Page 28 of The Hangman's Rope

Fuck.

The more the drug worked its way out of her system, the more the memories came flooding in, I’ll bet. Just like her fitful sleep the night before, even if she couldn’t consciously remember all the things that’d likely gone down – her mind knew, and her body knew, and her subconscious was trying to work shit out while she slept.

How did I know?

It was the explanation given to me by the VA regarding my night terrors. That my mind was trying to protect itself and work shit out without me or some shit. That sometimes, some horrible shit went down and you forgot… but you didn’t really forget. Your mind just kind of shutting down the memories in order for you to keep pushin’, keep on surviving – sort of a subconscious failsafe whatever had created us, or evolution, had put in our fucking brains to keep our meat suits drivable by our consciousness when by all rights our consciousness should want to give up.

“Easy,” I murmured, moving slowly to get up.

I pushed in the footrest on my chair with its customary noisy clack and she jumped as though I’d fired a gun.

“Easy, Sweetpea,” I consoled, moving even slower to get up.

I went over and sat on the middle cushion of the couch and turned my head to look at her. She was staring wide-eyed, herhands both firmly pressed over her mouth as she trembled and shook with fear.

“Just a bad dream,” I soothed. “You’re alright, you’re safe. I promise nothing and no one is going to hurt you here. It was just a bad dream.”

I put my hand over the top of her foot and she jumped.

“Shh, it’s all good,” I soothed as I stroked the top of her foot, back and forth, back and forth. Her skin was chilled to the touch, but she looked as though she’d been sweating pretty good.

“I got ‘cha. It’s all good.” I repeated the phrase like a mantra and waited her out.

Her breathing was slowing, but her tears were coming much faster.

“Easy, darlin’, you’re alright. Ain’t none of ‘em get to you now. It’s all in your head. You got this. Just breathe with me.” I took an exaggerated breath and got her to mimic me. She did good, following my guided breathing, her hands lowering, shaking so bad, until she gripped them together in her lap to try and stop the tremors.

“You’re okay,” I tried on her again when she seemed calmer, and she nodded as though I’d asked her and not told her – or maybe she was just agreeing with me.

“Do you want to talk about it?” I asked and she shook her head quickly. “Okay.” I nodded in agreement. “You just take your time and let me know what it is you need and I’ll do it or get it. Okay?”

She nodded, again, a little too quickly, but it was getting better already. Like she was coming back to herself in increments. Her breathing evening out, her shoulders unlocking and easing back down off where she had them wrapped around her ears.

“There you go,” I encouraged as her muscles unlocked, unclenching a group at a time, in tiny and careful increments.

“You want some water?” I asked and she nodded rapidly.

“Okay, baby. I got you,” I swiped my hand up and down her foot a couple of times in a bid to make a little friction to warm it before taking my hand completely away.

I got up and she stared wide-eyed at me as I went to the kitchen, took down a glass, and filled it with cold water from the tap.

I tore off a paper towel and took both to her, sitting down by her feet and handing her the glass first. She drank from it greedily, as though she was parched for days and I could attest, a hard crying jag could do that shit to you. I hadn’t been immune to them in the past. I just did mine alone. On a time or two with one of the other brothers nearby to make sure I wasn’t going to suck-start my forty-five.

I traded the glass for the paper towel and she wiped her tears and blew her nose.

“Better?” I asked, and she nodded, face red and blotchy, the silver of her eyes more startling for that same red rimming her eyes.

“Want to talk about it?” I asked, and she shook her head fast and then did something unexpected. Her hand shot out and covered mine, her grip firm and growing tighter. I stared down at our hands on the warm brown leather of the couch, her knuckles mottling pink and white from the grip she had on my calloused, rough-looking hand with the dirt trapped under its nails and the engine grease embedded in the skin around my fingertips that never really seemed to come out no matter how much or how hard I scrubbed.

It came from working on the earth movers, keeping their diesel engines maintained. I was sort of a jack-of-all-trades around here, and a master of none except how to make a body disappear.

That I was good at.

I raised my eyes from our conjoined hands to hers and there was a desperation and pleading in them. A fear that telegraphed in the space between us as though she’d shouted it in my face without making a sound.

“I got you,” I said gripping her hand back. “You’re safe here. I promise.”

Her bottom lip trembled and her shoulders shook and she lowered her forehead to her bunched-up knees and had another cathartic cry. Only this time, I think it was with relief.

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