Page 7 of Along for the Ride

This isn’t how I wanted to wake up today.

My gaze rises to the angry furrow of his brows as his glassy eyes narrow in anger. I don’t know what I did to deserve it this time. Not that I ever did anything to deserve the hell he puts me through. My existence seems like enough to throw him into a mindless rage at any given moment.

I can’t imagine living with so much anger in my heart. Actually, I can imagine. The love I had for him has long warped into a bitterness as sour as his breath, and I have a building rage of my own.

“You sleeping around on me, Lee?” he asks.

There it is. Today’s reason for the onslaught of abuse is an accusation of cheating. Yesterday it was because he thought I’d stolen some of his stash, which was unfortunately false. What new joys will tomorrow bring?

“Answer me, bitch! Are you cheating?”

I shake my head.Hisfriends try to get me away from him, but I’ve never approached them or taken them up on their offers. One of his dealer buddies probably got sick of my constant rejections and decided to make me pay for it.

“Fucking slut,” he snarls, squeezing off the last of my air. I push at his chest as everything inside me tightens to chase the oxygen.

Just when I think I’m about to die, he releases me. Somehow he always knows the moment before he takes it too far. I pant, trying to overfill my lungs with air. I imagine them swelling instead of feeling like shriveled up kidney beans in there.

I rip out of his grasp and run for the door. I reach for my purse hanging from a standing mirror, halting when I catch sight of my reflection. I’m no longer a vibrant young woman. Weathered and beaten down, I more closely resemble the way my lungs felt only moments ago. Tears matt my unruly blonde hair to my cheeks, and my blue eyes are bloodshot from his choke hold.

“If you leave, Leana, I will find you. Do you hear me?” he screams, the alcohol tainting his words. “I will find you and I’ll fucking kill you!”

He takes a stumbling step toward me, then leans against the wall as the liquor tries to take out his legs. Based on the way his eyes dart back and forth, I can safely assume the room feels like it’s spinning beneath his feet. His threats are real, but this is the best opportunity I’ll have to escape. He won’t be sober enough to find anything but the liquor cabinet anytime soon.

Before he can find his feet again, I leave and slam the door, taking only my purse with me. Nothing in that apartment is worth going back for. I have a few pills stashed in my purse, so I’ll have to ration them to keep myself from getting sick. As hopeful as I am, it won’t be enough to stave off withdrawal forever. It’s something I’ll have to deal with, but first I need to put ground between myself and my keeper. I have no clue what’s in store for me outside of his home, but it’s gotta be better than this.

Anything has to be better than this.

* * *

Gravel crunchesbeneath my feet as I walk beneath an overpass bridge. Black and blue graffiti covers the peeling green pillars that support the concrete. It supplies a nice stretch of shade where I can escape the sun for a few hours during the day, and it’s a great place to catch a nap on a night like tonight. It’s a popular spot for those living on the street, but I’m happy to find myself alone for the moment. The straps of my backpack rub against my sunburn. I had just enough money to get the bag and some clothes, leaving very little for food. The situation isn’t dire enough to send me face first into a trashcan in search of food scraps, but it’s getting to that point.

I’ve been on the run for several days now. If Mickey has been searching for me, he hasn’t found me yet. It’s only a matter of time if I don’t get out of this city, though. I keep my head low when I walk the sidewalks, and I avoid other people as much as I can. Mickey has eyes everywhere.

I pull the backpack off my tender shoulders and try to get it open, but the zipper snags because my hands are so shaky. The immediate panic of such a simple malfunction reminds me why I’m so anxious right now. The skin-crawling feeling that leaves my body pebbled with goose bumps in the summer heat. The nausea that twists my stomach. I’m missing my high and I need a fix. I finally get the piece of fabric out of the way so the zipper can move freely, and I dig around for the mint container.

This tiny tin houses the last of my dwindling stash. When I run out, I’m fucked. Maybe that’s what Mickey is waiting for. My eyes dart from shadow to shadow, making sure I’m really alone before I pull open the metal lid. Sure of my safety once more, I take a pill from the container and place it under my tongue to work up enough saliva to swallow it. As it finally slides down my parched throat, the core anxiety washes away, and I wait for the actual drug to take care of the rest.

Now I need a place to ride out my high. A few scraggly bushes at the edge of the gravel should conceal me if I lie behind them, so I trudge toward them and set down my bag. I fluff it up and drop to the ground. The moment my head hits the nylon, my body releases the tension I’ve been holding. The sound of traffic above me would drive most people nuts, but I’m not most people. I like it. It’s soothing. And it’s better than being killed by the person who says they love me and want me dead in the same breath.

Yeah. I’ll take the brisk air and road noise any day.

I just wish I hadn’t waited so long to leave. I touch the fading bruise on my cheek and the handprint around my neck. I wish I’d left the first time he put his hands on me. Better yet, I wish I’d never met him. I try to imagine where I’d be today if he’d never found me at that bus station, but my brain is too fuzzy to conjure up that sort of fantasy. My thoughts circle the drain, touching on things that happened instead of things that could have happened.

I am forever running from abusers.

But that’s the past, and I can taste the freedom on my tongue now. Or maybe that’s just the drugs. Either way, I’m lighter. If I keep the bad parts of traveling from happening again, I’ll be okay. Nothing can be done about the complete vulnerability that comes from being a lone female in a world that doesn’t follow society’s rules, but if I can steer clear of Mickey—and men like Mickey—I’ll make it.

Lights flash around me as the headlights from the cars and trucks break through the cracks in the concrete. Every so often, a rogue headlight drifts from the road beside me and filters through the bushes. It’s as relaxing to me as a mobile spinning idly over a baby’s bassinet.

I have no clue what I’ll do or where I’ll go, but this is enough for now. It has to be because I have no other choice. I’ve tried to get money by offering to work, but people take one look at me and turn me away. Not that I blame them. With all the bruises and the dark bags under my eyes, I look like a typical junkie. Turning tricks isn’t an option because Mickey’s friend could catch wind of a new girl working in his area, and then I’d really be in trouble. Taking a bus out of this shithole seems like the smartest option, but I don’t have enough cash to travel ten feet, let alone ten miles. And I definitely don’t have enough to score more pills once these last few are gone.

No wonder people resort to being a criminal. It’s fucking easier. And faster.

Between the periodic honking above my head, the leaves rustle against the wind. The drugs drift through my system and slice the edge off my withdrawal, but it’s not enough. I draw my sweater closer to my body, trying to keep the heat inside me. I curl up and tuck my knees toward my chest.

It’s still better than home, I remind myself.

And it is. Sleeping under an overpass that smells like piss and asphalt after a heavy rain is exponentially better than being beaten and used.

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