Page 56 of Running Feral

It’s a weird thought. “I don’t want to die,” should be a complete sentence. And it is. Sort of.

But in all the possible futures my subconscious has laid out for me, each with their own levels of humiliation and debasement, none have been quite so fucking dry as to starve to death after Eamon’s heart explodes from doing cheap blow that’s probably laced with fentanyl. Or he gets executed by his boss and doesn’t come back to unlock me. Or whatever else.

I don’t know why I latch on to the thought, but once I do, I can’t let go. I made my peace with the idea of dying young since before I even fully understood it. Since long before Eamon. It just seemed like the future for people like me.

But the dreary, depressing, slow-motion concept of wasting away in this godawful motel room makes me want to grab the world and fucking shake it until ridiculous shit like this stops happening to people.

It’s dumb. It’s all a waste. There’s no purpose to any of this, but still, here I am.

Maybe I am detaching myself from reality again, because this train of thought is weird, even for me. For whatever reason, this specific hypothetical has got its claws in me. I feel more motivated to escape my radiator-fate than anything else Eamon may or have in store for me.

Or maybe it’s the lingering shadow of Gunnar’s face at the periphery of my vision, telling me I deserve better than this. I don’t know that I deserve a lot. I constantly scramble back and forth between how many of Eamon’s punishments I really did earn by my own weaknesses and failings, and how much of it is just him vomiting his aggression on the world. Some days, I think it’s all him. Sometimes it feels like it’s all me. It depends.

Right now, I know with more certainty than I’ve ever known anything that I do not deserve this.

I want to go home. To whatever’s left of it.

Fuck it. I’d rather die trying than slowly rot here, anyway.

All these thoughts distract me while Eamon hustles us both inside. He’s looking around the desolate parking lot, as if anyone here gives a fuck what we’re doing. He could bend me over in the parking lot and the only response we might get is someone jacking off as they watch.

Inside, he keeps the lights off. The blinds are drawn, and the whole room is messy, like he’s been here for a while. There’s a half-drunk bottle of rye on the small Formica table next to the bed, although it doesn’t smell as bad as I would expect it to if he’s truly been on a bender. It’s possible he was holding it together until the past couple of days. If he’d been fucked up this whole time, there’s no way it would be this clean.

Eamon throws down his keys and phone. He kicks off his shoes and pants immediately, collapsing on the bed to settle in for the night, although his gun gets placed on the nightstand next to him like always.

He watches his gun, but not that closely. He knows I wouldn’t. And I really won’t. He can still overpower me, and it’s too easy for the fucking thing to go off in the middle of the struggle. If I’m escaping anything, it’s not by shooting him with his own gun, as satisfying as that sounds.

It’s also not by smothering him with a pillow, or anything else as dramatic. I hate to admit it to myself, but now that I finally feel the spark of actually wanting to leave, of wanting to live, I have to seize it. Before it flickers and is extinguished by more pain.

The only weapons I have to use against him are speed and seduction. And in a space this small, speed isn’t going to happen.

Pieces of a plan are fragmented in my mind, but I do my best to pull them into something useable. I look around, desperate to find anything to work to my advantage, but there’s nothing. Nothing except his own inherent weaknesses.

There’s a small mini fridge in the corner that looks like it’s about to cause an electrical fire. I walk over to it and pull out one of the beers I assumed would be inside, bringing it to him with a meek expression. Then I kick off my own shoes and crawl into bed. I lie next to him, like I’m waiting for permission.

When he looks at me with his eyebrows raised, I tap into every swirling piece of rage and sadness I can access, and I let the tears fall.

“I’m so sorry,” I say, babbling while I sob as cinematically as possible. “I didn’t mean to run. I’m sorry. I’ll make it up to you.”

He looks a little surprised, but that quickly smoothes out into a preening, self-satisfied smirk. When you truly believe you’re this deserving of something, it’s easy to be convinced that you’re finally getting it.

Eamon lets me cling to his side, although the stiffness and unyielding discomfort of his body against mine would be noticeable even if I didn’t fucking despise him.

Gunnar has never felt like that. Everywhere Eamon is sharp and hard, Gunnar is soft. He’s just as strong, but his body is thicker and more substantial. He has this way of not just feeling physically soft, but also melting into even the slightest touch from me. Like he’s a fucking Tempur-Pedic pillow that’s designed to conform to my shape.

Eamon is designed to disrupt every plane and surface he comes into contact with. He’s nothing but sharp angles and brittle, cold textures.

I pretend anyway, though. I don’t want to taint my memories of Gunnar, but it’s what I need in this moment. Letting myself remember how he felt under me allows me to throw myself at Eamon like the world’s most apologetic puppy, weeping and hiccupping and begging him to forgive me.

As soon as his hand finds the back of my head, I know he’s taken the bait.

For a second, I think about trying to bite his fucking dick off. I saw a movie once where a girl bit the dude’s dick and rubbed something painful in his eyes to escape. I’ve always held that scene in a special, tender place in my heart.

It would be satisfying, at least. Well, it would be until he shot me. With all the junk he’s shoved up his nose, I don’t know how much he’s feeling of anything and he would definitely be able to let rage and drugs fuel him through my brutal dismemberment before he bled to death.

No, thank you.

Once again, I remind myself that all I have is the long game. It feels pathetic and disgusting, but it’s safe.

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