Chapter 21
Hell—present day
The drive was long. Too fucking long when I felt like fucking shit. My throat was fucking raw. My chest was fucking killing me—I almost wished it already had. My stomach was fucking rolling. Everything inside me ached. And that was enough of my problems to be thinking of.
Jolie sat in the passenger side of the car I’d rented when I first picked her up, her feet on the dash and her eyes towards the window like she didn't have a care in the world.
She looked nothing like the scared little thing she was when I first found her and had to resort to chloroform to transport her.
She was happier now. Free. And the smile on her pretty as fuck, pouty lips—lifting as she took in the sights of the highway; boring long roads and the mountains sidelining them—proved that.
The same expression was on her face when she watched Las Vegas fade into the distance as we slipped from its vibrant colors to miles upon miles of gray.
And I loved it. But I hated this journey and we were barely into it.
Driving this road was a challenge for any respectful vegetarian. The glare of daylight was blinding me, and many suicidal birds had tried to end their lives on my windshield.
I swerved for the second time in ten minutes, causing a minivan overloaded with people to honk its horn in agitation, before it overtook me when I drifted back into my lane.
The driver shouted a few obscenities through his open window and into mine, and that made Jolie laugh.
Which resulted in him giving her the finger and her laughing harder.
I couldn’t watch her amusement, or his lack thereof, which was a good thing for him. . . because I didn’t need a fucking excuse for wanting to kill someone.
My gaze lay straight ahead, as always, missing their interaction.
The fact I couldn’t turn my head made driving harder than it needed to be.
. . and illegal, as I could never apply for a license with such restrictions.
But, oh-fucking-well, because I had places to be.
Luckily, Woodrow learned a little as a teenager.
A perk of growing up with acres of land and a beat-up truck as the family vehicle—it was disposable, just like we were.
Our father didn’t love us; he didn’t teach Woodrow from the goodness of his heart.
He couldn’t—he didn’t fucking have one.
He taught him to drive because he knew it would be beneficial if he were to go into the family business.
I side-eyed Jolie as the car ate up more of the road, understanding a little more why Woodrow was so wrapped up in her well-being.
I watched the rise and fall of her chest, her relaxed slouch in the seat.
She hadn’t tried running from me, and that brought a sense of calm that paraded through all my other shitty feelings.
We barely made it 20 miles before I had to pull into the shoulder to retch up half of my guts on the side of the road.
Woodrow didn't like the sickness he had to deal with today, that was why I had to fucking deal with it.
I'd been sick multiple times and it wasn’t even midday.
Anyone would swear I'd drank too much last night, but my wife, who had done just that, hadn't been sick once.
“Are you okay?” she shouted back to me through the open window.
I waved her off, crouched over myself, my face staring down at the vomit-covered grass as the rear end of the car supported me. I didn't want help or an audience.
Cars whizzed past me and the gray rental where Jolie sat, their speed making me feel dizzy.
Another heaving hit the floor, splashing the boots that were making my feet sweat.
Chunks of stomach lining and drops of blood became blurry as I stared at it, holding my stomach as I tried to straighten.
I could feel my bones, and I fucking hated it.
I reminded myself of the skinny kid who was beaten by his father.
I reminded myself of the trauma we faced. . .
The trauma that created me and all the rage I felt.
And I didn’t like that.
I didn’t like violence, as hard as that was to believe. I just liked control over every situation, and my parents had proved to me, the only way to get that was by igniting fear.
So, that was what I did.
What I still did.
I was still a violent asshole. One that felt guilty about so many things I did. One that always felt that way. But no one in the fucking world knew because those secrets never made it to my diary.
I blinked away my thoughts, my bloodshot eyes shifting to the sun that was burning down on me. Redness coated my cheeks, looking something like sunburn. No one would ever know it was something much more sinister if I could stop being fucking sick.
I let my fingers drop from my stomach, and I adjusted my jeans; they were desperately trying to escape down my skinny hips.
I walked back to the car—whatever the fuck it was. Makes and models weren’t my forte—and I fell into the seat, my eyes and hands scanning the vehicle for water.
Jolie handed me a bottle, and I took it. We hadn't talked about this morning, or anything else. I couldn’t fucking talk now, but even if I could, I didn't want to.
I was trying hard to hold myself together, and painful conversations could rip me apart.
I wasn’t sure I should trust her. I was still surprised she wasn't running with the traffic, trying to flag down cars and hitchhike to anywhere far away from me. My father’s voice played in my head, and every time her smile convinced me she was here to stay, his words did the opposite.
Night came and went. We'd slept in the car, tucked at the edge of a dirt road, under a crescent moon that stood out in the starless sky.
The uncomfortable front seats acted as beds and we had thin blankets over us for warmth.
I was shuffling beneath mine, unable to get comfortable, while Jolie rested peacefully.
A tiny voice called to me through the car window, and somehow, Woodrow heard it, too. I felt myself get heavy, the world around me blacking out. I prayed this body would shut down and drop into a slumber, because, fuck, it needed to rest. But I knew that wasn’t what was happening.
I blinked, once, twice, three times, and then I was gone.
Woodrow
I woke up in the rental, confused by where I was.
Terrified of the road ahead. I didn't like driving.
. . and legally, I wasn't allowed to do it. I didn't want to do anything that could put me back inside. Hell didn’t have those fears, and I thought for sure, he’d have stayed at the front until we arrived at our destination.
