Page 3 of Trig

Nurses gathered around me with apologies my ears couldn’t digest, and looks of sympathy I refused to understand, because no one hurt more than I did at that very moment, so why the fuck were they looking so sad. Empathy didn’t exist to me. Not at that second. No way. Don’t you dare pretend you care about my mother, I wanted to shout. I bet they won’t even remember her name at the end of the day, but I fucking will. Just me. No one else. Look at their pitiful looks. I don’t need this shit. I grabbed my chest as sharp pains hit. They didn’t know about the burning anger that was building inside of me that made me want to flip over hospital beds and burn shit for letting her die. Fuck cancer. Fuck chemo. Fuck radiation. Fuck all the staff here. It wasn’t their mother. What would they care if she lived or died? She was just another body. Just a folder with medical terms in it. I wanted to push them all far away from me. Fuck all of you, my eyes screamed. I was in so much goddamn pain. I just wanted that feeling to end, when in truth, it had just begun.

A very big piece…no, a very big chunk of me died along with Mom, and now I was scrambling my thoughts together as people in white uniforms were speaking to me, and instead of turning this hospital upside down like I wanted to, my mouth deceived me by thanking them. I fucking thanked them for their kind words. I’ve never felt sicker in my life. I stood there acting as if my shit was together, when clearly, I was falling apart at the seams. I didn’t want to be touched, calmed down, or sweet-talked off the ledge. I wanted to let it all out but I couldn’t. Not just yet. Part of me was holding back, fearing what would happen if I lost complete control. I looked down, and at that moment, I found myself gripping the hospital bed bar with all my strength just to keep my knees from buckling. At one point, I gave up. I lost all my strength and I let go and just cried until nothing came out. I cried until the room cleared out and my soul felt empty, and when I was done, the pain moved out and depression settled in. I felt damaged beyond repair, and I couldn’t imagine ever feeling happy again. Not with Mom gone.

Wet eyes, worn heart, and a tight chest, and the worst was yet to come. I abandoned her, left her lifeless body there with those people, those murderers. We trusted them, and they killed her by pumping that poisonous shit into her. Medicine, my ass. I was pissed. It didn’t make it any better to hear one of my mother’s male nurses outside complaining to a coworker about how he missed his lunch break due to some cancer chick dying. I was about to lose it, Hunter style, and smash his skull in. It took a lot of self-control to hold back. What would it accomplish if I killed him? Mom would still be gone. I’d still be in pain, and if I hurt him, I’d be just like Hunter, in prison.

“Enjoy that break, asshole,” I said, intentionally bumping my shoulder into his as I passed by.

I didn’t give him a chance to respond. I didn’t even look back. I just kept walking, forcing myself to take step after step, until nothing stirred within me. As dead as I felt inside, everyone around me was still very much alive. Life made sure I saw it. Life mocked me by showing me a couple in the parking lot filled with love and happiness. They were kissing and holding hands. Me? I was beyond miserable. Sounds of laughter echoed from teenagers walking by, and I just snorted. How dare they laugh at a time like this? Insensitive dicks. I had to remind myself that right now, this ordeal was only happening to me, and that the rest of the world was simply living.

There was very little time to grieve after her death, because just as I was cooling down, things were heating up. They sentenced Hunter to four years in prison for aggravated assault, for almost killing my mother’s main doctor. They labeled him a threat to society as well as himself, but I knew differently. He was in pain. Our mother was terminally ill, and he wasn’t there to say his final goodbye since he was awaiting his trial. He lost it in the courtroom when they read how many years he would serve. That was the last straw for him. He retaliated by making a scene in court. Flipping cops off and cursing out the judge. It didn’t matter to the court that our family had been through hell. Laws were laws, and he broke them, so off he went.

My big brother was now locked up, and our older sister Torrie, who didn’t even show up to see Hunter dragged away, was off experiencing something she never had growing up, which was freedom.

