Page 115 of Sweet Shots

The walk is quicker than I remember it from when I was a kid. Getting to Zach’s always seemed to take forever, but I guess when you have little legs, it would take a lot longer. Especially in the dark, when everything in the shadows is out to get you.

The second I lay eyes on the dilapidated trailer, that looks exactly how I remember it, my feet grow roots. They bury deep into the soil, and I can’t fucking move. All I can do is stare and pray my heart doesn’t pound out of my chest.

The awning has so many holes it’s barely holding together. The roof is covered in layers of pine needles, leaves, and twigs that no one bothers to clean off. The porch is warped, no longerthe faded red I remember but the natural color of wood with some green spots—algae, likely.

There’s no car parked near it, but that means nothing. She’s never had a car. I walked to and from school like all the other kids who lived here; rain, sleet, snow, whatever. The school buses wouldn’t take us since we were too close to the school. There was some bullshit rule about being at least a mile and a half from the school in order to get a bus tag, and the town bus didn’t run that early in the morning.

I take in a deep breath, my shoulders rising to my ears, before I blow it out until my lungs hurt. Then I force my feet to move. One step. Two. Three, four, and five. Somewhere around eleven, I’m walking up the steps and then, in a haze, I’m knocking on the window because there is no bell and by the looks of the screen door, if I pull it open, it’ll fall off.

Staring straight ahead, waiting for the door to open, I realize I’m holding my breath. Even when I force air into my lungs, I feel like I’m hardly getting any at all.

The door is finally pulled open and standing on the other side at half my size and height, is the cause of all my trauma. I’m convinced of this. I refuse to take responsibility for things I couldn’t control as a child. I will take responsibility for my actions as an adult, because I know better now, but as a kid? I knew nothing, and it was my parents who should have taught me what I needed to know to be a normal, functioning adult.

Some of this is on me, but most of it is on them. Well, her, since she was the one who was around. Who the hell knowswhat my father would have been like? I can’t imagine things being worse, but I’m sure it could have been.

“Who the fuck are you?” she asks, sounding like she still smokes two packs a day.

I stand there, staring at her as she stares at me, a cigarette hanging from her chapped lips. She’s skinnier than I remember, looking like a skeleton. I think she’s wearing kids’ clothes, since she was always on the petite side even when she wasn’t skin and bones, and they’re hanging off her.

I stand here, still staring, as a million memories assault me. Her shouting at me. Slapping me. Telling me how worthless I am. Laughing when the men she brought home would talk shit to me. I expected to be frozen in fear when I faced her, but all I feel is… nothing. My inability to move or speak isn’t fear, it’s shock.

All of the pain I feel, day in and day out, over the constant worry of my life coming back to bite me in the ass… and yet, here I am, staring it dead in the eyes, and there’s nothing there. Fucking nothing. But I came here to do something, and I’m going to do it despite this shock of emotions.

“You don’t know who I am?” I say.

Her brows raise, and she sucks on the cigarette before taking it between her fingers.

“You work here or something?”

Those words surprisingly don’t hurt as much as I thought they would. I was so worried I’d come here, and she’d do something to cause me pain, but… this is oddly freeing.

I give her a smile, some weight lifting from my shoulders the moment I say, “I just want you to know that I forgive you.”

“Excuse me?” she says before coughing up a lung.

“I forgive you.”

“If you’re one of those bible-thumping people, you can get your ass right outta here,” she says, gesturing for me to shoo.

I smile again. “Have a lovely day,” I say.

She mutters something, steps away from the door and closes it. I head down the stairs and walk back to Zach’s. I’m laughing by the time I get into his house, and he comes out of the room to see what’s going on. His face is a mix of surprise and fear, but then it turns curious when he sees me curling over, laughing.

“Fuck, I thought you were crying!” he shouts, a smile slowly crossing his lips.

I shake my head, my eyes filling with tears as I laugh harder. So hard my stomach hurts. I don’t think I’ve ever laughed this hard in my life—ever.

Zach takes a seat beside me, patiently waiting for me to get my shit together. Which I do, after some time.

“Was she not home?” he asks.

“Oh, she was home alright,” I say, wiping my eyes with the bottom of my shirt. “She opened the door, and she said—” I bark out another laugh, more tears filling my eyes. I wave my hands around, trying to calm myself. “She said… ‘who the fuck are you?’” The words come out high-pitched as I start laughing again, unable to process how ridiculous this all is. Maybe I’m finally losing my mind.

I thought I was going to leave there hurting more than going in. I hoped seeing her would make me feel better, give me closure, but I wasn’t sure it would. But seeing her… the way she lives, how she looks. Knowing she’s still miserable? How could I be angry at her? I mean, I am angry, yes, but what is being angry at her for the rest of my life going to do? Had I sat there and spilled my guts to her, what would she have done? Think I’m crazy, probably. Honestly,thatwould have hurt more. But it’s not what I needed. I don’t need an apology for closure. It would have been empty and meaningless.

I guess I just needed a little reminder, and for her to know… I forgive her. Because I’m an adult now. A grown man. I’ve come a long way, and from this point on, I refuse to let anything she did to me ruin my life. It’smylife, and I’m choosing to not live my life like her. I’m choosing to let go. I’m choosing me.

“Uh, are you okay?” Zach asks cautiously.

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