I looked over to Jolie, sleeping peacefully and looking so pretty as her eyelashes fluttered, indicating a dream. At least Hell had granted my other request. She was safe. He’d done nothing to send her running.
“All for you, Moonlight.” My words were a silent whisper, lost to the sound of passing vehicles.
I pulled the blankets higher, covering the throat that had caused me so much pain.
Yesterday morning was horrific. I felt unwell for the first time in weeks, and that resulted in numerous rounds of vomit ejecting from my mouth before the moon welcomed the sun to the sky. The continuous retching had the pain in my throat heightening to an unbearable level.
That was why I need Hell. He handled pain so much better than I did.
I’d started drifting to and from the front.
I could feel stress wrapping its strong arms around my body as Hell tried to gain control.
I feared he was still angry with Jolie. That was why I defaced the hotel room with messages for him, unsure where I’d left my phone to write a note, as I usually would.
I rolled my eyes, thinking over the fine that would be charged to my credit card.
I took a deep breath, wheezing, and I blinked again, taking in my surroundings; Jolie at my side, cars zooming past, not affected by the morning glare. I rubbed at my chest, shifting the indigestion I felt.
I felt full, but looking into the takeout bag at Jolie’s feet, there was no reason for that.
The rice dish Hell would have ordered last night was hardly touched, surrounded by a mass of empty containers—all stuff Jolie had enjoyed.
I should have been concerned for my welfare, but a smile landed on my lips, knowing hunger was a trigger for Jolie, and she’d never have to face it again.
A small voice called me through the open window. The same little sound that enticed me to the surface, bringing the memory of it back.
I opened the door and pulled myself to my feet, my legs wobbling beneath my weight.
The morning air hit me like a brick to the face as I searched around for the noisemaker.
I dropped to my haunches, making a low-calling noise that sounded nothing like I meant it to. My voice was hoarse, and it was hard to swallow, but I continued making the sound until I saw a fluffy tail weaving through the long strands of grass lining the road.
His ginger fur blew in the light breeze, the little squeak continuing as he charged toward me on the cutest little feet.
He lifted his butt as he head-bumped my shin.
I smoothed over his fur and his responsive meow pierced the morning air.
I scooped him into my arms and ferreted the area for any furry siblings or a mother cat.
There was nothing. . . nothing alive anyway.
There was a mess of bones and fur up ahead, and what the cars hadn't destroyed, the hungry birds had.
This kitten was alone.
He needed someone.
The little guy nestled in my arms and found comfort, his fur molting and clinging to the logo of a band that I knew nothing about.
“Hell. . .?” Jolie's melodic voice, laced with sleep, called from the car.
It wasn't my name, but I responded anyway. I slumped into the seat and adjusted it to an upright position. Jolie's now matched. She stared over at me, her big hair so pretty with its daisy hairpin.
“Woodrow?”
She saw some kind of change in me.
I blinked twice, confirming it was me. My fingers stroked the kitten’s fur as he sharpened his delicate claws on my jeans.
“New friend?”
Two more eye blinks.
“Any others?”
One eye blink, much slower than the others. “He's alone.” I wheezed, my fingers adjusting the mass in my throat to let the words pass.
I kept wheezing as I struggled with my breathing.
“Are you okay?”
I couldn’t answer her. I didn't want to sin by lying to the woman I loved. And I didn't want to admit the truth.
Would Jesus judge me for either? My eyes landed on him, hanging from the opal rosary beads I’d wrapped around the rear-view mirror. ‘Would you?’
“Rough day?” she probed, interrupting my silent conversation with the son of God. “Hell was sick a lot yesterday. Maybe it was that ice-cream you ate.”
Again, I couldn't talk, the wheezing continuing with every breath.
“He didn't eat much yesterday; are you hungry?”
Jolie’s stomach rumbled, telling me that despite the feast she’d enjoyed last night, she was hungry.
I took a breath—a deep one—over the realization that I couldn’t sit here at the side of the road all day.
I twisted my body to Jolie, hoping she'd grant my silent request, so I, in turn, could take her for the breakfast her stomach had started growling for.
She sat back, offering her lap by flattening out the floral dress I’d gotten for her before understanding that she’d probably hate it. Luckily, I wasn’t there when she had to put it on, saving me from seeing the pained look on her face.
And luckily, that look wasn’t there now, as she regarded the kitten with a welcoming smile.
I placed my little friend in her lap, and he spun three times before finding comfort in a small ball.
Jolie was never a big animal person. They were something she put up with for me because I loved them so much. And as her hand reached up to smooth over the kitten’s fur, I knew she was doing it to make me happy.
The same as I'd force down a breakfast shake to please her. To keep her in the dark where the shadows of illusion would hide the truth of why I didn’t want food.
I started the engine, wanting the car ride and the added sickness traveling brought to be over as soon as possible.
The radio kicked to life, blaring through the static trying to interrupt the song that was playing; it was loud, so I turned it down.
The tune continued as I pulled back onto the road.
Jolie started humming along to a song about a woman called Sally.
Her soulful sound blended in with the tones of a band from someplace in the UK called Manchester.
. . I wondered for a moment, what it was like there.
What it would be like to start over there.
. . to have the future we always wanted someplace new, if she didn’t appreciate the one I’d already built here on home soil for her.