It was now just me, all alone as a young adult, left to make all the funeral arrangements, and it was the last thing I wanted to deal with, but who else was going to do it. Plans for her burial were set. I thought, going forward, I couldn’t feel worse. I had already made it through the hardest part. Her dying. This next step should have been easier, but watching the casket drop tore me to shreds. With no family to lean on, I couldn’t cope in the following days. I became a fucking basket case, ridden with anxiety, feeling like a parked car spinning its wheels out. I turned to liquor to soothe my nerves. Jack Daniels became my best friend. He consoled me like no other, because in reality there was no one else. I had pushed away anyone I even vaguely knew. I shut down completely and locked myself up. Poisoning my body with large amounts of whiskey for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. I barely ate, and slept wherever I passed out. I was on a mission of self-destruction and I didn’t care.

After anxiety made its exit, rage crashed in. I walked around, smashing walls, breaking things, wishing to die. I threw blame as to why I couldn’t manage my damn feelings. I told myself it was my sister’s fault. She was supposed to be here for me. If Hunter could have been by my side, he would have. He was a fighter, a protector, but not Torrie. She was a runner. She was selfish. She never even came to the funeral. I wanted to hate her, but even then, I couldn’t. She was still family, and repeatedly, I had to remind myself we both were dealing with stuff in our own way. Her way just happened to be absent, and in her absence, I suffered.

She still cared for me from afar, at least financially, that is. Like clockwork, every month a yellow envelope filled with a little cash would show up in the mail. It always came stamped from Virginia with no sender information. I knew it was from her. She always said she wanted to settle down in the middle of nowhere and forget that time existed. Virginia seemed like it could be that type of place. I imagine Torrie probably started a new life there, pretending that her mom never died and that one of her brothers wasn’t a fuck up, and that her baby brother was carrying on and doing well. A total state of perfection where her sadness didn’t exist as long as she refused to confront it. I can’t hate her for wanting to block everything out, but I can be angry with her for leaving me alone.

She wasn’t the only one keeping an eye on their baby brother. Hunter had people watching me like a hawk. If he couldn’t be there to help me grow into a man, he was going to make sure he could at least support me. That need to nurture each other came from our mother. It was a golden rule when she was alive. She taught us to look out for each other, and since Torrie gave up, he felt like he failed mom the day of his arrest. He could no longer play the father role for me, which he had been doing for quite a while. He was now involuntarily absent and that urge to fulfill our mother’s wishes was pushing harder than ever. Nothing could stop him from doing all he could for me. He had people on the outside. They were paid thugs sent to come check on me every so often. These men would come to the door, dressed in all black, hand me a wad of cash and then poke me hard in the chest.

“Watch your ass, so I don’t have to. Message from Hunter.”

That poke and one-liner was something my brother did and said to me often, growing up. I welcomed that knock on my door just to hear those words. It didn’t matter that they came from the lips of strangers. Those were his exact words and his actions, and as hard as my chest hurt every time these men did it, it felt like Hunter was here with me, if even for a few seconds, and I couldn’t hold on to the moment long enough.

Those precious passing seconds became long lonely minutes. Those long lonely minutes became haunting hours and those haunting hours turned into shitty-ass normal days. Time would eventually pass to where I didn’t despise every little thing. Misery had overstayed its welcome and I needed depression to pack up and get the fuck out of my life, and it did, just at a slower-than-desired pace.

It was around this period when everything became a blur because I stopped keeping track of time and started living. I’d finally found the fight to put the liquor bottle down, and pick up my fist instead. At nighttime when the world slept, I felt my peace. I’d take all my aggressions out at the gym on the punching bags. Forcefully pounding my hands into something that felt so painfully good. In the daytime, I’d make money by doing photography, something random I used to like to do in high school. Not that I needed the money since Torrie and Hunter kept me comfortable, but I liked the distraction. Something was fascinating about taking pictures of other people just living. You could freeze time and capture something beautiful in all the chaos. The lining of a woman’s back, the bloom of a rose, a flirty crooked smile. These things kept me occupied. I didn’t feel dead inside while boxing or doing photography. I could hide behind gloves and a camera to some extent, but in some parts of the day, I’d just be alone with my brain and its fucking memories.

