Follow Weary Dreams

CHAPTER ONE

– MERCY –

Could a person sink any lower than rock bottom? I can easily answer that question wholeheartedly with “yes, most definitely.” Not that I’d voice it out loud with my returning nonverbal issues. As a child most people thought I was shy, but eventually they linked it to ASD, Autism Spectrum Disorder.

My nonverbal shutdowns were mostly triggered by events. Growing up I managed to control them and started using short words to communicate. Around my mother I’d use sentences and living life with the right medicine made me open up.

Until my mother’s death and the havoc crashing down on me, that is.

Crawling back into my personal space was necessary.

People got hurt every time I opened my mouth to say more than one word.

In my mind, shutting the hell up and slipping back to nonverbal is the easiest solution.

It’s not like talking will solve my issues anyway.

Three weeks ago, I had to leave my childhood home as it had to be sold due to medical debts. My mother needed dialysis, a life sustaining treatment, for her kidney failure. It was caused by a combination of diabetes and high blood pressure.

The doctors assured me it was caused by non-genetic factors.

Still, I lost my mother and the life I knew before everything went to shit.

The first two nights after she died I spent with Linus, my ex-boyfriend.

Is it even a boyfriend if you’ve only had sex once, didn’t like it, and was forced to become his property?

People are assholes. Those who I’ve encountered over these past few weeks are the worst. They didn’t seem to be when my mother was still alive and introduced me to them a few days before she died. However, Linus can also be shoved on the pile of bullshit I endured the past few months.

To be honest? I never should have gotten involved with Linus.

For one, he’s a biker and part of Sheridan Slayers, my uncle Otto’s motorcycle club.

My mother and her brother didn’t get along, hence the reason Uncle Otto was absent all my life.

My mom rekindled that relationship a few days before she died. ..to ask for help...moneywise.

Did the uncle I never knew about help us with the bills? Yes, and no. He did with his mouth, promising to pay the bills and come around with his friends to bring groceries, a few dollars here and there to buy stuff my mother needed. And that’s how I met Linus.

Everything stopped the second my mother blew out her last breath. I should have known Linus was an asshole because his president, my uncle, didn’t care two shits about me either. I have multiple bruises on my body to prove what kind of people they are.

Another person who probably couldn’t care less about me?

The sperm donor who knocked my mother up twenty-three years ago.

My mother never said a word about him, but she gave me an envelope when her body started failing her.

She made me promise to not open it until after she died.

I’ve asked about my father many times, and she always told me it was safer if I didn’t know.

I never understood, and it was the discussion point of many fights. Though, after she died and I finally opened the envelope I understood. Another “kick me when I’m already down” moment for me to discover I was the result of my mother screwing the enemy.

I can hardly blame the sperm donor if he never even knew I existed. Filling my lungs with the cold midnight air, I shift on my feet and hear the crispy snow crunch under my shoes. My breath comes out as a puff of smoke when I release a sigh, knowing I have no choice.

My options consist of breaking into the cabin in front of me or walking back to the town I passed and sleeping in the park.

A shiver runs through me at the thought.

I almost froze my ass off last night. The past two weeks I’ve been traveling while being homeless.

Yesterday I spent my last two dollars. I’m cold, hungry, thirsty, and feel dirty as hell from not being able to shower, and I really need to pee.

Decision made.

Grabbing the straps of my backpack, which holds all of my possessions on this screwed-up planet, I move into the shadows.

The cabin looks vacant when I cup my hands to glance through the window.

Hopefully there’s running water so I can finally get cleaned up, other than washing my face in the bathroom of a diner.

I’d even go for a cold shower because I stink. After not being able to wash myself, or my clothes for two weeks? Yeah, I mentioned the whole rock bottom and beyond, right? Reaching the back door of the cabin, I obviously find the door locked.

Pulling my backpack off, I grab the lockpick set I stole from Linus and get to work.

I guess the asshole was useful in some ways since he’s the one who taught me how to pick a lock.

When he fixed a door in our old house, I asked him to teach me.

Following his instructions inside my head, I get to work and hear the lock turn.

I hold my breath and open the door. No alarm.

A smile tugs at my lips for the small victory, and I slip inside the cabin. It’s a bit warmer inside and I quickly close and lock the door behind me. The place is dark and actually smells as if it’s lived in regularly. No dusty, musty, moldy, old man smell.

Moving forward, I walk toward the fireplace and feel my smile grow when I see the wood nicely stacked beside it. Dropping my backpack, I reach for the firewood along with a newspaper and create the base. Adding some more logs on top, I grab the matches and light the newspaper on fire.

The warmth it instantly creates makes me sigh. Finally. Maybe tonight I’ll be able to get a few hours of peaceful sleep. Being out in the cold is one thing, dealing with a battered body adds to the discomfort. Not to mention the risks out in the open...I’ve been sleeping with one eye open.

I know I can’t stay here, and I normally wouldn’t break into a place.

