4. Chapter 4
Chapter four
Sunshine
No lie, I don’t think I’ll do that again—tattooing—it’s not my idea of a good time.
The pain wasn’t necessarily the issue, as I’ve been through more than my fair share; it was the small talk, terrible music, and having to sit still for far too long.
My ass is aching so much I swear it’s going to fall off due to lack of blood flow.
Even the Firebird’s cushy leather seats did nothing to make the discomfort go away.
Like the normally-abnormal duo we are, Dad pulled over for a quick bite to eat where I got my usual chicken strips and fries.
He, on the other hand, went for the most unhealthy and greasy cheeseburger he could find on the menu.
Last but not least, we bought the biggest black cherry shake with chocolate drizzle for our sweet teeth.
He may work his calories off later, but I’m going to pack mine on and revel in them.
Nothing like tattoos and sweets to tie off another weird day—they all seem that way.
Halfway through a conversation about Grandpa Patton, Mom calls.
I can’t hear her through the speaker; however, Dad’s expression tells me she is less than pleased we’ve yet to come home.
I mean, it’s only eleven twenty-five, but I get it.
She’s used to the both of us being in the house with her when it’s dark outside.
To remedy the problem, of course, Dad breaks every speed limit simply to get back to her.
Fucking sucker is so in love, I could get high off the sugar content.
I’m not saying she’s needy, either, but if you looked up the definition, her name would be in the citation.
The car growls when we pull into the garage then dies once the e-brake is applied and Dad turns off the ignition. Insistent sucking sounds, as I try to force a chunk of black cherry through my straw, overpower the air-crackling silence and residual hot engine clinking.
My skin is burning; it’s puffy and angry over the scars littering my arm. I’ve added a few of them since moving in with my biological parents. While change is inevitable, I struggle with it more than I care to admit.
Mr. Kensington, my therapist—a man from Florida with gelled hair a category four hurricane couldn’t displace and trouser seams too tight for his stature—tries to convince me that my reluctance to change is so deeply rooted, he thinks my adoption caused the initial trauma.
AKA, I’ve been fucked up since the doctors ripped me out of my mom, threw me across the room like a sack of potatoes, and carted me off to my adoptive parents.
Okay, maybe I’m exaggerating a little bit, but the traumatic foundation was established then and not when the three Stooges decided to invade my thoughts and body.
I sense it before looking; Dad’s staring at me from his side of the car, his face calm and almost deadly while he sits with impatience. Vacating my straw, I slurp down my last pull of shake and smile at him. The noise is getting on his nerves but I hope my sheepish grin momentarily distracts him.
“You done?”
“I am now.”
“Good. I should have asked you on our way home, but do you need me to take you back to the apartment?”
“No, one of my professors taught me how to call for an Uber. My phone actually comes in handy now—other than making a racket from little icons I can’t get to go away.”
“Those are notifications. Texts, voicemails, missed calls…”
“Whatever they are, they’re irritating.”
He chuckles. “That’s what it’s made for, Sadie. To annoy you and track your location.”
“Not unsettling at all.”
“Alright, brat. Inside while we wait for your chariot.”
One a.m. on the dot, my grandfather clock chimes from the top of a bookshelf as I unlock the door and step inside. The time doesn’t matter; I won’t be getting sleep with the amount of sugar wreaking havoc on my body, never mind the insomnia I constantly fight.
The rest of the world may be asleep, but this is the perfect time to walk to the gym and physically burn through my energy like fossil fuels.
It’s key-entry only and empty as hell, just how I like it.
With vacant rooms and mounted mirrors, I maintain a three hundred sixty degree view as I work out. Feels safe, but only ever at night.
Toeing off my shoes, I take a right down a short hall just inside the entryway.
It's an odd place to have the laundry area, but it makes it easy to come in and change, then leave, without getting distracted by all my stuff.
Easing open a French-style door, my gym clothes greet me from the top of the dryer where I left them.
Changing, I toss my others directly into the wash—keeps them from finding their way to the floor and taking a week to hit the laundry basket.
To the right is a closet with jackets and my gym equipment: water bottle, shoes, towel for the sweat. I also have emergency protein powder if I get too lightheaded from hitting the equipment too hard, as if I was born on a weight set rather than a pair of nitrile gloves.
