Page 28 of Kings Fear No One
“Can I come?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
He pops the tab on a can of beer and swallows his first mouthful. “’Cuz you’re supposed to be recovering.”
“I’m recovered.”
“You’re not a member.”
“I need fresh air,” I say, sitting up. “Don’t the others bring their girlfriends?”
“You’re not my girlfriend.”
“Wives—”
“The answer is no.” He sets the beer can down and snatches his keys and wallet off the counter. “I’m out. Don’t wait up for me.”
The door thuds shut behind him. A couple seconds later, his motorcycle rumbles awake. I listen as he rides off and the thunderous sound fades out.
The silence that follows makes the loneliness ten times worse.
I unmute the TV and turn up the volume.
It’s said that some people are sensitive to loud noises after a traumatic ordeal. I’m a week off my captivity and I’m the opposite—loud noises provide comfort.
The voices from the TV are another presence when I’ve spent so many hours alone.
When Logan escaped the compound, I never expected him to return days later. The men he showed up with were even less expected. They called themselves the Steel Kings, a motorcycle club I had heard about in passing from living in the nearby town Boulder. By all accounts, they were supposed to be dangerous, violent, bad men.
But while they were violent—taking out many of the Chosen Saints in bloody fashion—they weren’t the kind of bad men I had imagined them to be.
They set what believers they could free.
They took them to the hospital for treatment and so they could eventually be reunited with their loved ones.
I was taken to the hospital, too. A full checkup confirmed I wasn’t seriously injured—just malnourished—and I wasn’t pregnant or infected with an STD either. After my exam as I returned to the truck outside, I saw the conflict etched on Logan’s face.
He was wondering what I was. What the heck was he going to do with me?
I was his wife. The woman he promised he would help escape with him.
Now here I was, a living, breathing inconvenience he was legally attached to.
He rubbed the back of his neck and asked me what I wanted to do. If I wanted him to take me home to Boulder or if I wanted to come stay with him for a few days while we sorted things out.
In a daze from everything that had happened, I chose the second option.
Logan and his group drove me to Pulsboro and dumped in the apartment his younger brother had never stopped paying rent on in the vain hope he’d someday come back. I’ve been in a new kind of captivity ever since.
Alone with thoughts I haven’t faced and feelings I’m not sure what to make of.
Grandma Renae always said prayer would give me the clarity I need in dark times. She said God would hear me and grant me strength. I would persevere and carry on.
Prayer would heal me.
A part of me still reverts to that belief. I still delude myself into thinking if I read the Bible enough times and say enough prayers, it’ll be like it never happened.
