19
Jess
Feed The Beast
Istomp out of Jonah’s store with a loaf of bread, a tub of butter, a gallon of orange juice, and a bad fucking mood. Swinging the bags in my arms, I open my car door and fling them inside.
I’m pissed. I’m worried. I’m furious. But I’m still worried.
I can’t take control of my emotions, so instead of forcing it, I’m just going to buy some fucking bread and juice.
I flop into the driver’s seat and slam the keys into the ignition. I barely even react to the tug of my stitches anymore. They were a lifetime ago. A whole other event that, while the center of my universe a week ago, they’re now a tickle in my side that I remember only when my shirt brushes against them.
They haven’t dissolved yet, but my cut is healing. They’re no longer red and sore, though I am still putting the stupid cream on twice a day.
Because I take medical advice from a criminal, it would seem.
I put my car into gear and pull away from the convenience store on Main Street. Taking a ten minute detour, I run inside my still empty apartment and toss fresh clothes into my backpack. Toothbrush, hairbrush, panties, deodorant. The underwear I borrowed from Kane– was that only yesterday? –sit at the top of my dirty clothes hamper. Rushing past, I grab the pile and twist them so if my sister comes in here, she won’t find a man’s pair of boxer shorts on top.
She wouldn’t give me trouble about it. But she’d ask questions I don’t have the answers to right now.
I’m mad at my sister too, seeing as she’s always with her stupid boyfriend rather than at home. Best friends since the womb, we shared a bed right up until junior high. We didn’t want to be apart, but now that Graham’s in the picture, she never has time for me.
I’m pissed that she chooses him over us.
But as I rush past Kane’s case files on my bed, I realize I’m the pot. Or the kettle. One of them. I chose Kane instead of spending time with my sister, and now I’ve radically slingshot away from everything I know and have become an accessory to god knows how many crimes.
I know of deaths.
I know of drugs.
I wasn’t lying when I said someone was raped in the apartment building last night. The old me would’ve reported that in an instant, but the new me kept her mouth shut and her eyes closed. I had my own problems, and no inclination to step outside that apartment.
Self-preservation 101; I’m trading other people for my own life.
Why?
Because of a man.
How dare I get mad at my sister for dating a regular guy, a real estate agent, a guy that takes her on regular dates and buys her flowers, when the guy I’m kinda – not really – dating is a fucking criminal whose actions continue to compound?
Hypocrite!
Now, the girl who’s never done a damn thing wrong in her life – the girl who literally snitched on her friends for stealing candy bars when we were seven because I was so worried we’d be caught and it would forever remain on my record –thatgirl, the goodie-goodie is shooting at men and declaring a forever silence on his past crimes so long as he stops committing them.
I’m such a bad person.
Swinging my bag over my shoulder and passing through the kitchen to make a to-go cup of coffee, I collect my things and move back to the car. Less than ten minutes after locking my front door, I pull up next to the stinky dumpster in Kane’s parking lot and switch my car off.
It’s closer to ten now. A lot of people in this small town are at church. But of course, the people in Kane’s life skulk around corners and peek at me as I collect my things from the passenger seat.
Last week I’d have been terrified.
Hell, even yesterday, this would’ve had sweat sliding along my spine.
But I’ve officially reached my limit. I’m done.
Swinging my backpack over my left shoulder and taking my coffee in my left hand, I grab the shopping bag in my right and slam the car door closed. Standing at the hood and looking up to Kane’s apartment window, I catch sight of that creep, Murphey, in my peripherals. Braver now, instead of skittering away like a coward, I turn and meet his dead eyes with my own.