Normally. I guess nothing is normal about my life anymore.

Gone is taking things for granted. A bed, food in the fridge, a couch to take a careless nap on, access to a toilet, taking a shower.

..the list of things I miss about my old life is long.

My gaze moves to a picture frame sitting on the fireplace mantel.

Reaching for it, I bring it closer and feel a surge of anger fill my veins.

The man standing in the center is older in this photograph, but I still recognize his face from the one in the envelope my mother had, together with a letter and a key I hid.

Why did I break into this man’s cabin? I don’t want anything from my sperm donor, and I shouldn’t take comfort in his stuff when I unlawfully entered his cabin. I committed a crime, and it’s something I’ve never done. A snort leaves me. Maybe it’s due to my outlaw father’s DNA.

Placing the picture frame back on the mantel, I glance around the cabin and take in the room. A large couch is across from the fireplace and two large chairs to the left and right. I’ll probably sleep in one of those and drag it closer to the fire to stay warm.

Walking to the open kitchen, I reach for the first cabinet when my gaze is suddenly drawn to a cookie jar. I eagerly open it and snatch a chocolate chip cookie and shove it into my mouth. Oh, thank fuck it’s not stale. Devouring three more, my empty stomach drops and a wave of nausea assaults me.

I groan and take the jar with me in search of the bathroom.

Better to pee and wash up first to let my stomach settle before I eat some more.

I can never eat a lot on an empty stomach, and the past few weeks have wreaked havoc on my battered body.

I wouldn’t be surprised if I have an ulcer due to all the damn stress.

The bathroom looks state of the art with a bear claw tub, a rainfall shower, and two sinks with a load of fluffy towels sitting next to it.

What I wouldn’t do for a hot bath to soothe the ache in my body.

Hot water might not be an option right now.

So, I place the cookie jar on the counter and reach for the shower to turn on the water.

My eyes widen when I see the steam of the hot water and jump into action.

Meaning I jump in there fully clothed. Oh my gosh, warmth.

I have to add some cold water and my body actually hurts due to the heat raining down on my cold fingers.

Once I’m somewhat warm, I shed my clothes and reach for the soap.

I don’t even care if it’s a male scent. It’s clean and I need it to wash my clothes and myself.

First, I handle my clothes and when they are washed and I’ve wrung the water from them, I throw them into the sink and focus on myself.

For the first time in a long while I feel a bit more like myself when I step out of the shower.

Glaring at the comb, I pick it up anyway since a brush is lacking from this bathroom and start the painful process of taming my long black hair.

Another thing I inherited from my father since my mother and uncle both have light brown hair.

The other visual mark my sperm donor gave me is complete heterochromia.

Meaning I have one blue eye and one brown.

Cool, some would say. Unless you need to have the same damn discussion over and over again with people you meet. No one looks at you quite the same when they stare you in the face and see two completely different eye colors.

I take my wet clothes along with the wooden blanket rack with me to the living room. Placing a few towels underneath the rack to prevent the water dripping on the tiled floor, I hang my clothes to dry in front of the fireplace.

Once I’ve shoved one of the chairs closer to the warmth, I grab my backpack and bring it into the bathroom to wash my other clothes. I have no clue when I’ll get another chance and hopefully everything will be dry when I wake up tomorrow morning.

I’m completely beat once I’ve decorated the bathroom with my washed clothes and wander into the bedroom. A king-size bed looks quite comfy, but after being out in the cold for days I’d rather sleep near the fireplace.

A picture frame on a shelf grabs my attention.

My hand shakes as I reach for it. Swallowing hard, I stare at a picture of my mother where she was around my age with my sperm donor.

Both are sitting on a motorcycle and it looks as if my sperm donor was taking the picture.

I quickly place it back on the shelf and turn my back to it.

This is not why I’m here. Hell, I don’t even know why I’m here. Okay, maybe it was a little payback in the back of my head, but seeking shelter from the cold is a nice reason too. Shit. I could have done without seeing that picture. Why would he still have it? In his bedroom, out in the open?

I swallow hard and snatch a thick blanket from the bed.

I head for the chair that’s calling my name and have the cookie jar under my arm as I settle in for the night.

My backpack is lying on the couch where I can keep an eye on it.

Hidden in there is a key my mother gave me, it was in the envelope along with the picture and the letter explaining about my sperm donor.

I have no clue what the key is all about. First thing on my mind was checking out sperm guy. It brought me to this warm roof above my head for the night, and clean clothes in the morning. Who knows what the key might give me.

Hopefully a safety-deposit box with something valuable.

Though, if she had something valuable, she would have used it to pay for the medical bills.

Ugh. One can dream about a new start, right?

Even if all my dreams have turned weary.

My stomach allows me to eat a few more cookies before my eyes start to feel heavy with sleep.

The warmth in the room, feeling safe enough inside these walls, freshly showered...all of it is overwhelming. Finally, I give in and close my eyes to let sleep claim me.