Hemmingway

My brows draw downward when Tyson turns from being warm, to being cold and distant. The entire time he helps me get situated into the truck, not a word is spoken between us. He pulls a can of coke from our stash, pops the tab, and holds it out in one hand. His other outstretched palm has an oval plus a round pill nestled in the cusp. What irks and bewilders me is that he doesn’t even lift his head to look at me while offering these.

Not sure what’s going on with him, confused about the abrupt change in his attitude, I ask, “Are you okay, Tyson?”

“Yeah,” he lies, being blatant and dismissive of my question. Other than that one-word response, he ignores me altogether. Brusquely, he scans my lower half, making sure my legs are tucked in and out of the way before shutting the door, putting a solid barrier between the two of us.

“What the hell just happened?” I utter, gazing out the window, transfixed on how rapid his feet are moving.

Not long afterward, he carries Haven out, opens the back door and gets her seat buckled in. In the rearview mirror, I watch as he tucks her fluffy jacket around her, plugs her pacifier into her mewling mouth, then heads back for Honor where he repeats the pattern with him.

Riddled with pain, I close my eyes, trying to put it to the back of my mind, and lean my head against the window. I’m drowsy, but the expeditious switch in his demeanor and personality keeps me from succumbing to the darkness of sleep.

As the meds take effect, doing their job, I lose my steam, and my mind goes blurry as the vibration of the tires skimming across the tarred road rocks me into a numb, fatuous state. Nothing of significance makes the headlines, instead, superfluous teenage dreams play out on a reel like an unrealistic movie that has one laughing from the ludicrousness of the plotline.

For years I’ve harbored a secret crush on Tyson. Never letting on that I daydreamed of a day that he’d claim me as his, inducting me into the DreamCatchers, announcing me as his old lady. Instead of me simply being a member’s sister who tags along from time to time, I’d be at his side, on the back of his bike, and inherently brought into the fold.

I had visions of a happily ever after starring the two of us. Images of us laughing, raising kids, and growing old together would shine in all of my fantasies. But he’s older than I am, so I wanted to grow up, prove to him I could handle his lifestyle, which is why I joined the military in the first place. I wanted to be a badass, one who he could leave at home without fear, knowing she could protect herself and their family in case one of his enemies targeted us in order to use us against him.

I didn’t want to be his weak link. Yet the fates weren’t on my side. Now, those yearnings seem more like a myth rather than a reality. These days, my only wish is to be safe, raise my babies in an impenetrable household, and be strong for them. My once erotic daydreams seem to be a foreign concept. Even if I wasn’t dealing with the baggage of being taken against my will, tormented, and tortured, he still looks through me instead of at me.

The fact that he never saw me when I would stand in his sightline used to make me cry streams of tears into my pillow. Now, I just want him to be my friend, my children’s guard, and someone who’ll fight tooth and nail to keep me free and concealed.

Tyson speaks, jolting me out of my brooding, “We’re here.”

The smooth road turns bumpy as we turn and ride over the gravel driveway. “That didn’t take long,” I muse. The anchor that’s been sitting sentry in my chest lifts and eases as we continue accelerating, coming upon a small-scale, wooden structure. “Will we all fit inside?” I ask him, rotating my head as I take in the picture. The front appears to be a one-man shack, barely enough room for four inhabitants, especially when there are two infants that require more items than the two adults combined.

Tyson stares ahead, taking everything in. His body’s still rigid and pulsating standoffish vibes, but he answers, “He’s expanded onto the back. It used to only have a living room with a foldout couch to sleep on, a bathroom, and kitchen. Now, there’s an addition with three bedrooms that expand in length instead of width, and he’s included a second bath. When I reached out to him for us to use this place, he said he’d have a crib delivered and assembled for us. I figured they’d rather share than be on their own. They sleep better together than apart. But if you want them to be separated, I’ll head into town and grab another one.”

