Page 5 of Goose's Wren

He came back to our apartment strung out, vibrating with rage, eyes blown wide and hands twitching like he couldn’t decide if he wanted to hit me or tear me apart with them.

He did both.

Five times.

He didn’t even stop to take off his boots the last time.Just hit the pipe, dragged me by the hair to the bed, and told me it was my fault.That I was a slut.That if I wanted someone like Goose so bad, I’d get what I deserved.

I remember laying there, staring at the ceiling, trying to leave my body like I used to do as a kid when my parents fought in the next room.Pretending I was somewhere else.Someone else.

He finally passed out hours later, the meth wearing off after days without sleep.That was the only reason I made it out of bed.I heard the garbage truck outside and ran barefoot down the stairs like a madwoman, digging through the dumpster until my hands bled on rusted metal and broken glass.

But I found them all.Covered in coffee grounds and old takeout, but still there.

Since then, I’ve kept them close, hidden in the bottom of whatever bag I carry, like a secret too dangerous to let anyone see.Especially him.

His heavy boots hit the metal steps outside the trailer and the door rattles as he forces it open, cursing under his breath.

I tuck the bag behind me and pull a ratty blanket over my lap, grabbing the empty coffee mug beside me like that’s all I’ve been doing.Just sitting here, harmless, quiet, obedient.

My heart won’t stop racing.Because I know what mood he’s in the second I see his eyes.

And I know I might not be able to leave my body this time.

Goose

I work on Wren’s bike long past when I should’ve called it quits and gone home.The shop is quiet now, the sounds of revving engines and the guys bullshitting fading hours ago.

But I stay, hunched over her bike, wrench in hand, using the work to keep my thoughts in check.

It’s just another job, I tell myself.Just another busted-up piece of machinery that needs fixing.

But it’s a fucking lie.

Because as much as I try to focus on the bike, my mind keeps dragging me back to the past.

I was a cocky bastard back then, full of piss and vinegar, convinced I had the world at my feet.Thought I was untouchable.I had thought Sparrow was mine.That we were meant to be together, that nothing could rip us apart.

I was wrong.

She made me believe in forever, whispered it against my lips, wrote it in little notes she’d leave in my bedroom.Scraps of paper filled with empty promises.I kept every single one, like a fool.

A box full of her words, shoved deep in the back of my closet, as if those little pieces of paper could hold together something that was already breaking.

Then she shattered it.

One moment, I was hers.The next, she was gone.

Ran off with some rich quarterback, left town without looking back.Like I was nothing.

And Wren?

Wren was always there.Quiet.Observing.Watching.Then she was gone too, although I didn’t notice at first.

She was just Sparrow’s little sister back then.I never paid her much attention.If she was around, she was just a shadow in the background, barely registering in my world.At the time, my head was too wrapped up in her sister, in my own heartbreak, in the anger that burned through me every time I thought about how easily Sparrow tossed me aside.

A deep, rumbling sound from outside the shop pulls me out of my head.

A few seconds later, I hear the unmistakable roll of motorcycles pulling up out front.

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