Page 6 of Running Feral

That’s all I need to slip out of the door. I couldn’t have picked a better moment; my forehead is starting to throb, and the streetlights are bright, sparkling little points on the horizon that are disorienting for no particular reason.

It’s time to go home and bury all my thoughts in sleep.

Chapter Three

My entire body is dry. So dry, it feels like a desiccated husk that my shriveled organs are rattling around inside, while my brain is nothing more than a condensed lump of tissue that only knows how to quiver in response to basic, instinctive stimuli.

Everything hurts. The world is still sliding to the side whenever I lose focus on keeping it still, and my ass is pulsing with the painful reminder of whatever I did with Eamon last night, even if my mind has successfully blacked that part out.

After we got back to his place, he offered me another drink. Despite all his posturing about being concerned about how drunk I was, I know he likes me that way. Pliable. As long as I’m not so far gone that I’m messy. Then he also offered me a few lines of something, which he’s never deigned to identify for me. Not coke. Something more synthetic, that’s more sedating than stimulating. Ketamine, maybe. Whatever it is, it always fucks me up beyond measure.

It makes it a lot easier to lie back and take the kind of brutal, relentless poundings that he’s so fond of delivering. Not that I wouldn’t, anyway; I don’t exactly have a choice. But the ketamine gives me that little lift I need to peel back my skull, pull out my brain and deposit it on the bedside table as a patient observer, instead of a participant. Which doesn’t hurt.

I would love to be in my own bed right now, encouraging my brain to continue sinking into the oblivion of my Swiss cheese memory. Unfortunately, I can’t. I’m out in the world, and even though we’re headed toward winter, so it’s not that warm, it’s still bright as fuck. It’s that cool, brittle kind of brightness that lights up every surface and somehow smells like frost.

My shitty dollar-store sunglasses are on, but they’re not helping. I quickly changed into clothes that didn’t have cum and blood on them after I picked up my Ninja—which I’ve had since I was seventeen and has also seen much better days—from the bar and drove to the trailer. Now I’m headed to the hospital in Lola’s 1996 Ford Lazer that inexplicably still runs, because she’s finally coming home.

She’s been in Critical Care for four days and then Med/Surg—which I guess is hospital speak for gen pop—for another six, and I’m over it. I hate seeing her in there, but I can’t not visit and leave her all alone. It’ll be good to have her home. I just have to concentrate on not letting her notice the limp I picked up at some point last night. And hopefully the bruises from last week are faded enough that she won’t see.

It takes a long time waiting in her hospital room before all the discharge paperwork is sorted out, but she seems in good spirits. She’s also happy to see me in that genuine, undemanding way that only she manages. Eventually, we get everything sorted out, and then I’m able to take her to the exit in a wheelchair before we pile into the car.

“You seem tired, Apo,” she says once we’re on the road.

There’s no accusation in it, but it makes me tense up, all the same.

“I am. I’ve been busy. I’m glad you’re coming home, though.” My voice is wooden as I speak, but at least we’ve slipped into the conversational space where we’ve both tacitly agree not to get into details.

I’m under no illusions that she isn’t aware I’m doing illegal shit. But we need the money too much to fight about it. Her social security only covers so much.

“You still need to take care of yourself. Have you been eating?”

I shrug, because it’s easier than saying ‘no’.

She makes an unhappy sound and fusses with her purse.

“I’ll cook once we’re home, and then we can both have a quiet, restful evening. How does that sound?”

Honestly, like fucking heaven. But I won’t be able to stay for long, because I know Eamon has a job for me tonight. Maybe I can get away with pretending to go to bed and then sneaking out, so she’s not twisted up worrying about me for once.

“Sure thing, Lola. Sounds good.”

By 10pm, I’m feeling relaxed for the first time in weeks. I have a full stomach, because Lola insisted on cooking, even though I tried to stop her. Eating an actual hot meal made from (mostly) fresh vegetables is a real change of pace and comforts me somewhere deep in my core.

She made something she calls ‘Ozarks sinigang’, which is an adapted version of a recipe from her childhood that accommodates not being able to find most of the same fruits and vegetables here. It’s not authentic, and a bunch of the ingredients are powdered or frozen, but I’ve only grown up eating this version of the dish, so it tastes like home to me.

We’re both settled in front of the TV, watching some mindless cooking/travel show that she likes, while I slowly sink into the couch when my phone vibrates. I was so cozy, I’d almost let myself forget that this was coming.

Immediately, my body goes on high alert. He’s not here, but my nervous system acts like he is. I curse myself for getting so comfortable, because it makes the switch I’ve done a million times before too abrupt; like jumping into an ice bath.

I don’t move a muscle, because part of that frame of mind is being like a rabbit under the scrutiny of a hawk. Still and silent, hoping you’ll be passed over, but every muscle strung tight and ready to sprint if you need to. Lola notices regardless.

“What’s wrong?” she asks, already frowning like she knows I’m going to lie to her.

It doesn’t stop me.

“Nothing. I think it might be time for bed. I’m tired, like you said.”

There’s a long, tremulous silence while I can practically feel her weighing whether now is the time to speak or not.

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