He’s robotic, but I can tell the offer is sincere so I don’t fret… much. Before I can cut in and tell him the one crib is fine, he turns off the ignition, undoes his seat belt, and hops out of the truck.

As he lifts Honor out of his car seat, that was behind him on the driver’s side, he picks up where he left off. “The other two rooms have queen beds and a dresser, but other than that, they’re bare. He only uses this cabin to come hunting and fishing with friends. He also promised that the fridge, cupboards, and pantry would be stockpiled with food, utensils, plates, and cookware. We shouldn’t need to head into town for a couple of weeks. It’ll give us time to get the little ones settled.”

Figuring since he’s struggling to talk to me, he won’t want to touch me, my hand touches the lever. Tyson growls, which has me twisting my head, and looking at him. “What?”

“You’re going to pull your stitches, Hemmi. Have a little patience, would ya? Let me get the babies inside and in their crib, then I’ll come back and get you.”

“For fuck’s sake,” I hiss as he closes the door and bundles Honor into his blanket. It’s not cold out, but it’s breezy.

He may be contemptuous, arrogant, and condescending when it comes to me, but at least that attitude and tone is not extending to my babies. Because then, I’d have bite the bullet and become confrontational, snippy, dispensing a tongue lashing he’ll never forget. I may not physically be able to take him down, but my words have a memorable sting.

* * *

It’s been a week since we landed here, and I’m going stir-crazy. I spent a long time staring at four walls, and even though I’m not a prisoner with Tyson, I’m starting to feel closed in and claustrophobic.

Honor and Haven have adapted without any struggles. They’re on a schedule which was prickly at first, but after a day or two, things have gone according to plan. I’m lucky, because they go down around eight at night, and sleep for six solid hours, giving me a chance to get in a bath and unwind. They take two, one-hour naps, get fed at designated times of the day, and for the hours in between, they get belly and play time.

The three of us have been making up for lost time, and I start to believe that one day, the way they were conceived, birthed, and how I was detained, will be nothing but a blip on the radar. Tyson will sometimes join us, but most of the time, he’s out patrolling, on the phone, or situated in front of the television, lost in whatever program he’s watching.

The times when he’s entertaining Honor and Haven, I see past his façade. But as soon as it’s just the two of us in a room, he shuts back down, becoming stone. I’ve given him his space. I’ve only spoken when I have a question, but otherwise, I give him a wide berth. I don’t have the luxury of wondering why he’s begun acting this way. My priorities are wrapped in diapers and need my unwavering attention.

If he wants to be a sourpuss, I’ll slice up a lemon and feed it to him. I’m not going to beg him to talk to me. In all honesty, I know I’m going to regret hearing the answer, and I’m not a glutton for punishment.

Not anymore.

“We’re running low on supplies,” Tyson says, banging around the cabinets in the kitchen. “Their formula is down to half of what it should be. We’re supposed to have a circuit of storms roll through later. It’ll keep us confined here because they’re anticipating some flooding. We should run out while we can and stock up.”

“I just laid the twins down. They’ll be asleep for the next hour. Since Texas is unpredictable, maybe we should make a list and one of us goes while the other stays here,” I suggest, knowing that even if the weathermen are predicting the storm cells to funnel through later tonight, it could actually start within the next couple of hours.

“I’ll go,” Tyson states, pulling out the junk drawer and grabbing some stationery plus a pen. “You still get a hitch in your side, and if you’re spotted, it’ll be hard to get away if you’re struggling because you’re still hurting.” He’s right, so I nod, and together, we compose quite the list. Honor and Haven aren’t just down to the bare minimum in formula, but diapers, and bathroom supplies as well.

We plan out ten meals, add our favorite snacks and essentials, before he snatches up the keys to the truck, and heads for town. The kids’ laundry basket is overfull. Sighing, I walk to their room, check on them. Since they’re out cold, I pick up their basket and head to the kitchen, where an apartment-sized washer and dryer sit. Pulling their special detergent off the shelf, I pour the directed amount into the machine, then turn the water on cold instead of warm so any stains I didn’t spot and put remover on don’t set in, then walk into the living room and turn on the television.

