Dissent (24 page)

I
moved in to my old room, barely enough space for the twin sized bed I
had slept on every night, exhausted from work. There was a chest in a
corner with blankets and trinkets. A few how-to books were piled on
the windowsill where I had left them.

I
can't say it was a comfort to be back. Even though my father was long
dead, I felt him everywhere. I could feel his disapproval and disgust
in how I turned out. I felt my shoulders dropping with the weight of
that realization.

He
had been a bastard. A bully. He beat me. He shamed me. He twisted my
brain in
ways I still hadn't
even fully come to terms with. He threatened me with a lifetime of
burning in agony. He convinced me I was shit. I was nothing.

But
he had been there. He taught me how to hook a worm. He kept my
stomach full. He spent every day of my life by my side.

In
his own way, it was love. Warped and abusive, but it was love.

And
I had thrived in it. I trusted in him and his ideals, his faith. I
had taken my punishments. I had learned to punish myself. I obliged
him by degrading my mother's hard work and belittling my sister's
existence. Because that was how I got approval.

And
fuck if I wasn't in constant need of it.

In
many ways, I became just as big a bully, just as sadistic a
tormentor.

But
unlike him, I hadn't known any better. I had never lived outside of
our woods. I never saw anyone but my grandmother and later, when he
was dying, the people at church who I was taught to look down on
because they weren't true believers.

I
was fully employed in the fury of his chosen lifestyle.

And
I had been good at it. I thrived on the work.

There
may have been many years between this me and that one, but I was
convinced I could learn to thrive on it again. I could work myself
into exhaustion. I could live off the land. I could swelter in the
summer and freeze in the winter. I could forget that another life
existed. A life with a warm apartment when it was ten below outside,
or a cool car when it was hot enough to fry an egg on the sidewalk
outside. A life with scotch and books, paperwork and social
obligations. A life with an endless parade of legs to fall between.

A
life with Darcy Monroe in it.

I
walked over to my old bed, sitting down, and taking off my shoes.
Shoes were for the winter, when the ground could eat away at your
feet. My soles would bloody and bruise and hurt, then they would
harden. I pulled off my belt which was little more than window
dressing, completely useless. I sat there for a long moment, my head
resting in my hands, trying to fight the urge to run. Somewhere else.
Anywhere else. But there was nowhere I could hide that her memory
wouldn't catch up with me. And her betrayal.

I
was better off.

She
would fade. Like all memories do. She would start to blur around the
edges. I would forget the sound of her voice, how she said my name in
agonized pleasure as she came, how she laughed. I would lose the
sensation of her hands on my skin. I wouldn't imagine how her pussy
felt around me, clenching as she came. I would stop fantasizing about
her. I would stop fucking caring about her.

Because
she didn't need me to. She didn't want me to. She wanted to believe I
was scum. That I used and abused her. That I victimized her. So she
could have that. She could cling to that. She could use it as a
reason to keep other men away.

Just
like I would use her to keep everyfuckingthing away.

I
sighed, getting up off of the bed and making my way back into the
living room, opening the windows to let the stagnant air out, and
grabbing a bucket to take off to the stream to get water to clean the
house.

As
I knelt down next to the running water, my leg pressed against a
rock, the image of her in the lake popped into my head. Gloriously
naked. Beautiful. Happy. Then getting on her knees and taking me in
her mouth...

Time,
I cursed, shaking my head at myself, it was going to take some time.

Twenty

Okay.
I would like to say I held onto my righteous anger. That I threw
myself into it. That I used it to be able to move on. But the truth
was, the second I slipped into my bunk and closed the curtain, it
fell away and grief slipped into the void.

I
laid there staring at the wall trying to convince myself to be
pissed. To berate his character in new and inventive language.

But
in the end all I felt was grief.

“You
fucked him, didn't you?” Jay asked, making me jump and turn,
swatting at a few stray tears

“Yeah,”
I admitted, taking a deep breath.

“I
know this is ironic coming from me,” he said, smiling, “but
can you ever just choose a decent sexual partner?”

“Hey,”
I said, choking out an odd laugh, “you're the one who told me
to get laid.”

“Yeah
by some dirty long-haired freak fan, not one of us. I mean... who is
next? Mike? Joey?”

“Shut
up, you ass,” I laughed, shaking my head.

“So
you really think it was him?”

“The
stuff was in his bunk. And I mean... the notes didn't start until he
joined on, you know?” I took a deep breath. “Besides, I
know some stuff about his past and... he's kinda damaged. It makes
sense.”

“Maybe.”

“What?
You don't think it was him?”

He
looked down, shrugging a shoulder. “I dunno, Darce. I just
think it's weird that we never suspected him. He seemed so freaked
when you read that fan letter.”

That
was true. I remembered his look of horror, his worry that we were
blowing it off. But it could have easily been an act. He could have
been a great liar. He could have been planning this for months. “I
don't know. I mean... not for sure. But time will tell I guess,
right? If the notes stop, then it was him.”

“And
then you go home to live next door to him,” Jay reminded me.

“Oh,”
I said, closing my eyes. “Shit.”

“Yeah.
Didn't want to pile on, but I thought you might want to start
considering that.” He paused, looking at me. “Hey.”