I needed to fill the time gap with a third hobby. I was afraid if I didn’t, misery would move her bitch-ass back in and ruin the few happy moments I had created. Sex became a viable option. It was playful, and seductive, and made me feel like a God. It was my new addiction, and I couldn’t get enough of it. I’d have a new woman in my bed every night, fucking away the pain. Keeping it from resurfacing. Black, White, Asian, Mexican. It didn’t matter. They all provided a release just as well as the gym did. I felt like a man now. I didn’t need anyone. I was beyond fit, fucked well, and feeling peaceful. I was slowly rebuilding myself, and pieces of me I didn’t know existed started to come to life.

Several years passed and I was now more mature. I finally had my shit together mentally and physically. I had been training hard at the gym and had fought in a few boxing matches for side money. I felt in control and that is all that I really needed, but life, as you know, is unpredictable. The wind shifted and the gentle balance of nature was upset when they released Hunter early from prison for good behavior. He definitely played the system and manipulated his way to freedom. I wanted to be excited, but upon his return, Hunter wasn’t himself. His demeanor was off. The way he carried himself was much more intimidating than before. A darkness followed him and I knew there wasn’t much good left inside of my brother. I feared that he had gotten involved with the worst of the worst while incarcerated. Whatever he was doing was going to kill him one day. All those secret phone calls, locked doors, blood-stained clothes and shoes, and especially the constant late-night runs. He’d refuse to answer my questions about any of it.

“I do this so you can have a better life, Trigger. Don’t ever ask me things you don’t want to know about, and trust me when I say you don’t. Enjoy the cash and shut the fuck up.”

At some point, he’d become paranoid, scared for both of our safety. I remember one night he paced back and forth, ranting that he was tired, that he loved me, and that he was done with this life. It was all bullshit though, because later throughout the years he went in and out of prison for various things and I grew accustomed to it. Every time he was free, he came home and ran right back to the streets doing whatever he did. I tried to convince him of better ways, but he wouldn’t have it. It was too late. He was knee-deep in big money, fast cars, and hot pussy. As much as he may have wanted out at various times, part of that lifestyle had him by the balls and the only exit door available to him was death. He knew it, and sadly, I did too.

Hunter was a criminal. An alpha male. A goddamn silverback gorilla. He rarely showed his softer side because that was dangerous, but he’s human. It was only when he had a little liquor in his system that he became emotional. His brotherly advice would set in and he’d let his guard down. He’d go on and on about not letting life consume you, and to be a good man, unlike him. I wished to God I could save him, but he didn’t want it. He wanted to be the hero and save me. I just didn’t know exactly what it was at the time.

The last memory I have of Hunter is when he stormed into the house one night. I just knew something was off. He jammed his hands in his pants pockets and looked up at me through his eyebrows. He always looked pissed normally but something about his mannerisms were abnormal.

“If I ever catch you doing what I do, I will fucking kill you with my bare hands. I don’t give a shit how old you are. I will fuck you up. Understand?”

He poked me hard in the chest as he said that. I nodded, and then he shoved a bundle of money in my hand, and walked out of my place. That was the last time I saw him. He wasn’t a bad person. I knew who he was, and that hurt me the most. Everything he did, he did for our family, and I suppose that’s why I am the way I am. I respected his hustle, even if I didn’t approve of it. It would be not even twenty-four hours later that I would receive a call that would again rock my world.

“Hello! Is this Trigger Matthews?”

“Yeah. What’s up?” I take a swig of beer, as I pace back and forth with it in hand.

“My name is Haita. I’m a nurse at Lakeview Hospital. We have your brother Hunter here.”

“What do you mean? What happened?” I stop moving. I can feel my entire body lock up.

“You should come down here,” she replies softly.

“I’m not going anywhere. What the fuck happened?”

My jaw is tight. My hand grips the bottle harder than I want to.

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