I’m out the door before I can stop myself, dressed in skin-tight leggings and a sports bra, wearing gym-designated tennis shoes and carrying my goods, accompanied by the continuous burn of my new tattoo.
Tonight, my goal is to work my body so fucking hard I can’t remember how my ass aches, or the agitating vibration of needles and ink.
It takes me exactly five minutes and thirty-four seconds to make it to the corner gym.
It’s a decent walk which warms my muscles instead of allowing the spring chill to drill through to my bones.
Frankly, I need all the warmth I can get.
I can’t put on weight to save my life, so I rely on fitness to convince myself I’m healing.
I’ve done everything—increased my protein, carbs, even eaten junk food which makes me nauseous.
That said, there are a few things I can’t live without: Chinese, ice cream, and sour gummy worms. They’re the best and nice to have as a treat, but that’s all I can manage before going back to my usual diet of spite.
I’ve received a few judgmental looks at school, especially when I wear tighter outfits or a better fitting hoodie.
Typically, I stick to leggings and jeans; the occasional skirt is what gets me the most attention.
My favorite outfit, however, is torn shorts and a crop top.
Not at school, not where people can look at me and make assumptions.
I’m working hard to gain, I really am, but something isn’t clicking—I like to think it’s because I’m housing terroristic entities who are feeding on my life force. Super Sci-fi type shit.
Until my therapist and I uncover what’s keeping me from breaking through, I’m going to do what I always do—maintain my routine and scarf down General Tso’s chicken like it’s a delicacy.
Swiping my electronic key, I step inside and make my way to the bane of my existence—the elliptical.
It fucks me up every time. There’s something about the rotation, stability, center mass, gravity, and my will to live that overworks every muscle.
The treadmill isn’t any better, but this is how I get my cardio outside of a few rounds of kickboxing.
I start here then move over to machines and focus on either my upper or lower body.
Sometimes all I do is cardio—if my arms fall off, at least my heart won’t stop working.
Climbing onto the wonky foot placement, I shove my water bottle into the cup holder and forgo a preprogrammed run, settling for a steady stride.
Usually, I overthink classwork when I’m here, or my non-progressing therapy appointments.
It’s hard to get anywhere when you feel like the only way you can move in life is by punishing your body through tedious workout regimens and fighting the hourglass.
Yeah, the ever-ticking clock that lacks all bedside manner—day in and day out. A taunting beast; a constant reminder there will come a day when time stops. I may not be alive to see it—where I can wallow in its death and no longer suffer its teasing.
Ten minutes into my routine, my phone chimes and yanks me out of my hatred for Father Time.
Damn, I forgot my earbuds.
Elias
Only ten more minutes on that thing. After that, it’s useless.
Speaking of—ladies and gentlemen, my keeper.
He didn’t get enough of me—rather, enough of Kate—before we parted ways, and has made it his life's mission to shadow me out of concern. Shaking him has been rather impossible, so I’ve taken on the role of pain in the ass, all because he won’t take the hint and fuck off.
Like the brat I am, I cue up one of the preprogrammed runs. It has elevation and resistance that will have me burning, my joints wobbly, and my heart ready to choke me with its unbridled rhythm.
A three second delay counts down on a small red LED screen; the vibrant color throws gasoline into the fire burning at the back of my heels. Here comes the muted beep—oxygen has now saturated my blood, expanded veins, and seeped into my muscles, all of which prepare me for an oncoming war.
My excitement, my need for survival, senses Kate’s low growl rumbling inside of my cerebellum.
She detests how I punish myself for the things I cannot control.
Hell, that bitch is the one who does the majority of the punishment—which makes no sense as to why she’s aggravated with me.
Still, my legs carry me, my hands squeeze the swinging hand bars, and sweat creeps down my back.
One, two, three chimes come through—God how I wish I could throw this fucking phone into the river and never look at it again.
Electronics are one thing my adoptive parents didn’t allow me to have.
Yes, I was jealous of other kids at the time, but I’m against them now.
People lose themselves in instant gratification, getting high on dopamine when they receive a modicum of attention.