“Yeah?”

“You
alright, pretty girl? You look pretty bummed.”

“Bummed?
Because a guy I had feelings for was harboring the desire to set me
on fire?No. Not at all.”

“You
caught feelings?” he asked, shaking his head. “Fucking
rookie.”

“Not
all of us have your legendary player mentality.”

“Wanna
drink about it?”

“At
eleven in the morning?” I asked, rolling my eyes.

“Hey,
we're rock stars. We're supposed to abuse alcohol at all hours of the
day.” He leaned in my bunk a little. “Come on, a little
Johnny and you'll be flashing your tits and forgetting all about
him.”

“Tempting,”
I said dryly, but smiled at him. He always tried. In his own way. And
his way was never going to be sobbing sessions over gallons of ice
cream. It was going to be booze and depravity. And that was okay.
That was him. Eventually, I would take him up on his offer. But I
wasn't at that point yet. “Maybe later.”

“Alright,”
he said, ducking down and coming back up with Poe. “Here, I got
you a snuggle buddy. He might not be as attractive as the last one,
but I don't think his paws can work a lighter. So you should be
safe.”

“Thanks
Jay,” I said, crushing the kitten to my chest and rolling onto
my side, facing the wall.

I
would get over it. I would find a way to cope. Eventually.

--

Coping
ended up being following Jay's advice and letting loose. I threw
myself into my shows. I took extra long backstage sessions with fans.
I joined his after parties. I drank too much. I sat on stranger's
laps. I flirted. I may have even flashed some people.

It
didn't get easier. That was a lie the self-help books tell you: that
the memories fade, that the feelings soften, that you hurt less. It
was a giant scheme. Because it didn't get easier. I just got better
at dealing with it when I felt good enough to, denying it when I
didn't, and burying it in work or alcohol when it was threatening to
choke me, drag me into its depths, and never let me go.

I
just got really good at lying to myself. And to everyone around me.

“Darce,”
Jay called, loudly, like he had already called me a few times and I
hadn't answered.

“What?”
I asked, tapping the pen on my lips, pulling one of my earbuds out.

“You've
been writing for like ten hours straight. Take a break.”

“I'm
having an issue with this chorus,” I said, stabbing the pen at
the paper. I was trying too hard. I knew that was the problem. It
wasn't supposed to be a struggle. If it was, it probably wasn't any
good. But I needed to focus on something, and when you're trapped on
a moving bus for eighty some-odd percent of your time, there wasn't
really much you could do. I read, I wrote, I played some hands of
cards with the boys. But after a while, that got old.

“Here,”
Jay said, coming up toward me, a book in his hands. “I found
this stuck behind the seat.” I took it, looking down at the
cover.
Far From The Madding Crowd.
“I
figured it was yours.”

“No,”
I said, shaking my head and opening to the flagged page, finding a
quote underlined in blue pen.

“
Love
is a possible strength in an actual weakness.”

“I'm
pretty sure it ain't Mike or Joey's,” he laughed, holding onto
the back of my chair as Burt took a turn.

“It
was Isaiah's,” I countered.

“Well
shit. Now I feel like an asshole,” he said, shaking his head.
“We were going to wait to tell you, but since I just kinda
ruined your day, I'll tell you now.”

“Tell
me what?” I asked, turning in my seat.

“When
you went to bed last night, we were trying to figure out how to cheer
you up...”

“I
don't need cheering up,” I countered, pulling my shoulders up.
I did not want people feeling bad for me. Shit happens. I didn't need
pity. Or sympathy. I needed things to get back to normal. I didn't
need to be handled with kid gloves.

“We
planned a little trip,” he started, pausing for dramatic
effect, “to the Allen Lunatic Asylum.”

I
turned quickly in my seat. “The what? I've never heard of that
one.”

“We
don't spend a lot of time down this way,” he said, shrugging.
“You were bound to miss one. This one has a sordid, awful
history to go along with its crumbling walls. And to top it all off,
we have to break in.”

I
felt the smile spreading, genuine and the first one of it's kind in
days. “You guys are the best. When do we get there?”

“Tomorrow
afternoon-ish,” he said, shrugging. “It's nice to see you
smile again, pretty girl,” he said, touching my cheek and
walking away.

Well,
at least it was a distraction.

–

The
Allen Lunatic Asylum was a massive red brick building that boasted
three-hundred and fifty patient rooms, a hydrotherapy center,
electro-therapy rooms, and Utica beds. It was like a real life horror
story, to be submerged in water with your body greased so you didn't
prune for hours, held down and shocked into submission, or shoved
inside what was essentially a crib with a locked lid when you
misbehaved.

“This
place gives me the heebie jeebies,” Joey said, falling back
behind me.

“I
know,” I said, smiling at him. “Isn't it great?”

“Pretty
sure that wasn't what he meant, Darce,” Jay said, bumping him
in the shoulder as he passed. “Not everyone likes being creeped
out like you. You sick fuck.”

“Oh,
stop being such pussies. This is amazing,” I said, pulling open
the half-attached back door with my gloved hand.

The
inside was in surprisingly good shape. The paint was peeling and
there was dirt and leaves inside, and the distinct sound of rats
scurrying behind the walls. But all in all, it was structurally safe.