Present day…
In the dark, cold room, I blink my eyes to focus, but all I can think about is the pain. It hurts to breathe and every inch of my body feels bruised and battered. Probably because it is.
Oh God! Why is this happening to me?
I try to move, to get up off of the hard floor, but my broken body isn’t cooperating. I need to find a way out of here or I won't survive this. I know with every part of my being that if I don’t leave this room, I’m going to die here. Alone.
The tears run down my face, and I can’t even move my arms to brush them away; something is holding them in place.
I slowly turn my head to the side, trying not to throw up from the pain that rushes through me with that one simple movement. I’m tied down to something, but I can’t make out what it is. The only light in the room comes from a street lamp right outside, which throws a thin ray of light through the small window close to the ceiling.
With all of the strength I can muster, I try to pull one of my arms free from whatever is holding me in place, the bindings cutting into my wrists and pain instantly shooting up my arm that's most likely broken in several places.
My scream echoes through the empty room and my throat aches from all the screaming I’ve already done…yesterday? The day before? I’m losing track of time.
Oh God, this is the arm I play with. This is the arm that cradles the guitar to my side and the fingers that strum the notes that take me away to another place. Notes and melodies that bring me back to life and allow me to be who I really am.
I know I’m going to pass out again soon. My vision is swimming. Spots flash before my eyes as I struggle to remain conscious.
Flashbacks of the past few months run through my mind like someone flipping the pages of a book, and my heart shatters at the memories. I should have seen what was happening. I should have listened to him from the beginning, but everything about him scared me. The force of what I felt for him shouldn’t have been so strong so quickly. He had my heart and my soul from the very first touch, the very first moment. But he didn’t want it. He didn’t want any of it. I trusted too quickly, gave too easily.
Trusting someone is what got me into this mess. I trusted the wrong person, and now I’m going to pay for it with my life. Someone who should have been there for me and protected me…it was all a lie from the very beginning. Deep down I knew it. I’d always known it. I just never wanted to believe the hatred ran that deep.
I let the darkness wash over me, knowing it’s the only way the pain will go away. I close my eyes, thinking back over the last eight years and wondering about all of the things I should have done differently, the choices I made that have led me to where I am now. If I had never let her control me, never succumbed to the undeniable connection I had to him…if we hadn’t experienced that initial pull towards each other, maybe things wouldn’t be ending this way.
I hear shouts and the pounding of footsteps in the distance, but I can’t force my eyes open no matter how hard I try. They are probably just coming back to finish the job, not satisfied with how much they have already broken me, how much they have already taken from me.
Maybe if I had realized sooner, listened earlier, put away my pride and the belief that everyone has some good in them deep down, I wouldn’t be where I am now—fighting for my life and wondering if the person I love cares enough to save me from this hell.
Three months ago…
Even though my mind is going a hundred miles a minute, worrying about how I’m going to pay the growing pile of bills in my hand and keep a roof over Gwen and Emma’s head, I'm still one hundred percent aware of my surroundings, a blessing and a curse given to me by Uncle Sam.
The four-door, blue sedan parked three spots down from me has a rear tire that's losing air and will most likely blow a flat within three days.
The wind is blowing from the southeast at around five miles per hour.
Fireside Bookshop, the store across the street, is three minutes and twenty-seven seconds late opening this morning.
Mr. Jensen, the owner of the building I rent, has a yappy, shit-kicker dog named Mitzy. They live upstairs from Marshall Investigations, and on nice days like today, he leaves a window open so Mitzy can get some fresh air.
Pushing open the door to the office with my shoulder, I sort through a stack of mail as I make my way inside, blindly reaching one hand out to the wall and flipping on the light switch as I walk by. Mitzy manages to bark thirty-five times from the moment I open my car door to when I reach the quiet tranquility of my office.
My dark fucking office.
The fact I can barely see what’s written on the envelopes in my hand now that I’m inside the building and out of the bright, early morning Nashville sun can only mean one thing.