Page 26 of Trailer Park Billionaire
“Right.” I nod along and try to find a way out of this situation without being rude. “But also, don’t you have to… watch all the paintings tonight? Aren’t you on shift?”
“Ah, yes, guess I am,” Pat agrees and then shrugs his broad shoulders. “Don’t judge. I never claimed thatmylife choices weren’t questionable.”
I nod understandingly. “Oh, I’d never judge when it comes to questionable life choices, but I’m afraid I’ve hit my own daily limit of bad decisions just by staying here this late. I guess I’ll see you in the morning?”
“Highly likely,” Pat moves to make way for me to pass. “Unlessyouwant to get some pasta with me…” He points his flashlight at the statue I was just looking at and shakes his head questioningly. “Guess not.”
Ismilestare politely and continue to do so for the rest of Pat’s small talk as he walks me all the way to the exit. We say our goodbyes before I head straight home. I follow the usual path, my usual routine, because that’s what I have to do. It’s what keeps me safe. It’s what keeps me sane.
I remember my grandpa telling me this, sitting across from me in the prison’s visitors room, his hands so big they made mine look like those of a child. I guess, technically, I still was achild at the time. Dada wasn’t asking how I was holding up. He already knew. He had been through it himself.
“You need to wake up at the same time every day. Then you make your bed. You eat, even if the food tastes like feet. You study, you keep your head down, and you don’t wait for it to get easier,” he’d said, “because it won’t. But you just do it anyway.”
And so I did. And I still do.
Every morning, I throw open my window, let the cold slap me awake, and pretend I enjoy suffering. In more recent years, I have adapted to more humane and flexible hours, better food, and fewer people watching me while I go to the bathroom, but the underlying routine is still the same.
And it works. At least it did. Until a couple of days ago.
My grandpa’s tortured face pops up once again when I let myself into my apartment. My hands are cold from the biting wind outside.
In my fridge, I find the last questionable leftovers from the Sorry-For-Your-Loss Lasagna.I probably shouldn’t, I think, but then pop it in the microwave anyway.It’ll be fine, even if it tastes like feet.
The same second the microwave pings to let me know my food is boiling on the outside and still ice cold on the inside, there is a heavy knock on the door that makes me jump.
Plate in hand and slightly annoyed, I walk over to angrily stare at whoever is interrupting dinner.
When the door creaks open, I am greeted with a fist.
A big one. A heavy one. And apparently, a very well-aimed one, because it slams straight into my cheekbone before I can even register what’s happening.
For a second, there’s nothing. Just a hot-black flash behind my eyes, like someone has flipped the switch on reality. I don’t even stumble—I fly backwards, hitting the ground hard. As if in slow motion, the plate of lasagna goes flying even farther. Itshatters what feels like minutes later, the noise of it switching reality back on.
Looks like dinner’s ruined,it shoots through my head just before the pain floods in—sharp, radiating from my cheek to the top of my head and all the way around. Time accelerates back to normal.
“I wasn’t going to eat that anyway,” I grunt, rubbing my head.
This isn’t the first time I’ve been in a fight. The first time, I just cried like a little bitch. But you get used to it, living in prison. It’s just that prison fights usually involve a lot more biting, scratching, and uncoordinated swings. This wasn’t that.
Did I really just get punched? In my own apartment?
My vision is still more Impressionist painting than hyper-realistic portrait.I blink rapidly, trying to make sense of the dark blobs in my doorway. There are at least three of them—looming like a bad omen, scary and threatening. The one in the front braces his fist and relaxes it again a few times.
“Sorry, did I hurt your hand?” I croak out before my brain can stop me. Sarcasm isn’t the worst survival strategy I’ve tried. This time, it’s probably concussion-fueled. But anything to distract the attacker from attacking again helps.
The guy in front grins. It’s not a nice grin. “We wanted a word.”
I attempt to sit up, but my body protests in an angry symphony of aches. “And you thought a punch to the face was the best way to extend an invitation?”
The man shrugs. “You weren’t answering your door.”
I swipe at my temple, my fingers coming away sticky.
Blood. Great.
A black eye and some blood. It’s not even Halloween yet. How am I going to explain this to Elaine?
“Well, feel free to come in,” I mutter after the dark figures have entered already and are hovering over me. “Make yourself at home. Dinner’s on the floor if you’re hungry.”
