Rough and Rugged: A Meet Me In Milwaukee Charity Anthology

Chapter Four

Monica

Smoke billows, embers sizzle, wind and snow lash around me. I’m pinned under a beam that bounced off my bed as I tried to duck under it. Injury isn’t the problem, it’s the exposure because I’m wearing pajamas.

I assess. Phone on the counter, injured ankle, wiggling toes. The cold stings my cheeks and numbs my fingers. I won’t cry or die. That’s a depressing mantra. I should come up with something catchier. No tears, no fears. Dammit. Now the 80’s song Shout is stuck in my head.

I search for something to free myself from under this beam. I wedge a piece of the roof under it. My knee and lower leg are fine, but my ankle is twisted. I heave the makeshift lever and it snaps. I scream as I attempt to cover myself with the throw rug. The worst part about dying right now is he’s the last thing on my mind. He’s all my thoughts. I’m going to die without telling him I love him.

My body’s shutting down to protect me. I sing out. “Shout, Shout, Let it all out...” My voice is weak. I wish my thoughts of Dax were not backed with a Tears for Fears soundtrack.

I’m done after just ten minutes. I’m physically and mentally strong, but the elements rule out here. I surrender to the shivering and shaking. There’s a crash. Something else destroying my home and life. I hear his disconnected voice before I freaking die here in the woods. “Monica! Monica! Oh, shit.”

There’s howling as I succumb to the black and cold.

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“Why is she in pain? What do I do? There’s red spots on her shoulder. Her ankle is twisted. Just swollen, but I didn’t want to put ice on it because she’s fucking cold.”

I cry out like there are sharp icicles in my veins. I flex to get the blood flowing. I’m disoriented and my face is under a soft comforter. It’s peeled back and he’s there. He kisses my forehead with his warm lips.

“Shh. I have you.” I cry, and he catches all my tears. The bed dips and I’m in his lap cradled like a baby, wrapped in so many blankets. I rest my head on his chest and sob to his constant sweet chorus of, “My sweetest girl. Baby girl. My Monica. Shh. SweeTart, it’s ok. I mean your ankle is fucked, but the rest of you is ok. Thank. Fucking God.”

I calm down, and he joins me under the cover cocoon to warm me up. “Come here.” His arms hold tight and I melt into his body and soul unable to conjure reservations. His tenderness chases all the chills away. “Monica, I’m here.” He kisses my hairline, sweet words daring me to believe them.