Including concrete rooms in the basement, and alcohol upstairs for when I’ve finished tasks like taking care of late payments.
“Is there anyone or anything else I should be aware of?” I question with Carter’s back to me, his hand on the doorknob. He’s quick to turn back around, Jase at his right. His dark eyes narrow as he thinks. My brothers look so alike. Tall, domineering. When they smile it’s infectious, and when they’re less than pleased, it’s intimidating.
I see the way others react to them. I’m more like Daniel, quiet and preferring to keep to myself.
If anyone sees me, they wish they hadn’t. That’s how I prefer it.
Carter shakes his head and then peers at Jase before asking, “Am I forgetting anything?”
My chair protests with a groan as I shift my weight to focus on Jase, resting my ankle across my knee as I lean back.
“If anyone else comes in late on payments, we do the same.”
“That was a given,” I comment, knowing this weekend is going to be a bloody one. “It would match our reputation.”
Carter says, “Our reputation is all we have.”
“And each other,” Jase adds. Carter nods, and again I note the darkness under his eyes from lack of sleep.
They say we don’t wait, that we don’t give second chances.
They say we’re murderers and thieves. We’re gangsters and lowlifes. Although, to be fair, we received those last two labels when we were only children. Poor and alone and not a sin worthy of hell yet to be made.
I think God would have forgiven us back then. We were barely aware of the world in those days. But now? We run this hell on earth.
“I’ll tell Aria you’re coming home this weekend.” Carter’s statement sounds like it’s a question as he opens the door. Both of my brothers wait for my answering nod.
With that I bid them farewell, my gaze flicking to the whiskey in the corner of the room. To get through tonight, I’m going to need a stiff drink or two.
There’s a common phrase people like to say: “Blood is thicker than water.”
Its meaning has been twisted over time to convince others that family is most important. More important than anyone else. Because family is blood. The quote it’s derived from entails the exact opposite: “The blood of the covenant is thicker than the water of the womb.” The quote is meant to strengthen the bonds of soldiers on the battlefield. Those you spill blood with are closer to you than anyone else.
I’ve spilled more blood in the last decade than I ever thought possible alongside my brothers. There’s not a damn thing in this world that could ever drive us apart. Blood and water, they are one and the same. We have killed for each other, we only survived because of it and the bloodshed will never stop.
It can’t. If it does, it will be because we’re buried under ten feet of dirt and only a stone will ever speak for us again.
Pouring three fingers of amber liquid into the tumbler, I throw it back. Tonight is just one of many similar evenings in the very near future. I can feel it in the very marrow of my bones.
Braelynn
Life is brutal.
You can argue all you want that there are sweet parts of life. Some people cling to the belief that there are more good moments than bad, but that’s not what I’m talking about. Life is brutal because it keeps on coming.
One hit after the other, knocking you down. You don’t have time to get up and brush off the dirt.
Life doesn’t acknowledge pain and the need to pause when it hits. We need to breathe, and life doesn’t care. It doesn’t stop and it doesn’t grant reprieves.
In short: life can be a coldhearted bitch.
With a deep inhale, I follow a hairline crack in the ceiling of my new bedroom. My brow cocks at it, wondering if it’s been there for years and it’s fine, or if the crack will get worse.
The room itself doesn’t feel like mine yet. There’s not an ounce of me in it.
No vibrant colors, though the walls are primed a dull white. Brown boxes are stacked a few feet high and the only things I took out of them were the bedding. Which … leaves a lot to be desired.
The fitted sheet is pulled off the corner of my mattress, making an uncomfortable ridge under my foot. I push at it with my toes. I must have tossed and turned when I finally fell asleep last night.
That would explain why I don’t feel rested at all. Par for the course, I suppose. Glancing at the clock, I realize the alarm hasn’t even gone off yet. Nothing is worse than waking up feeling like shit before the sun has fully risen.
I debate on trying to slip back to sleep, but my mind is already reeling with every item on my to-do list. My bedroom is still barren, other than the mound of cardboard boxes. I have a hand-me-down bed frame and a nightstand my mom let me take. I have my mattress and a set of sheets that aren’t too bad, fitted sheet notwithstanding. I have a laundry basket with my clothes in it, and not much else.
A numbness creeps over me and my tired eyes feel even more weighed down.
Shake it off, Braelynn. Shake it off. I remind myself that this isn’t me. All of this doubt and exhaustion are because of what I’ve been through.
Today is different. Today is another chance.
I’m not going to be able to fall back asleep. And if I did, it wouldn’t be dreams that greeted me. Sighing, I push the sheet halfway down my body and rub my eyes with the back of my hand. Once my brain is on for the day, it’s on. There’s no going back now. No matter how tired I am from last night.
It makes me hate my ex, Travis, all the more. It took forever to find sleep after he texted me. Just thinking his name makes my body go cold.
God, I don’t want to think about that. Sure as hell not first thing in the morning.
The thoughts spun through my mind all night. I don’t want to think about it; I’d rather focus on the crack in the ceiling, but I can’t stop.
He gets drunk and messages me that he’s sorry. It’s a pattern. One that’s destroyed the woman I used to be. My stomach sinks and my skin feels numb remembering all the times he’s done it. He says he wants me back. If I answer anything at all, I only get more messages. More and more pressure.
I stopped responding months ago on the advice of my therapist, back when I left Travis for good and moved back in with my mother. It doesn’t matter what he says. I’m not going to forgive him. I blocked him after many therapy sessions. It never feels good to block someone, to cut them out of your life with no intention of speaking to them again, but Tobias said it was healthy, that it was necessary. My therapist suggested going no contact, and setting the boundary lifted a weight from my shoulders. Until about ten hours ago.
Last night, Travis texted from a new number. I curl up onto my side under the blanket and squeeze my eyes shut harder. The sheer guilt and fear and anguish that cling to me are enough to make me wish I was dead.
* * *
I know you moved out. I just want to talk …
* * *
I know better than to think he just wants to talk. For the kind of man he is, talking is only the beginning. Give an inch and he’ll take a mile, so I simply can’t give him a damn thing.
The fact he’s aware I moved sends a chill down my spine. Does he know I’m alone? That’s the first question that came to mind. He knew enough to text me from a new number. Travis … he scares me. Even though I don’t want to admit it.