Page 99 of Choke

He’s still smirking.

Why is he smiling that way?

“You’re mine, Lex. And every time you try to remove me, it’ll hurt. Every time you try to remove that ring, the symbol of me, from your hand, you’ll bleed for it. The more you fight me, the more I’ll scar you.”

Ash Hollow Lane

Adrian

June 10th

Five days.

It’s been five days since she slid that ring onto her finger. After the second day, she stopped trying to remove it. I imagine her finger hurts like hell. I really thought she would love the ring—she wears so many of them. When I saw the band online, I couldn’t resist. It’s something that’s painful to take off, just like it pains me to be away from her. I wanted her to feel even a fraction of what I experience every damn day without her beside me. I check the cameras. She’s home. Since that night, she’s mostly returned to normal; her place is tidy, the sink is free of dishes, and she’s eating somewhat regularly. I’ve been giving her space and time to come around and realize that she needs me as much as I need her, and I can see she’s breaking down. I watch her check my Instagram, which is quiet since it’s off-season, and I only post when Brittney makes me.

Voices echo through the hallway, the sound of boots striking the floor. I lock my phone and slide it into my pocket. Two of my crew mates come around the corner, laughing, carrying pizza boxes in their arms. I haven’t learned names yet and have to steal a glance at their badges to jostle my memory. McCoy and Donovan. McCoy is a rookie; he’s young and only 5 months in and a solid guy. He’ll be an excellent firefighter. They both sit at the table opposite of me.

McCoy speaks to me first, “So man, what do you think of the department so far? It’s been what, four or five shifts so far?”

“So far, so good, man. Thanks for asking. A nice change from Kingsport.” I’m sincere; I was ready to leave that city, and this department is more prominent with more opportunities.

We continue to chat, cracking jokes about an earlier call. A woman called 911 for help after her husband smoked too much weed. The guy was losing it, begging us to give him something to bring him down from the high. I suggested he get 5ccs of pizza, stat. The couple didn’t laugh. Neither did the medics—they have the shittiest sense of humor—but the boys? They lost it and suggested we grab pizza for dinner on our way back to the station.

I rise from my seat and walk to the cupboards, pulling out plates and setting the table. Donovan heads to the stereo, turning on the local rock station at a low volume. Despite being new, it feels comfortable—more comfortable than my last station did. Fifteen minutes later, the rest of the guys stroll in, finishing up truck checks, and pull up chairs around the table, the old seats creaking under the weight. Dinner time is when we connect the most. McCoy talks about his new girlfriend and the challenges of living with his mom. We all laugh and tease him about growing up and moving out.

We’re all laughing when Harrington shifts his attention to me and asks about Lex. She came up in conversation during a previous shift, but now I’m not sure how to talk about her. They notice my hesitation, and McCoy chuckles before elbowing Harrington and saying, “Uh oh, trouble in paradise.”

I mention that she’s going through something—leaving out that the something is me, a consequence of a hasty decision I made to assert ownership over her. Each of them offers advice, with Donovan being the last to speak.

“Just apologize, man. Whatever you did, just apologize.”

I didn’t tell him it was me—that I’m the problem. He just knows. I change the subject; I can’t sit here and dwell on what I did to her or how much damage I actually caused. An hour later, we get up to clear the table. I push McCoy aside and do the dishes, letting my mind drift back to her. Not the real her, but the version that haunts me. Theversion that trusts me—that… I can’t even bring myself to think about it.

We head into the dorm area, tucking in for the night. The room fills with the soft snores of the men in neighboring cots, and I seize the opportunity to check in on her again. It’s only 10 pm, and I’m pleased to see her still awake, getting ready for bed. She brushes her long, dark hair and then twists it into a braid, brushes her teeth, feeds her fucked up cat, and climbs into bed, pulling out her phone for a few minutes before slamming it down on the bed beside her. From here, the camera can’t see the screen of her phone, but I know she’s frustrated that there are no updates on my profile.

I consider posting a story just for her. Some cringeworthy thirst trap from the fire hall, but I don’t. Now that I think about it, I’m not even sure she knows what I do for work. I plug my phone in next to me and roll onto my side, drifting off to sleep almost immediately.

I rarely dream. When I do, it’s usually about that day with my dad. Tonight is no exception, and when the tones go off, I leave the darkness of sleep behind, rising instantly. The adrenaline hits me immediately, and that’s part of why I love this job. The other guys are also on their feet, running for the bay. The operator comes over the loudspeaker.

“Calling Trucks: 91, 92, 96, 98. Chief One. Report to 318 Ash Hollow Lane for reports of a structure fire. Multiple callers.”

Donovan laughs. “Here we go, boys; McCoy’s getting his first big boy fire!”

The energy is electric as we don our gear and climb into the truck. I slide into the passenger seat, grab the laptop and radio, and the engine roars to life. After clicking the radio, I call in to dispatch.

“Dispatch, this is Captain Liberty, Truck 91, responding to a structure fire. Please advise.”

The line crackles as I wait for details, simultaneously pulling up the call on the laptop.

“Truck 91: Multiple callers report a structure fire in a high-rise building at 318 Ash Hollow Lane. Reports indicate that the fire is on the 8th floor and is not contained to a unit.”

My stomach drops. The blood drains from my face. My hands tremble over the keyboard. I see the address.

I fucking see it.

I click the radio again, a cold sweat spreading across my skin.

“Dispatch, please confirm the address.” My voice falters.

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