Page 7 of Echoes of Nevermore
Star
The first bar is a bust. The cover fee is waived as promised, but it’s dead. As in, there is a total of ten people inside, and that includes the bartender, DJ, Scott, and me.
“Give me a Boo Bash,” Scott orders, tapping his fingers along the bar impatiently as soon as the words leave his mouth. He’s not the only one antsy tonight. I am too, but for a much different reason. I want to break up with him and get it over with. Not here, though. There are not enough witnesses. Wanting more people to be present sounds like a sadistic wish, but it’s for self-preservation. He’s less likely to resort to violence and overreact if more people are around us. He cares more about what other people think than he does those closest to him. Not that he would ever admit this is true. He’s dying on the rock that I’m the crazy one, that he isn’t as bad as I make him out to be. It’s not in my head. I’m not making it up. His own mother has said a similar statement on multiple occasions.
“I’m sorry. I can’t serve you anything except beer.” The timid girl behind the bar grits her teeth, lifting a brown bottle and offering it to him as a substitution. “We have domestic and imported, draft and bottles, just about any kind of beer you could dream of…but our liquor license got revoked.”
“What kind of shit place is this?” he spits out immediately, smacking his palm off the bar. She jumps back a few feet, eyeing him from where she lands. “I’m serious! This is fucking bullshit. I’m a paying customer. The customer is always right, or did you not get that memo? What is it? Are you too dense to understand that concept?”
She stares at him, speechless. She doesn’t deserve to be on the brunt of his temper tantrum any more than I do right now. Actually, less. Not all of his anger throughout our relationship has been without cause. I’m not innocent, but I’m also not the villain.
I’m used to his outbursts. I don’t flinch, only sigh. Here we go again. My eyes widen, and then I roll them. A slow, exaggerated breath pulls into my body, releasing slowly while I try to remain calm.
“I’m. I’m. S-sorry,” she nervously apologizes. Her shoulders slump and her breaths are so uneven that they’re almost ragged. The rate her chest rises and falls is unreal. She looks pitiful.
“Not your fault, hun. Don’t apologize to him.” I shake my head, feeling bad for this poor girl. Is that what I look like when I apologize to him when he’s overreacting?
Seeing how he affects her is like a slap in the face, and it’s almost painful. This is like staring at my reflection. I know how it feels to be in her exact position and at the receiving end of his undeserved anger. To put it bluntly, it fucking sucks! Constantly trying to do your best—as in working until your brain can’t function properly because you’re so exhausted—is hard all by itself. Explaining that feeling to anyone who has never known it is difficult. The best way to describe it would be that contempt slowly creeps into your body, feeding off your insecurities while stuffing you into a box one word at a time. It lies to you and convinces you that you’re worthless. Over time, the heaviness of everything settles onto the top and stops you from climbing from beneath the feeling. After hearing you’re not good enough so many times, it’s hard not to believe it. I wish I could say I am different, that I am stronger, and that I hadn’t let myself fall into those beliefs. But I can’t.
I’ve heard it all?—
“You don’t deserve that.”
“Don’t take that shit from him!”
“You should leave his sorry ass!”
—From my coworkers, my parents, and even some random people passing us on the street when he’s in a particularly bad mood. But until you’re in an abusive situation, you don’t know what you would do or how you would react. At least that’s my opinion and experience.
How is this me? I don’t understand how I let myself become the person who has a gigantic moral dilemma from a snide remark, but it pisses me off
“Kind of is.” Scott glares at me, and I glare right back at him, planting my feet.
Cardboard boxes aren’t strong enough to carry the weight of the world, and neither am I. Both have a maximum capacity and bust at the seams. It’s a stupid analogy, but it helps me find courage. I’m stronger than this. I hate being in tight spaces and rude assholes even more. I pull myself from that stupid box I never fit in anyway, drop-kicking it a few times for good measure in case I ever find myself here again.
I can’t keep my mouth closed. All of the unnecessary apologies I wasted on him spoil inside me, leaving me bitter. The hours spent with me full of worry and anxiety morph into something darker and vile. Violent rage tears through my body with that thought, and I cross my arms to keep from pounding my fists against Scott’s skull. I won’t stoop to his level. He’s only hit me a couple of times, and each time I swore to myself it would never happen again. The first two times, I think I was drunk on disbelief and let him convince me they happened by accident. But the last time, I swore the same to him as I held a switchblade to his throat. I’m not a naturally docile person. I wake up every day and make the conscious choice to be nice. This pushover attitude that I have been hiding behind stops tonight.
“No, Scott, it isn’t. This girl can’t help if they have a liquor license or not. She just works here. She doesn’t own the damned building. She’s trying to do her damned job, so quit being a dick, and let her,” I fume, running my teeth over my tongue as if there’s a bad taste on it that I can’t get rid of. I have no clue if she’s the owner or not, but honestly, I don’t care. Enough is enough.
He opens his mouth to argue, hesitating, and then silently nods instead. “You know what? You’re right, Star. I’m sorry for acting like a douche,” he says, looking at the bartender and then me as he apologizes to us both. He grabs my hands with his, and I’m too stunned to stop him. I should yank my fingers out of his grasp, but honestly, they’re numb just like the rest of my body. This isn’t him. The lightning-fast change of heart isn’t like him. Usually, once he’s upset, he stays like that for hours on end, only stopping when he’s exhausted himself and everyone else around him.
He pats the back of my hand with his and shrugs. “It’s ok. We can go to my cousin’s house. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind if we dropped in.”
Confusion swirls in the air around us and stops me from speaking. I robotically nod, forcing myself to blink, needing to check if this is a dream. Nope. I’m without question awake, and now I have dry eyes. Something doesn’t feel right, but I can’t put my finger on what it is.
We’re both silent during the car ride from the bar to his cousins. I consider bringing up the inevitable, but this isn’t the best time. Without knowing his motive behind his sudden change of heart, I don’t want to risk it. Not alone with him in his care. I have to be smart about this. I wouldn’t put it past him to lose his shit and then leave me in the middle of an abandoned field somewhere. That has Scott Black written all over it.
I take the time to cool off and recharge the best I can. I’m not a person who gets loud when I’m upset, not even a little bit. I go completely silent, ending up with almost pedantic speech if it’s required for me to talk to someone. So, the fact that neither of us are speaking might be a blessing in disguise…or the deceitful calm before a never-ending hellish storm.
Chapter 6
Star
“Scott man, you made it!” A guy is waiting to greet us as soon as the gearshift is in park and our shoes crunch against the gravel at his cousin’s house. Although I’m not sure if where we are at can be called a house. This place looks like an old bar.
When he told me where we were going, it piqued my curiosity. The only person I’ve met from his family is his mom; never met any other family member. But I thought he meant an actual house with people living inside. Maybe a nicer double-wide with a fenced-in yard, and a dog running around in the back. Not a place where the sequel to a Roadhouse film could take place.
Rusty wires are crisscrossing over one another, making tiny metal square patterns that lie over the glass panes of the windows. Countless motorcycles of every color and size take up the biggest part of the parking lot. A handful of men wearing black leather vests on top of their costumes stand beneath the yellow glow of the light above them. The tallest one lights a cigarette and belts out a huge plume of smoke as he howls with laughter, watching a clown puke up his guts into the middle of the bushes.
