Page 8 of Rebel

“I understand you want space,” he said finally.“But trauma doesn’t just disappear because you’ve crossed state lines.”

“Thanks for the bulletin.”I crushed the sandwich wrapper in my fist.“Anything else?”

“The offer stands.If you need to talk --”

“I won’t.”I cut him off, throat tight with something I refused to name.“But thanks.”I ended the call before he could say anything else, before whatever emotion was building in my chest could escape.Shoved the phone deep in my pocket like I could bury the conversation along with it.

Back on the highway, long past dark, the roads emptied.Just me and the occasional semi-truck, all of us running from or toward something.The miles slipped by one after another.The dashboard clock ticked past 2 AM before my eyelids grew too heavy to ignore.

I pulled into a rest stop, parked under a bright security light near the bathroom building.Locked all the doors.Reclined my seat just enough to be horizontal without losing visibility through the windows.Kept my hand on the knife I’d tucked between the seat and the console.

Sleep came in fractured pieces, broken by every sound -- doors slamming, engines starting, distant voices.Each time I jolted awake, heart racing, sweat beading on my forehead despite the cool night air.Each time I forced my breathing to slow, reminded myself where I was.Not in that barracks room.Not helpless.Armed.Alert.Free.

Dawn broke gray and misty over the Arkansas hills.I splashed water on my face in the rest stop bathroom, brushed my teeth, pulled my hair into a fresh ponytail.The woman in the mirror looked exhausted, shadows under her eyes like bruises.I stared her down.

“One day at a time,” I told her.She didn’t look convinced.

Back on the road, it wasn’t long before Oklahoma came in a blur of flat farmland and small towns.The state stretched endlessly.I stopped only for gas and coffee, eating from the stash of protein bars I’d picked up along the way.Avoiding conversations.Avoiding eye contact.Avoiding everything but the asphalt ribbon unwinding before me.

Within hours, I’d reached the Texas panhandle.The land flattened further, horizons stretching so far they seemed impossible.I felt exposed here, visible for miles in any direction.No place to hide.But also nothing to run from except memories, and those followed no matter how fast I drove.

I pulled into a motel outside Amarillo just as my vision began to blur from fatigue.The neon vacancy sign buzzed and flickered, casting red shadows across the cracked asphalt parking lot.Not fancy, but cheap and anonymous.Perfect.

The night clerk barely looked up from his phone as I paid cash for one night.No ID required.Another point in the place’s favor.

“Room 17,” he muttered, sliding a key across the counter.An actual key, not a card.Old school.Harder to track.I liked it.

The room smelled like cheap cleaner and cigarettes, despite the no smoking sign on the door.One double bed with a faded floral comforter.A TV that probably got three channels on a good day.A bathroom with rust stains in the shower.Home for the night.

I threw the deadbolt, then wedged a chair under the doorknob for good measure.I checked the window -- painted shut.Good for security, bad if I needed a quick exit.The bathroom window was too small for anything bigger than a cat.

One way in, one way out.The thought made my skin crawl.

I laid my knife on the nightstand, positioned so I could grab it in one motion.Put my pepper spray under the pillow.Kept my boots on as I stretched out on top of the covers, too exhausted to care about comfort, too wired to truly sleep.

The ceiling had water stains that looked like continents on a map.I traced them with my eyes, making up names for these imaginary lands.Anything to avoid closing my eyes.Anything to avoid the dreams that waited there.

My phone buzzed again.Not the counselor this time, but a number I recognized -- Sergeant Mills from the out-processing office.I let it go to voicemail.Whatever paperwork issue they had could wait until morning.

The voicemail notification dinged a minute later.I hesitated, then played it.

“Private Taylor, this is Sergeant Mills.Just calling to inform you that the court-martial date has been set for Private Ellis and Sergeant Denton.The JAG office requested I notify you, as you’ll be called to testify.Please contact Lt.Col.Harrison at your earliest convenience for details.”

The phone slipped from my fingers, bounced on the mattress.Testify.They wanted me to come back.To sit in a courtroom and tell strangers exactly what had happened.To look at those men again.To relive every moment while lawyers picked apart my story, my character, my behavior that night.Why the fuck hadn’t I considered all that before now?

“No fucking way,” I whispered to the empty room.“No way in hell.”

I grabbed the phone, deleted the voicemail with shaking fingers.Then I turned the phone off completely.They couldn’t make me come back.I was discharged.Civilian.Free.

The lie tasted bitter on my tongue.I wasn’t free.Wouldn’t be free until those men were out of my head, out of my nightmares.Maybe not even then.

I rolled onto my side, curled my knees to my chest, made myself small in the center of the sagging mattress.The knife glinted in the dim light filtering through the thin curtains.I focused on it, on the promise of protection it offered.On the cold comfort of knowing I’d never be defenseless again.

Sleep came eventually, dragging me under despite my resistance.And with it, the dreams.Always the same.

Chapter Three

Rebel

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