I grip the wheels of my chair and roll myself over to my nightstand, pulling my piece out from the drawer. I take the safety off, breathing in a shuttered breath as I fight to find the strength to put it in my mouth and pull the trigger. The laughter outside has me hesitating. Dagger, Hawk, King. One of my brothers will find me, and then they’ll know what a fucking coward I was. But they have no fucking clue what it feels like tolose your legs and heart all in one night. To have your life and dreams ripped away in a matter of five seconds.
“Chamber is empty.”
The deep voice cuts through my warring thoughts. Ripper’s standing in my doorway. Hadn’t even heard him come in.
“Already lost one brother. Ain’t gonna lose another,” he states, walking right in like he owns the place. He looks to the corner, noticing the broken glass on the ground. “Heard the shatter. I’ll have the girls come in tomorrow and clean the place up.”
“Don’t need them to pick up after me.” Don’t need anyone to deal with my shit anymore.
“That’s what they do. They get free room and board, and in return they clean up after us.”
Yeah, well, they don’t need to pick up after me. I don’t want them in my space. They always look at me with pity in their eyes. One even tried to offer me sex to make me feel better. I ain’t no charity case. Besides, my dick don’t even work anymore. It hasn’t budged since the night my world went to shit.
“When did you snatch my ammo?”
I place the safety on and put my gun back in the drawer. Even if the thing was loaded, I don’t think I could go through with it. After everything my brothers have done for me, that would make me one selfish prick.
“Four months ago,” he says. “Saw the look in your eyes when the girls mentioned going to the state fair. I knew that’s where you met…” His voice trails off and he shakes his head. “Just didn’t want to risk it.”
He and King both had the same fear. That was the night King showed up at my door with a bottle of Macallan in his hand and two glasses. He came in and spilled his guts about losing his wife and how hard it was being a single dad. Never seen the man so broken up and beaten down. I sat and listened, being there forhim in the only way I knew how. After that, I figured it’d be cruel to stab him in the back by taking my own life. He’d lost his wife, the mother of his child, and he was still standing. Me… I’d just lost a girl I’d been dating for two months. Though, she was my everything.
“I’m out of booze.” I roll back over to my table and pick up my pen, hoping that Rip takes the hint and leaves. But he doesn’t. He comes over to my table, invading my space.
“You want a drink, you have to go get it yourself.”
My eyes rise from my drawing, and all the anger boiling inside comes glaring out. He knows I don’t leave my room. Not unless I fucking have to. Definitely not when the place is this crowded. The pity runs so thick and heavy I can feel it clouding around me like a toxic smog. It’s in everyone’s eyes, written on their frowns, gripped in their white knuckles, and I can’t fucking handle it.
“Damn, Skully.” He snatches up one of my drawings, studying it closely. “These are fucking good. You’re fucking talented, brother. You think if I got you a tattoo gun, you could draw this one on me? Right on my left shoulder blade?”
He points to the image that has our fallen brother’s face etched on a headstone with the date of our loss written in roman numerals. AndRubbleis written across the top in our brotherhood’s script. I’ve drawn that image a hundred different ways, but the one he’s looking at was the first one I ever drew. That one is the only one that was a true likeness. The rest since have all had blank eyes.
Because that’s all I can remember now. The blank look on Rubble’s face as he was lying on the ground, the life having left his body.
“Need a fucking drink.” I snatch the paper from his hand and shove it under my stack of drawings.
Again, Ripper ignores my request for booze. He turns and takes a seat on the end of my bed, resting his arms on his thighs. Deciding to make his unwanted ass right at home.
“Did I ever tell you about my uncle? The one who lost his arms in ’Nam. Both got torn right off by an explosion. Bastard was lucky to make it out alive.”
He’s never told me about his uncle, but he doesn’t talk much about his family in general. If he does talk, it’s about Rory. He’s always bragging about her. Or complaining when she’s giving him attitude. He sounds just like her father. Which in a way, I guess he kind of is like a second dad to the girl. He’s been her bodyguard since she was two years old. Now that she’s eighteen, it sounds like she’s giving him a run for his money.
But can you blame her? She has a hit over her head and has been a prisoner in this place her entire life. Unable to leave the grounds. I’ve only been locked in this place for fourteen months, and I’m already going crazy. Poor girl has never even been to the state fair.
Greenish-blue eyes appear in my mind, almost clear under the sun but would be as dark as the ocean depths when they were burning heavy. I pick up my pen and start drawing the flames around the skull I’m working on, trying to focus on Ripper’s story.
“In a matter of weeks,” he continues, “that man had learned how to feed himself with his toes and do just about everything for himself. When the money finally came in to get his prosthetics, the bastard didn’t even want them. He’d found strength in doing the hard shit on his own. Plus, the girls were all over him. Everyone wanted to feed him and pamper the wounded war hero. He told me if he had arms, he wouldn’t get his daily wash-down in the shower. The bastard was eatin’ that shit up.”
I don’t know why he’s telling me this. I’m not a war hero. I’m a fucking bastard who didn’t have a fast enough hand to save his friend’s life and then found himself with his knees blown off and needing to have both legs amputated. Now, I’m stuck to a life in this chair. If he’s trying to encourage me to let the girls bathe me and give me rubdowns, no fucking thanks. I don’t want them touching me. Sure as hell don’t want anyone looking at my stubs and feeling sorry for my ass.
“My point is that we can take you to a doctor and see what they say about gettin’ you a pair of legs.”
My pen pauses on the paper. I hadn’t realized I’d drawn tears dripping down the skull’s face, making the flames burn higher.
If only two legs would bring my heart back to life, but that’s never going to happen. With or without legs, I’m a crippled gimp. No longer a man. No longer worth a damn. Two plastic legs ain’t gonna change my truth.
“Just asking you to think on it,” he states.
I let the air out of my lungs, slowly releasing the tension I feel building up inside. I’m done with this visit. Done with everyone trying so hard to cheer me up and fix me. I can’t be fixed. My body is broken, my heart is fucking gone, and my mind is so fucking messed up I can’t even stand living inside my thoughts.
