflex on drinks four and five. By drink six, Blake tried picking me up and carrying me to the tent so I could sleep it off. I responded with an uncoordinated kick to his balls that sent him into a rage, claiming I could sleep outside with the bears.
I don’t know about the other women at this party, but that didn’t sound like a horrible idea. It was better than waking up to Blake’s long-ass fingernails digging into my back.
Honestly, I prefer the outdoors anyway. I’ve always found it to be my sanctuary.
I wasn’t like most kids. The boogeyman or monsters that lurked under the bed didn’t scare me. I felt at home with them. Like them, people steered clear of me. I could never master the fake smile and crafted persona. I wasn’t from a prominent family or even a notable one. I was simply a runaway—a girl that didn’t listen to her parents, or so they said. The truth is, I hid in the dark with monsters because I am one. And I miss the peace it offered.
The leaves rustle beside me, and I sit up quickly, scanning the darkness for threats. Monsters may accept me as one of them, but that doesn’t mean they won’t kill me all the same.
It’s survival of the fittest, and that’s not me right now.
“Blake?” I scan the tree line, knowing good and damn well Blake isn’t out there taking a midnight pee. “Listen, if you want money, I have none.” I shrug into the darkness, trying to find my bravery, and add, “And, if you’re looking for your next victim, I’m not your girl. I’ve outrun the devil himself.”
A deep rumbling comes from behind me, and I’m on my feet in seconds.
“And here I thought you had forgotten me.”
My voice takes on a whisper. “Van Gogh?”
When I said that I have never been afraid of monsters, I wasn’t kidding.
Van Gogh and I were friends.
We had a mutual understanding.
We kept each other company in the dark silence.
We shared no stories.
No hopes or dreams.
Only the parable that we all eventually become prisoners.
“Were you expecting Tiger Woods?”
I roll my eyes—definitely Van Gogh. No one else has a level of sarcasm that makes you want to punch him in the face every time he opens his mouth.
“Don’t tell me,” I say, my eyes darting around the woods, “you forgot something.”
The man I only know as Van Gogh chuckles. “You could say that.”
I step back, wishing the fire was still roaring so I could see. “I hate to be the one to break the news, but I don’t have anything of yours.”
But he has something of mine—my heart.
“Hmm,” he answers, which is an improvement. “I disagree.”
