Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 85725 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 429(@200wpm)___ 343(@250wpm)___ 286(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 85725 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 429(@200wpm)___ 343(@250wpm)___ 286(@300wpm)
Smoke suddenly blurs my vision preventing me from seeing where they should be.
Where they were.
The thick white puffs begin to be sucked in by the mouthful, strangling my ability to breath.
Think.
I maneuver myself until I reach the safety of the nearest brick wall and slam my body against it. The impact sends the container I’m holding flying out of my hands revealing contents that don’t make any fucking sense.
Is that…Sesame Chicken? In the middle of the combat? Who delivers that shit to-
Confusion and consternation clamor quickly around my mind commandeering my thoughts and convincing me that I’m in two places at once.
But I can’t be in two places at once.
It’s not possible.
Chinese food in the middle of a mission isn’t possible.
Another glance at the box seems to push away the smoke.
Reveal the frost on grass.
Or is that blood?
My eyes grab a glimpse over my shoulder to see a tree rather than the white wall I rushed to only seconds ago.
Bark instead of brick.
Missing wood as opposed to bullet holes.
More panic seeps into my system forcing me to shut my eyes and cover my ears. Thoughtlessly, I begin to rock. Slow. Intentional. Command that my body connects to the ground beneath me. Demand that my mind acknowledges where we physically are this moment. Under my breath, I quietly recite the trained phrase I taught myself to use in these situations, “That was then…,” my frame continues to sway, “this is now.” The rhythm syncs to that of my statements. “Hiltz was then.” Pushing harder on my ears blocks out any unwanted noise. “Sesame Chicken is now.” Pressure unhurriedly begins to remove itself from my chest. My arms. “That was then…this is now.”
The repetition relentlessly continues at a low volume until I’m successfully yanked out of the hole that is my horrific past and plopped remorselessly back into the present. At that moment, that exact moment when I know without a doubt where I am as much as who I currently am, I let out a deep breath, slam the back of my head against the tree trunk, and drag the open container over to me with the tip of my finger.
You know being without a steady place to live, a job, or people who give a fuck about you is hard enough. Having a trigger that can spiral you back in time with no way of escaping is like having cancer in remission. You’re never sure when it’ll wake back up or if it will at all. You can only suspect. You can pray to whoever it is you pray to that it won’t. But the truth? The full, ugly, no punches pulled to the balls truth is that it doesn’t fucking matter. You still have a ticking time bomb waiting to blow up inside of you. You are a walking disaster. A tragedy on two feet. No one should have to suffer through that or this. No one. Fucking. No. One.
Chapter 5
Jaye
Shit, I’m late! So late! So, so late! Um…alright maybe not exactly late. At least not yet. But I will be if I don’t put a little Panic! in my Disco. You know…like the band? Anyway, this is exactly why I do everything I can to avoid falling asleep on the couch. On one page, it’s the closest thing I ever get to peaceful sleep. Whether that’s two in the afternoon or two in the morning, this couch, this comfy purple clashes with everything else in the room couch, provides me with just enough guilt free mind space to sleep like I imagine the masses do. It’s one of the only things in this house that I bought after Chris’s death. We had a couch when he was alive, of course. It was white. We’re talking, painfully white. Unfortunately – or fortunately for my purple couch – during one of my postmortem sob fests about him, I managed to get red wine on it. And by on it, I mean all the fuck over it. Cushions. Pillows. Legs. I felt like a such a monster that I rush ordered a new one through the tears that night only to have the wrong furniture delivered to me, yet when this plum piece of crazy came, I loved it. For some reason, it called to a little piece of my soul. I didn’t wanna send it back, so I didn’t. Now, on the other page of this cautionary Princess and The Pea like tale, sleeping on this thing is dangerous because I always sleep through everything when I do! Phone calls. Texts. Alarms. Which is what happened this morning and why I need you to excuse me now to quickly go get ready for work.
In impressive timing, I shower, change into black pants, a black camisole, and purple blazer I hardly ever wear, and manage to get on just enough makeup that will prevent my mother from bitching about my appearance if I happen to swing by after book club tonight.