Page 8 of For Wrath and Redemption
It’s fine, given the circumstances.
It’s fine.
The liquor mixes with the anti-anxiety meds already coursing in my veins. It succeeds in dulling the ache, in quieting my mind, but it fuels my cravings.
When my fingers itch for another of the small glass bottles, I don’t even bother fighting it. I play the rock star angle and flirt shamelessly with the attendant until she brings me four more. I drink these a little slower, spacing them out over the next two hours, attempting to force myself into a comfortable intoxication.
This isn’t how I’m supposed to be dealing with my emotions. I know this. Conflicting arguments battle inside my skull. This is another failure. Another intentional fall from the wagon.
But my mom is fucking dead.
She’s dead, and it’s my fucking fault.
I grit my teeth and breathe through the age-old anger. The haunting despair. The guilt. It always comes back to the guilt. Even from the fucking grave, she has power over me. My mother, the puppet master. She’s always played my emotions like a fucking marionette.
I almost wish I believed in hell just so I could imagine her burning in a pit of flames.
I drop my head into my hands and dig my palms into my eye sockets until I see white. I breathe deeply. I push my toes into the floor.
Nothing works.
I write a proposition on a napkin, and the next time the attendant walks by, I sneak it to her. Fifteen minutes later, we’re crammed into the small airplane bathroom while I fuck her from behind. She’s got her legs on either side of the toilet and her forearms on the wall in front of her face. Her flight attendant dress is pushed up on her hips, her pantyhose are shoved to her knees, and her thong is tugged to the side as I thrust as deep and fast into her as I can without making a racket. I reach around her body and rub on her clit until she comes, and then I spill into the condom.
We’re quiet as she hurriedly fixes her outfit, taking a brief moment to glance at her reflection in the small mirror above the sink. She looks the same. No makeup smudges. No hair out of place. She gives me a wink, and with one last kiss, we both slip quietly back to where we came from.
Thanks to the orgasm, I manage to get a couple hours of sleep, but it’s fitful and plagued with images I’d rather forget. None of it ever works for long. Sex, alcohol, drugs. The relief they provide never lasts. Temporary fixes are all I can rely on in a world like mine. One that lacks permanence in everything except pain.
I land at JFK airport around nine in the evening, but by the time I’m through customs and pulling out of the rental car garage, it’s closer to eleven. I have every intention of getting on the interstate and driving straight to the cemetery, but the closer I get, the whiter my knuckles become from how tightly I’m gripping the steering wheel. After only twenty minutes, my leg starts bouncing. Twenty more minutes, and I’m clenching and unclenching my jaw. By the time I’m approaching my exit, my head is pounding, and sweat is dotting my hairline.
My body makes the decision before I have a chance to even think about it. Instead of turning toward the cemetery, I get back on the expressway and find the nearest liquor store.
Vodka. I need vodka.
“Just a little bit more.” My words cut through the silence of the car,and I jump. I didn’t mean to say them out loud, but then I repeat them. “Just a little bit more. Just to get through tonight, and after this, I’ll dry out and stay sober.”
I’ll commit to the process this time. I will.
I just need to get through this.
3
JONAH
The rental jolts to a stop,my body bucking against the seat belt as the car hops the small curb and the bumper slams into the wrought iron fence.
Thank fuck I hit the brakes when I did.
I unbuckle and shove the door open, grabbing my vodka bottle from the floorboard before stumbling out into the grass.
“Fuck.” I round the hood of the car and inspect the damage. I give the tire a kick and choke out a laugh. The front, right side of the Ferrari is dented and scratched. The headlight is busted. I should have asked for an SUV. “Fuck.”
Despite an obvious tilt, the fence looks fine, though. I toss my vodka over it, and the bottle lands on the soft, manicured grass with a gentle thud. Here’s hoping my landing is as gentle.
I’m unsteady as I climb onto the hood of the car, the metal denting under my boots. I consider how much this damage will cost me, but the worry flits away the moment my fingers wrap around the cool rails of the fence.
It’s been years since I’ve climbed this fence. Twelve, at least. My hands are more calloused and weathered than they were back then, but the iron still feels familiar against my skin. The thought seizes my muscles as pain lashes in my gut. Of all the things to push me over the edge, I wouldn’t have guessed it would be this. I squeeze my eyes shut and attempt to wrangle the inebriation-induced vertigo, to shut downthe onslaught of unwanted memories, then get to work hauling my ass over the fence.
Unfortunately, my landing isn’t like the vodka bottle’s.
