Page 58 of Running Feral

What I know is that the cops have made it clear they consider this a personal matter among criminals, and therefore not their problem. Some of them have come from a more compassionate angle. They say the law is not built for this situation, so their hands are tied. Others have barely concealed their contempt, and implied everyone here is getting what they deserve. I should have known better than to get involved with a troubled kid, the kid should learn to stand up for himself or leave, and anyonewho’s too stupid to know Eamon is bad news is not someone worth saving.

Those aren’t the words that come out of their mouths per se, but they’re underlying every snide comment and disgusted look that I’ve received so far.

Personally, I’ve fantasized about garroting every single police officer in Possum Hollow over the past 72 hours. It hasn’t helped, though. It’s helped more than they have, but that’s not saying much.

Anyone who looks at this situation and sees anything other than the most textbook case of abuse is an idiot or an abuser themselves. Or both.

But we’re talking about cops, so the statistics speak for themselves.

“Are you helping or moping?” she asks. “Because Sav’s missing—again—and I feel like I’m doing all the work to clean upyourbar.”

She’s right. I had to call in professionals to repair the lines that were cut, as well as hire some industrial fans to dry the floor, but the rest of the cleaning and repairs are doable ourselves. And since I’m almost completely out of money after neglecting my business in general, then having to close for a week for repairs, that’s all I’ve got.

It’s possible the constant hum from the fans is making me feel even more cracked than the situation is.

“I’m sorry,” I say, making a point of looking her in the eye for once. “You’re right. You should go home.”

She huffs. “That’s not what I meant. I’m here to work and I’ll go home when I need to. Although you are paying me for all this eventually, obviously. I’m saying I need you here as well. You’re not helping him by sitting there, staring into the middle distance all day. When he does come back, he’d probably like you to not be bankrupt and homeless.”

I’m too tired to fight. I haven’t been sleeping, for obvious reasons. I spend all night bouncing between working on the bar ineffectively and texting everyone I know for updates that are always meaningless. Especially since Sav, my best contact in the criminal side of things, has been almost entirely absent and quiet ever since Tobias disappeared.

I hope it means he’s doing something wildly illegal to help and doesn’t want to implicate me in it; not that he’s also in trouble with the Banna for something.

At least once a night, I go out and drive around. As if I might find him wandering by the side of the road. It’s pointless, and it doesn’t make me feel any better, but I don’t have any other options.

“Thank you, Kas,” I say, pushing off the stool to look around for something productive I should be doing.

Eventually, my sluggish brain kicks into gear and I start washing all the new glasses that arrived today.

We work together in silence for a long time, but it’s a heavy kind of silence. I can’t figure out if she has something she wants to say, but is hesitating, or if she’s trying to figure out what she’s supposed to say.

Once I’m up and moving, I feel a frenetic, chaotic burst of energy take over. This has been happening as well, and I don’t know if it’s better or worse than staring blankly at the wall.

I don’t recognize either of these versions of myself. At least with this one I’m getting things done, but I’m moving so fast my hands are shaking. My breath is practically rattling in my chest, and I’m constantly knocking into things or swearing as I drop shit because of my sudden clumsiness. I’m fueled by anger.

Not a focused rage, or any powerful urge for violence. It’s this helpless, desperate, impotent feeling that screams inside me, making my fingers numb and my heart race. My muscles are so tense I could snap like charred, brittle old sheet metal, and everysingle obstacle I face tightens my chest even more like there’s a noose around it.

By the time I feel a migraine forming, it’s too late to stop it. There’s a spot over my left forehead that has turned into stone—stiff and unrelentingly heavy, weighing down on my brain enough it might liquify and start dripping out of my nose. My neck is even more tense than the rest of me, nausea grips my stomach which is squeezing emptiness in time to my chaotic heartbeat, and the world is too fucking bright.

And no matter what I do, all those fucking memories of the shit I went through with my family seventeen years ago. Waiting. Because as soon as I drop my guard, they want in on the party, no matter how worthless the act of dwelling on old shit is.

I need everything to stop. Every single thing. I don’t control a goddamn piece of it though, so all I can do is let my rage and frustration mount.

“Gunnar!” Kasia shouts, breaking through the fog in my brain.

I pivot sharply on my back foot to look at her, too many glasses in my hand, but a wave of dizziness comes out of nowhere and smacks me so hard I almost faint.

Spots of bright light dance in front of me as I sway on my feet and try to take a single deep breath.

Nothing about this is fucking fair.

Where is he? Why isn’t he here?

The urge to rage and scream and blame the world gets stronger every day. I feel too much like the version of myself I thought I’d left behind. I was supposed to move past all that, and instead it only took a brand new tragedy to bring it all crawling back to the surface.

“What?” I ask, trying and failing to keep the snappiness out of my tone.

“What the fuck is wrong with you? Can you sit down, please? You look like you’re about to pass out.”

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