Hemmingway

Tyson’s been toting the three of us through the back alleys and streets for some time now.

Not once have his arms trembled, and his stride has never broken or paused. He hasn’t complained about my weakness that’s forced him to lug around our added weight.

I’d be a sweaty, panting, ready-to-concede mess if our roles were reversed. As out of whack as I feel, I’d have already deflated, wept, held up the stop sign with my hands, and pled for a timeout.

Mentally, I scour my entire body for damages. Other than the fact that it’s being uncooperative—refusing to be mobile, my limbs feeling as if they’re heavy-leaded, then, if that wasn’t enough of a deterrent, every square inch of my flesh has just started the recovery process from all the damage that’s been inflicted upon it—I conclude that I’ll recover with enough time, treatment, and rest. But with us being on the run and hiding out, I’m not sure how much time I’ll have to dedicate to those things before we have to pack up and head somewhere else.

My body and mind are exhausted.

Sleep has been a foreign commodity to me. I fought against my eyes closing and being in a vulnerable, sacrificial position. I knew if I gave in, and allowed myself to succumb to the fatigue, and fall into an unconscious sleep, that it’d be the day they’d choose to be sly and use a sneak attack tactic on me, taking advantage of my defenseless state.

Worry always plagued me, the fear of what could happen if I slept would almost make me comatose. The thought that was the most debilitating, and made me crumble from the anxiety, was that I wouldn’t see or be able to prepare myself for the sinister things they’d plotted and planned to carry out.

Periodically, as we continue along on our path toward a safe place to camp out, I lose consciousness. As fast as I begin to give into the rest, I snap back awake for small periods of time, before losing the battle and succumbing to the darkness again. It’s an endless fight, one that I’m losing, and I’m not sure how much longer I can hold off from the call of the sandman.

My mind gets the concept that Tyson will never let his guard down or allow anything to happen to me, to us, but my frightful memories are still fresh and streaming, as well as still feeling and reliving all the torturous pain I suffered. Even though no one is physically touching me right now, I can feel every blow, touch, and hear each taunt.

The total recall of my suffering is steadily playing in my mind with a picture-perfect clarity, and my subconscious hasn’t caught on to the fact that I can relax and trust someone else to guard me. My instinctual flight response is still leading the charge, unwilling to step back so my common sense and fight mode can take back over, and give it a break from always being on the defense.

“Rest, Hemmi. It won’t be much longer now. Fifteen minutes tops and we’ll be at the motel and we can put a locked door between you and the outside world. I’ll take care of any threat that tries to harm you or your little ones. You’re going to be okay now. I dare someone to threaten you in any way while I’m around. They wouldn’t live long enough to regret their stupidity. I’d snap their neck before they had the chance to move,” Tyson says with vehemence laced in his vow.

Somehow, he’s able to rummage through my mind and read my innermost fears and private thoughts. While doing this, he’s easing my trepid nervousness by plucking out the biggest concerns I have and eliminating them one by one.

“Nobody will ever lay a hand on you again without you giving them permission first, Hemmi. You won’t lose your consent to say no again.”

“I’m trying to remember that, Tyson. I know I’m safe with you and that you’ll protect me, but my body is fighting me on it,” I confess, hoping that I haven’t offended him.

It’s not him, it’s me.

“I’m not sure that I’ll ever trust anyone or myself again. What if I never smile or laugh again? What if I crawl underneath the sheets of my bed to hide from the monsters that afflict me and never come out? I’ve been living in darkness for nearly a year now, and I hate that this is the only firepower I have stored in my mental arsenal that’ll bring me an ounce of comfort. Before, when I was stuck in the hovel and thinking about my strength, I’d sworn to myself they hadn’t broken me. I was insistent that I wasn’t a victim, but now, I’m wondering if I’d been deceiving myself all along. If it’s what I had to tell myself in order to survive. What if I am broken and I am a victim? How can I take care of these two if I can’t function and take care of myself? What if I’m fractured and irreparable? What happens to me and my children if I finally crack and my mind gets stuck inside of an endless loop where I live out the rest of my days locked inside of a perpetual mindset loaded with paranoia? What will I do if my mind and body go to war with each other? That’s not a way for kids to be brought up and meet the expectations of the world, becoming productive members of society, and proactive adults.” Finally losing steam, and drowning in self-loathing, I bite the inside of my mouth so I don’t share more than I already have—more than I wanted to in the first place. The problem is, once my thoughts and insecurities started flowing out, it was as if I’d released a torrent of pent-up emotions and couldn’t stop them from cycling out.

I’m feeling low and second-guessing myself. I used to roll my eyes at people who pitied themselves. And now, I’ll be the one people wish would shut up and do something, be vigilant about their dilemmas and solve them.

My family also had phrases they didn’t hold back from expressing when I’d start in on my woe-is-me tantrums. Those verses start to prowl through my memory now while I’m stranded in this depressing rut.

“Put up or shut up,” my brother would snarkily sneer if I cried or complained about my new teenage crisis.

