Learning to Forgive (The Learning Series) (17 page)

Once the cab drops me off, I run inside and lock the door. Quickly, I clean up and feel the need to forget another fuck up. I open the medicine cabinet and see the orange prescription bottles. They sit there, taunting me, as I debate taking more of Chris’s medication. I know it’s wrong, and he’s a friend. But the devil on my shoulder wins the battle. After I swallow them down, I go in my room and lay down, waiting for the dark cloud of nothingness that is my best friend, to swallow me up once more.

Bang. Bang. Bang.
Hammering on my door invades my sweet unconsciousness and wakes me. When I open my eyes, there’s no light coming through the window so I know it’s night. Only the light from the moon shines through. Luckily, I’m in my own room this time.

“Blaire? Can I talk to you?” Chris bangs once again. His words are curt, and I have a feeling deep in my gut he knows I’ve been taking his medicine.

Shame and fear set in, knowing I deceived my friend. Dreading the confrontation to come, I grudgingly make my way to the door. When I crack it open, I see his angry features take in my disheveled form. “Yeah?”

He holds up the bottle of pills. “Do you need to tell me something?” I answer with silence. “Okay, let me try this again. Have you been taking my pills?”

I still don’t answer. What am I supposed to say?
Um… Sorry, Chris, I swiped your meds cause I’m too fucked up to sleep without nightmares?
No. And I’m not going to lie. So I turn around and go sit on my bed. I can’t face him. He took me in and helped me when I was in need, and I stole from him, knowing how fucked up he is with his leg and nightmares.

“How could you do this to me? Are you that fucking selfish? Did you not think I might actually need these for a reason? Do you not think I have insomnia and pain? I called the VA today for a refill, and I can’t get any more for another two weeks. What the hell am I supposed to do until then?”

“I’m sorry. I’m fucked up,” I whisper and feel like the worst person breathing. I didn’t let his needs affect my decision in taking his meds.

“And I’m not?” he yells and hits the door. “I only have one damn leg. I have fucking night terrors of my friends dying every fucking night.” I sit there, refusing to look at him as a tear falls. His breathing is heavy, and I feel him watching me. “You need to get your shit and leave. I can’t trust you anymore.” With those words, he slams my bedroom door, and I jump. Five minutes later, I’m still sitting there when I hear his car pull out of his driveway before I do what he says.

After my bag is packed, I sit on the steps while I try to come up with a plan. All I have is my clothes and my pride. I have no car, no home, and no friends. And it’s all my fault. I did this to myself, so there’s no one else to blame. I’m sure Chris is telling everyone we know I’m a dope head who stole his medication. And I’m sure David will tell everyone I’m a thief. Maybe it’s time I head out and do what I’ve always done. I’ve saved some money, and with the two hundred I took from David, I can get a room and maybe a new disguise. I just have to do one more thing before I go. Visit my brother.

I adjust my bag on my shoulder and carry Benji’s guitar to sit in front of the stone block. I haven’t been back here since the day he was put in the ground, when I lost him. When I lost everything. Now I feel as though I lost it all once again, and I’m in the exact same place. Funny, huh?

I place my bags down and sit on the cold ground. My icy fingers trace the words inscribed on the marble stone that I’m seeing for the first time.

Benjamin Quinton Morgan

Wonderful Brother, Ladies’ Man, and Rock Star

February 23, 1988 – November 1, 2012

Janet did good picking out what to say on the headstone. The words are so true. I inhale the night air, letting the November chill rush in my lungs as I think what to say. So I start with the one thing I know is true. “I miss you, bubba. And I’m sorry I haven’t come by. I just couldn’t do it.”

While I sit there in silence, I feel a tingle crawl up my spine. Looking around, I see no one else. Maybe it’s Benji, letting me know he’s listening. “I’m not good at this stuff, ya know. You were always the talker. Just the sound of my own voice bothers me.” After a few minutes of only the smell of wet, dead grass in my nose and the whistle of the wind, I decide to do the one thing Benji always loved me to do. Sing. My heart knows exactly what song he’d want to hear too.
Home
by Gabrielle Alpin.

It was our life wrapped in lyrics, and we sang it together on several occasions. It was our reminder that we had one another, and he was my home, and I was his. Now I’m homeless.

My heart breaks at that very thought, and my voice cracks, but I push on until the last word passes my lips. My fingers dig into the cold, dead grass that covers his body, and I hope he hears my words and knows how much I love him.

As the tears slowly fall, my mind wanders to why I’m homeless, why my brother is no more. His life isn’t with me any longer because he loved someone who didn’t appreciate what he did have and what he could have given her. She just threw it away and broke his heart.

Closing my eyes, I picture his face. And even though I try to see the happy Benji, I can only envision the last time I saw him. He wasn’t smiling. Instead, he was sobbing. He refused any comfort and went to his box. His magic box that held his comfort and took him from me. No matter what I said, he always leaned on that box.

“Benji, don’t do it. Please! It’s not worth it. She’s not worth it.” I bang on the door, but he refuses to open it up until he’s done. Walking out the door, his glassy eyes meet mine. I’m so angry that he continues to let his drugs, and now Trudy, take him further away from me. “Why are you doing this to yourself?” I sob. “Why won’t you let me help you?”

He stumbles past me and leans against the wall where he sinks down to sit on the floor. “I can’t save anyone.” He looks up at me, and tears fill his eyes once again. “Not you. Not her. Baby died,” he mumbles. The drugs are making him incoherent, and I can barely make it out. “She wants a new life. Now that baby is no… no more. Now she’s happy.”

Remembering that night, the anger is fresh. That bitch aborted their child so she could be with rich boy Jax and have a new life. I know her and Ben were intimate. I saw the flirting and the kiss. He even told me how in love with her he was. He smiled more when she showed up in our lives and not just the smile he showed the girls who always were around. He smiled when he woke up in the mornings. He even used less. Then Jax showed up and ruined it.

