I peeled off the blouse and tossed it across my bed and then bent down to unlace my boots. Once those were off, I undid my boot band that held my pants in place over my boots and tossed those onto the growing pile of clothes on my mattress.
My belt and trousers were next, along with my army green T-shirt. When I was down to nothing but my boxer briefs, I went into the adjoining bath and turned on the shower. The water pressure in here sucked. But at least there was water.
Bathing with baby wipes was worse.
I peeled off the boxers and kicked them away, stepping under the lukewarm spray and pulling the curtain shut.
I stood under the water a long time, hoping it would wash away my day. But my brain wasn’t going to be controlled, and it went to places I really didn’t want to go.
After finishing up, I tossed on a ratty pair of jeans, a white T-shirt, and a long-sleeved thermal tee.
I sat at the kitchen counter and ate my southern dinner, the picture hanging on my fridge taunting me as I ate.
Finally, I dropped the leg I’d been working on and wiped the grease coating my fingers on a napkin. I pushed away from the stool and stalked over to stand in front of the picture, crossing my arms over my chest as if I were accepting some unspoken challenge.
The faces in that photo stared back at me, reminding me of better days, of days when I didn’t carry around thick scars that no one could see.
Prior was grinning into the camera, a helmet strapped under his chin. A rifle was slung over his shoulder and war paint smeared his baby face. We used to laugh and tell him that he only wore the paint so women wouldn’t think he was twelve.
To the left of Prior stood Gidding. A solid house of a man, with dark skin and a wide white smile. When he wasn’t working, he was lifting weights. When he wasn’t lifting weights, he was flirting it up with any pair of female legs he could find.
They were both dressed in cammies and boots, with covers perched over their regulation haircuts. They were good men. They didn’t deserve what happened to them.
My eyes wandered over the sole survivor in that photo.
Broad shoulders, narrow waist, extremely short, dark hair. The smile he wore was almost an urban legend, because it was a sight that wasn’t often seen now.
He was the least likely of the trio to survive any kind of attack. He was the least likely of the trio to actually be caught in a dangerous situation.
Yet he had been.
And he was the only one who survived.
I almost didn’t recognize that man in the picture, but it was hard to forget a face you looked at every day in the mirror. I looked a lot different now than I did then. Not so much in features, but in appearance. I was no longer young and motivated. I no longer carried an air of youth and innocence.
Now I was just edgy and rough. Scarred and hardened.
I gave a weary sigh.
I spent my days trying to forget. Yet I hung a reminder right on the fridge that I was forced to look at every single day.
No more.
I couldn’t continue to beat myself up over the fact I was still alive.
I snatched the photo off the fridge and carried it to the trash can in the corner of the room. I stood over it a long time, staring down at the faces of my friends who were no longer alive.
Without tossing the picture away, I pivoted from the can and slid open a drawer. It was the kind of drawer that seemed to collect every odd and end in this house. MacGyver would have a field day with this thing.
I shoved the picture into the back, burying it underneath the rest of my accumulated junk that was too valuable to throw away. Then I slammed the drawer and returned to my chicken.
My eyes strayed to where the picture used to hang, my gut tightening in preparation for what it was going to see. Only the space was empty.
My gut released.
Putting that picture away wasn’t going to fix my problems, but it was a start.
5
Honor
I lay there a long time, not daring to move, afraid to breathe too deeply. The earth was damp here, the moisture seeping into my clothes and making me uncomfortably cold. The sun was shining. Why was I so cold?
Because I was in a hole.
Because I was kidnapped and thrown down some sort of manmade pit. I began to wonder how he dug such a hole, how long it took and if he only used a shovel. How did he get out when he finished digging?
Was I going to get out?
A little whimper escaped my throat and it seemed to snap me back to reality. He was gone; it was clear he would be gone a while. My fingers, now freezing cold and super stiff, ached from clutching my possession.
The one I stole.
I lifted my arm, holding it up. It was an iPhone. A little smile played over my lips. He’d been so busy worrying I would puke on him that he didn’t notice my little pickpocket scheme. I wondered how long until he realized it was missing, how much longer after that it would take him to check back here.
My time was limited. I had to act fast.
I pressed the circular button at the bottom of the screen and the phone lit up. It was the afternoon. By now, I would have been showered, dressed in a comfy pair of yoga pants and an oversized sweater, with a cup of coffee steaming at my elbow while I typed away at the kitchen table.
I pushed away the images of my cozy, serene house. I pushed away the panic budding inside me. I was going to get out of this. And once I did, I would have new material to write about.
The screensaver on the phone was generic and plain. A simple blue background that made me roll my eyes. Did he have no creativity at all? I swallowed thickly. Obviously he had some creativity because I was lying in a hole that had to be over thirty feet deep.
The battery on the phone was at seventy percent, and I sent a small prayer of thanks that it wasn’t almost dead. I pressed the small green square that said PHONE and called up the keypad to dial for help.
Quickly I punched in 9-1-1 and then held the phone to my ear with a shaking hand.
Nothing happened.
After a very long time, I pulled the phone away from my ear and stared at it. No signal.
“Are you freaking kidding me!” I yelled. What the hell was the point of a cell phone if you couldn’t use it when you desperately needed to?
“Oh, hell no,” I muttered and hit END.
I sat up, my stiff, cold body screaming in pain. I ignored the intense ache in my ribs, ignored how it hurt to breathe. I ignored the way my cheek stung and my tongue felt thick. I pushed to my feet, using the dirt wall to steady myself, and then blinked at my surroundings.
I looked down at the phone and went to the home screen, hoping there was a flashlight app. There was so I used it, shining it around the hole. It was maybe ten feet wide. The floor was uneven, all dirt, and the sides were the same. The sky seemed so far away when I looked up.