My mom used to have this saying, “If you’re going to whine, and not clean things up, come up with a backup alternative that’ll make your life shine, then you may as well roll around in a pig’s pen, coat yourself in shit, and cry uncle.” It never made a lick of sense to me as a teenager. I used to walk away, thinking she was blowing hot air out of her ass—that is, until I grew up and became an adult myself, having to find other solutions and writing up a new life plan that would repave the walkway toward the road I wanted to take.

“You’ve been out of that house of horrors for less than thirty minutes, Hemmi. You need time to decompress and flesh out your thoughts. But there is one thing I can reassure you of. Wanna hear it?”

“Oh, yeah? I do. What’s that, Tyson? Lay it on me.” He can give me his best shot. It’s not as if adding any additional hits are going to hurt me. I’ve already got a canvas to display that’s riddled with a multitude of different shaded bruises, scrapes, and a knife wound to boot, painted all over my fleshy, outer shell.

“There’s nothing to fix. You’re not broken. You may be bent and a little outta shape, but all we have to do is stretch you back out and hit the gym,” he claims, trying to lighten my mood, and eliciting a foreign giggle from me.

“See. You are capable of laughing,” he points out. “Time heals wounds, Hemmi. Give yourself that so you can get past this slump before you condemn yourself to a lifetime of misery. I don’t have all the answers to your questions, but what I can tell you is that you won’t be facing any of this alone. You have a lot of people in your corner that are here for you and will hold your hand while lending you all the strength they possess, while you wade through that shit-filled landmine.” This time I laugh unrestrained, a true and honest emotion flowing from my chest. I can’t seem to be able to help myself. The poetic and poignant words he chose to insert into his pep talk are a bit sophisticated for a biker.

“You could be somebody’s life coach, Tyson. Your words are so eloquent,” I tease.

“Made you laugh and forget, even if only for a moment, didn’t I?” he poses.

“You sure did,” I admit with a slight lift added in the corner of my lip as he turns the corner of the alley that intertwines to the backside of an older motel establishment. The outside of the building has been well maintained, and that has me hoping that it’s an indication that the inside has been kept up with too.

Nothing worse for a weary traveler to deal with after a long day than laying down in a bed that you are suspicious of and have to search every square inch of the mattresses surface for bed bugs or other creepy crawlers before wiggling your way in between the sheets. Or rinsing soap scum out of a tub before you can step in to rinse the day’s dirt from your body, and checking the carpet and laminate floors to make sure they’ve been vacuumed plus swept so that you don’t accidentally put your foot in something unpleasant and cringeworthy.

“We’re here,” Tyson announces as we pause in front of a room on the lower level. Jarring my head from his chest, I inspect the area we’ve stopped at with a quick sweep of my eyes and notice that we are located in the corner of the motel and are directly next to the laundry room.

Next to that is the onsite management’s apartment. This makes me feel better about where we’ll be staying, too many eyes and ears for me to be easily taken without having any witnesses see or hear it going down. Hopefully, they’d be willing to take a stand and keep me and my babies where we’re the safest… anywhere Tyson is.

Even with it being in the same town as I’ve been kept hostage in, I finally inhale my first settling and easy breath, then slowly exhale, centering myself.

“Tell me I’m not dreaming, Tyson. I’ve prayed for a long time that someone would find me and get me the hell away from those jackasses. I started thinking that I’d have to play a part, go with them to their compound, and figure a way from there for us to escape and make our way back home.”

“You’re not dreaming, Hemmi. And what compound?” he asks, shifting me around as he delves his hand that was at my back into his front jean pocket. I lean further into him and balance us so that the babies and I don’t freefall from him and land on the paved breezeway. My abs protest and my knife wound screams in agony from the tightening of my stomach muscles, but I ignore them. Getting into that room is more important than any pain I’m feeling.

“Miller told me that they have a large span of land that has been turned into a mini community. They have a plethora of women and children homed there,” I explain.

“No shit?” he sneers, pushing open the door.

“No shit.” I repeat his words, knowing that he’s just as flabbergasted and taken aback as I was when Miller opened up and spilled the beans to me.

“We need to talk about that further after you’ve had a chance to rest, Hemmi. If those women and children are stuck in that place against their will, we need to get them out.”

“Rest would be a good thing, Tyson. I’m hanging on to my consciousness with a small thread of determination.”

“Stubbornness, Hemmi, not determination,” he liberally berates. “You should’ve closed your eyes and taken a catnap when I told you to. It wouldn’t have eased your grogginess, but it would’ve given you a small burst of energy.”

“What the hell do I need to be energized for, Tyson? We were fixing to be behind closed doors anyway. There wasn’t a need for me to take a nap when we weren’t safe yet.” I harrumph, my insomnia and lack of nutrients making me far crankier than normal.

He chuckles before saying, “I forgot how sassy mouthed and hardheaded you can be at times, Hemmi. Good to know you didn’t lose that insufferable trait.”