After his confession, I left. I couldn’t stand seeing him like that, so out of it until his eyes rolled in the back of his head. I went to the diner down the road to cool off and to get him his favorite steak omelet to eat when he woke up. But I was too late, because when I got back, he was dead. I shook him for what seemed like forever trying to wake him up. But he wouldn’t come back to me.

When I’m done, I stand and wipe away my tears. My heartbreak feels as fresh as my anger. I’m once again ripped into pieces and alone, and with every beat of my broken heart, more and more of my soul gushes out.

Grabbing my stuff, my eyes linger one last time on the words that represent the most important person that ever lived for me. Then I make my way down the road and pass people who are full of laugher and blind to my grief. As the chill gets worse and the wind causes me to shiver, I decide a drink would help warm me up and possibly calm me down enough to think of a plan. So I go to the first bar I see.

I sit on a stool at the bar and order a whiskey straight. The guy with the long gray beard reminds me of ZZ Top and Sons of Anarchy’s lovechild with his tattoos and a black leather vest. He doesn’t say anything, just places my drink on a napkin and moves on to the next customer. I turn in my seat to observe. It’s what I always do. The crowd is different here. It’s full of people who don’t have much, and if they do, they don’t rub it in with their attire. Most women are wearing jeans and judging by the assortment of motorcycles out front it’s probably because they rode with someone. Pool tables are in the back, and cigarette smoke floats throughout the building. A small stage sits in the back as well as a small dance floor covered by people line dancing. Nobody notices me. If they do, they don’t stare. I’m sure my face is red and blotchy from crying and the wind. I’m thankful not to be grabbing anyone’s attention. Tonight, I’m just a girl in a bar.

“Joe. Get me something strong and big, will ya?”

“Ah, Cookie. I got something for ya strong and big.”

The bartender playfully comments to the girl who just walked up. When I turn, I recognize her as the guitar player from a week and a half ago. Instead of her pinup attire, she’s wearing jeans and a black leather jacket with a yellow shirt underneath. And instead of rolling her eyes, she’s smiling.

“Not tonight, doll. Jackass is with me. But remember, you’re the real man of my heart.” She winks and grabs her drink before sashaying away. The bartender smiles to display his white teeth underneath all that gray hair. He catches my stare. “You play?” He nods his head toward the guitar case by my stool.

“Some.”

He nods his head while I nurse my drink and hope he doesn’t ask any more questions. I’m not in the mood for him to lend an ear while I chat about my sorrows or whatever bartenders are supposed to do.

He eyes my empty glass. “You need another?”

“Sure.” He pours the amber liquid while I listen to the commotion behind me: Bad Company plays from the jukebox, people laughing, and the clacking of balls breaking on the pool tables. Then I get the same feeling that I had in the graveyard. Like someone’s watching me. But I shake it off, blaming it on my nerves and how today has been really messed up.

I look at my phone and am shocked to see it’s one a.m. This day from hell has flown by. Even though I want it to end, I still have nowhere to go when I leave here. I feel weary, and I know it’s more emotional than physical. I could head to a local hotel, but I hate wasting my money.

By the time I finish my second drink, I’ve decided to head to the bus station and let fate take over. The first bus out of here is the one I’ll take, and wherever it goes, I’ll try to make my home. Try being the key word.

After I pass a twenty to the bartender, I grab my things and once again face Mother Nature and her bitchy chill. It’s late, so hardly anyone but a few partygoers or drunks are out. Yellow streetlights and shadows dance off the brick buildings and sidewalks. I know this isn’t the safest part of town, but Benji and I used to live on these streets. Regardless, I keep my steps steady and my grip on my bags tight. Then that feeling returns. I look behind me and don’t see anyone, but my feet involuntarily speed up as well as my heartbeat.

In a flash, it happens. I’m grabbed from behind, and my mouth is covered before I can get out a scream. I’m thrown into the shadows and hear my bags hit the ground. Instinct takes over, and I slam my elbow backwards and am rewarded with a male grunt. When I’m free, I run, but before I can make it out of the shadows, someone steps out in front of me.

“Please… please, help me,” I beg.

“Shhh, pretty girl.” He wraps his arms around me and starts to walk me backwards into the alley and dread sinks in. I try to remove myself from him, but his grip only gets tighter.

“Bout damn time. This one is a firecracker.”

The guy who holds me turns me around and grips my arms so tightly that I know I’ll have bruises. “I told you I wouldn’t miss this one.” He smells my hair. “Firecracker is right. She smells like heat. You hot, baby?” He kisses my neck, and I jerk away.

The one I elbowed comes to stand in front of me as he starts to undo his pants. He’s bouncing on his toes as if he’s excited about what he’s about to do. I still can’t see him clearly from my tears, but I can make out a slender frame. Watching him in slow motion, I start to feel helpless and wonder if I should just give up. My eyes start to lose focus with the realization that there’s nothing I can do. I’m destined to be damaged. Life has truly fucked me over. “What you lookin at, bitch?” he questions me.

Frozen and unable to talk, I just stare. My voice has disappeared with any hope that I’d be okay. Then he punches me across the face. Excruciating pain radiates through my entire body and spots dance before my eyes. I fall to my knees as my mouth fills with the coppery flavor of blood. When I spit, I see the dark liquid fall to the ground. My palms dig into the broken asphalt and dirt as I try to hold myself up. I know I’ll be doomed if I pass out, so I continue to fight. After a few deep breaths, I look up and see a third guy has joined the other two. He hasn’t approached me, and I don’t feel any fear from seeing his large frame. Squinting, I see he’s fighting off my attackers.