I’m gonna die here.
“Clint!”
“We’re coming down for you. Stay put.”
“Clinton Clarke! Can you hear us!?”
Their voices drifted away as my mind ripped me back into memories. The pain in my head was excruciating, and it seemed as if my body was hellbent on torturing me. The images began to move. Snippets of memories slowly became chunks of time. I felt Rae’s lips against mine. The warmth and wetness of her tongue pressing against my own. My hands twitched, moving at the phantom feel of her ass cheeks in my palms. What I wouldn't give to be next to her. What I wouldn't give to feel her pressed against me, ridding me of my pain and warming me as this water threatened to drag me into the deep.
Into the cold, dark depths of its deadly stare.
I heard footsteps off in the distance. I wanted to cry out for them, but I couldn’t. My mind kept interrupting my need to survive. It kept bombarding me with memories I no longer wanted. Because it wasn’t thoughts of Rae any longer. I saw snippets of that car. Those headlights. Those assholes, and everything they’d said to Rae. What their eyes insinuated. What the licking of their lips foreshadowed. I felt anger blooming in my chest and rage coursing through my veins. A searing pain unlike anything I’d ever experienced trickled all the way down to my damn toes.
No one hurts Rae. Not on my watch.
Then it happened. The entire replay behind my eyelids. I saw myself riding my bike. I heard the screeching of those tires and the laughing of the boys behind me. My mind replayed it all. From the first time I rumbled over the railroad tracks to the neighborhoods we’d zoomed in and out of. The entire world fell silent to my ears as my mind took me down that dangerous path. Took me down memory lane, where I even remembered the plan I’d come up with.
Cruise out of town until they run out of gas.
It had been the perfect plan. Run them out of town. Get them away from Rae. And once they puttered over to the side of the road, speed off into the night. It was foolproof. It was perfection. So, how the hell did I fuck it up?
Because you're always a fuck-up, Clarke.
A fuck-up, Clarke.
A fuck-up, Clarke.
My voice morphed into my father’s, and my mind held me hostage. I replayed the first time my father ever hit me. It was four months after he and my mother split up. We got into a fight because I wanted her to read me a bedtime story over the phone, like she used to read to me when she was still here. My father got angry with me. He thought I was accusing him of shitty stories. When really, all I wanted was my mother.
A small boy who wanted nothing but the comfort of his mother.
“Your mother’s gone. She chose pills over us. So get used to it, or do without your stories.”
Then he popped me on the side of the head.
A whimper bubbled up my throat. I begged my mind not to do this. I fought with myself, trying to stop the reel playing out in my head. But it was no use. My mind had fully run away with me, and there was nothing I could do to stop it.
Hell, I couldn't even move. The fuck made me think I could control my own mind?
I’m dying. This is what it’s like right before someone dies.
My mind replayed the last time I’d ever heard my mother’s voice. It was two years after she’d left, and she called me on a whim. On my birthday. I remember crying into the phone, I was so happy to hear from her. An eleven-year-old kid, with his first-ever black eye from his father. That had been my father’s birthday present to me. A black eye, because I wanted a chocolate birthday cake instead of a strawberry one.
“Hi, Mommy. When are you coming home? Please come home. Please come get me.”
“Oh, honey. I’m gonna be coming soon, okay?”
I remember her slurred words. How they seemed like the most amazing thing at the time, until I grew older. Until I realized she’d called me in the middle of one of her pill highs. Probably out of guilt for abandoning us.
“Please, Mommy. Dad hits me. I just wanna be with you. Why can’t I be with you?”
“Oh, honey. Your father knows what’s best, okay?”
“No, he doesn’t. I know why you left, okay? I know it’s because he wanted you to live this life you didn’t wanna live. Mom, just come get me, okay? Please?”
“That’s enough, boy. Give me that phone.”
So much truth for an eleven-year-old boy. And yet, it was true. After dealing with my father’s beatings every time I didn’t act the way he wanted me to, I knew why my mother left us. Why she started downing pills until she had the courage to leave. Her postpartum depression got the best of her after having me, and instead of Dad being supportive, he ignored her. Told her to suck it up. Forced her to continuously go out to parties and get dressed up and accompany him on trips and continue to please him and be his trophy wife because that was what he expected.