His teasing grates on my last nerve and I finally lose my cool demeanor. My body goes rigid and my tongue starts preparing itself for a thorough lashing. “Bite me, Tyson,” I snap, as the air conditioning kicks on, caressing my overly heated skin. “You call me headstrong and insufferable, Tyson? Have you looked in the mirror lately? Because if I’m not mistaken, and I know with a hundred percent certainty that I’m not, you have the hardest head of us all, Mister Biker Man. You’re exasperating and egotistical on your best day. And don’t get me started on when you’ve had a bad one. How many people have you beaten to a pulp just because you think they’re weaker and less superior than you are? Does it make you feel all manly that you can easily overpower them? Does pummeling others get you off and satisfy that beast rumbling inside of you?”

Tyson grunts as he gently sits me on the bed and takes a few steps back, putting distance between us and placing his hands on his hips before narrowing his beady, judgmental eyes at me. “I’m going to run across the road and grab us a breakfast platter. After we eat, I need that list made and you’re showering then sleeping.” His eye twitches and his jaw grinds with impatience as he lays down the law.

I’ve known Tyson for years. When he gets pissed or someone says something that hits him the wrong way, his knee-jerk reaction is to fight back. But with my delicate condition from my injuries and lack of sleep, he’s holding himself back from releasing his ire and laying into me, giving me a reprieve from facing his wrath since I’m not functionally thinking before I start speaking irrationally.

Sighing, I apologize for being an ungrateful brat and not taking into consideration that he must be as tired and high strung as I am. “I’m so damn sorry, Tyson. My brain isn’t firing on all its cylinders right now. What you said hit me like it was a personal attack against my character and not you teasing me like you always have.” Honor whines, making me feel like a shitty mother since I was the one who raised my voice and interrupted his sleep.

“He’ll be up and wanting to eat soon. What do I need to pick up for them?” He switches the subject without accepting or acknowledging my apology.

The fact that he easily dismisses me and refuses to let me properly apologize has a well of fear crawling its way up my esophagus. I guess he’s still hurt and processing, not that I can blame him for not knowing how to handle my mood swings and get past my mean, disrespectful words. I go against my ingrained need to talk things out and resolve them right here and now, deciding that backing down and letting him calm down is my best option, so that’s what I do. Hesitantly, but I do. If I were to push it, and force his hand, things may get explosive and we’ll say things that can’t be taken back.

“I should have enough breast milk to get them through until you can get to the store,” I tell him. His eyes widen as they lower to the area of my body that’ll provide nutrition to my children. As Honor begins to root over my tee, looking for his next meal, I gently lay a still sleeping Haven beside me and lift my top so I can free my breast.

Before I expose myself to him, Tyson audibly gulps and turns his head toward the wall. Finding the white paint fascinating, he keeps his eyes from where I’m helping Honor latch on. He throatily informs me, “I’m gonna go get food now. I’ll give you… what, thirty minutes to wrap things up here before coming back?”

“To be honest, Tyson, I’m not sure. I’ve never had the opportunity to feed them before now, so your guess is as good as mine.”

He starts grumbling low, but I hear a few fucks, dead men, and various other bodily threats that are geared toward their lack of sizable appendages before he twists on his feet and heads toward the door.

As his hand lands on the knob, he dryly states, “I have my key. Keep this locked until I get back. Don’t open it for anyone, not even me, Hemmi. Because if I’m on the other side knocking, something isn’t right, and that’s your cue to pick up the phone and call the cops. Got me?”

“Yes,” I quickly answer as Honor begins to tug hungrily on my nipple, my eyes crossing from the abuse I’m undergoing due to the roughness of his feeding frenzy.

“Underneath the base of the phone are all the local law enforcement emergency numbers. There are direct lines to the chief of police and the SWAT team leaders jotted down at the top. Don’t be scared to use them if anything bad happens. Every department is now on Pops’ payroll and they know the repercussions they’ll face if they decide to not be loyal to him and his people. It was explicitly explained, down to the finest of details, what would happen to them if you were to ask for their help and they didn’t act accordingly and promptly. It was also highly suggested that they don’t alert the military police that they have you.”

“Thirty minutes,” I reiterate, beginning to panic at the thought of him being away from my vision for even that short amount of time. I don’t ask anything about them being on Pops’ payroll, because it’s in our best interest that they are.

A burst of raw nervousness wraps itself around me, conquering me, as well as trapping my independent streak and keeping it far from my grasp, forcing it to take a sabbatical and masking itself from me to where I have no other choice than to fend for myself. I don’t want to be here by myself. I’m weak and wouldn’t be able to defend us. I hate feeling this needy, but right now, I do need him.

“Thirty minutes,” he mirrors my words, tossing them back at me. With a defining nod of his head, he yanks open the door and shuts it behind him as he steps out. I hear the lock engage, echoing around the small space, and the sound of his footfalls as he strides across the street, leaving me here, alone.

Gazing down adoringly at my son, a myriad of combustible feelings flow through and seize me. Love, being the dominating one. A sense of pure satisfaction follows at its feet.

I’m providing for my child. For the first time, I’m bonding with him the way I should've been able to do from the day he was born.

“Love you more than life itself, son,” I declare. The pent-up emotions I’ve kept buried deep down inside of me burst open, a tidal wave of feelings rises to the surface as a lone tear trickles down my cheek before the dam is unblocked and an overwhelming sob hitches in my throat. “I’ll never leave you, not ever.”