Rolling my eyes, and cursing underneath my breath at the headlines, I sullenly settle back into the couch, watching as they praise a man who all but ruined my life. “I hope he’s rotting and feeling even an iota of the pain I did under his care.” Tyson confessed that Pops had them in his custody after I woke from a nightmare, where I relived every touch, malicious word, and threat they inflicted on me. “Ha! Serves you right.” I leer at the Admiral’s photo as it scrolls across the screen. “I hope Pops is feeding you a spoonful of shit, you coward.”

An older woman, in her fifties, steps up to the microphone of the live broadcast, and begins speaking. She holds an air of arrogance. Her gray-streaked hair is in a tight bun, and her face is contorted, the skin pulling from the tightness. Her eyes, however, are dead and lacking luster. Her body moves as if she’s being controlled, remotely forced to move, and put one foot in front of the other.

“It’s an act,” I murmur. “She’s scared he’ll be watching and will punish her if she doesn’t stick to a script.” Heading back over to the set, I turn up the volume, and tune in to the rest of what she’s saying.

“My husband, Admiral Franklin Aarons, has been missing for a few weeks now, as has our son, Miller Aarons. At first, there was suspicion that Miller had abandoned his post, and has been presumed as being AWOL. But now, that’s been called into question. As a wife, and a mother, I’m asking the public to speak out if they have any information as to where my family is. If you have them, I’m begging you not to hurt them, and to return them home. They’re good, honorable men, who are missed. We’re lost without them.” A man in his dress blues walks up to the sobbing woman and escorts her from the pyre.

Her words were genuine, but her follow through wasn’t. She doesn’t look lost, she looks petrified. If I had to take a guess, I’d assume that’s because he’s monopolized and manipulated her entire life since they exchanged vows.

“I hope you never have to see him again, Mrs. Aarons,” I whisper, praying that she’s not a part of her husband’s and son’s deviousness or debauchery. I could forgive her if she were another one of his many victims, but if she’s a willing participant who’s just as evil-minded and unscrupulous, the gloves are coming off. If she is in on everything and has partnered with them, I hope that when that day comes where she answers for her sins and pays her final penance, that she suffers excruciating pain from the lick of hell's fire as it caresses and blisters her burned skin, melting and dripping off her bones like heated wax.

Am I being malicious? Yes. But if anyone deserves to be, it’s me.

After all, I was the one who was entombed in solitary confinement, chained in a basement I shared with rodents, bugs, and spiders. I was the one dealt blow after blow for an infraction that I didn’t commit. If it were asked if it was anyone’s turn to judge and sentence evildoers to a lifetime of agony, I’d have to raise my hand and demand to be the one.

Everyone else be damned.

I’ve earned my stripes. I wear the marks on my flesh, and I have the revolving nightmares to prove it.

In the background, I hear Honor and Haven waking from their nap. Wiping my face of any mean-spirited thoughts, I stand up, and go into their bedroom with a smile on my face.

Luckily for me, they’re too young to call me out for the fake tilt of my lips, and I can bide my time until Tyson makes it back from the store to make it a real one. If anyone can make me forget my issues, it’s them. They’re what brings a ray of sunshine into my dark, blind life.

If I ever feel a sense of happiness or gratitude again, it’ll be because of them. Seeing as they’re the ones who bring a spark of the old me back, I have confidence that they’ll be successful. The only love I feel is for them. I choose to live my life for them, not just the revenge I want that circulates in my bloodstream. Otherwise, if I didn’t have them depending on me, I’d slit my wrists and end my miserable existence.

As of now, they’re all I have, and the only people who want or need me.

“Shit,” I hiss. “There I go feeling sorry for myself again. I’ve gotta snap out of this funk and find myself again. I refuse to let them win and steal my self-worth.”