Helena Hunting: Clipped Wings

Connor’s face flashed through my mind, at first the way I remembered him, but then an uninvited memory floated around the edge of my consciousness and came clear. I had been trying to find a way out, choking on smoke and fumes. I’d found Connor when I’d been sifting through the dead. Everything beautiful about him had been broken. When I blinked, the world was blurred, a fusion of present and past.

The noise, the people, the memories; it was all too much to filter. As the booze clouded my thoughts, I couldn’t separate what was inside my head from what was in front of me. The bar didn’t seem to be a good idea after all.

I needed to get home. I pushed against the flow of bodies, the glaring red Exit sign a beacon for my freedom. Halfway there, someone caught my arm. Fingers wrapped around my biceps and held me in place.

“Hey there, pretty thing, where you headed?” he slurred, spit showering my face as he moved in closer. He was tall, his over-gelled hair spiked into a horrific faux-hawk. His wiry arms were littered with haphazard tattoos. The word patience was misspelled on his forearm, the i in the wrong place.

“I’m leaving.” I tried to shake free, but his grip tightened.

“Want some company?” His breath reeked of beer.

“I’m good, thanks.” I pried at his fingers. “Care to let go?”

His cheek brushed mine, coarse stubble unpleasant as he yelled in my ear. “Aw, come on, you know you wanna party.”

Either he was too drunk to notice that I wanted to get away from him, or he didn’t care. Regardless, my ability to maintain composure evaporated with the unwelcome touch. Today had already been too much. Red-hot rage flared, bubbling up like lava through my veins. Without weighing the consequences, I slammed my fist into his throat. It had the desired effect; he sputtered and choked, releasing me. He coughed out a vulgar expletive.

I spun around, and familiar artwork caught my attention back at the bar. The hand attached to the colorful arm held a beer, poised to tip. Twin rings pierced the left side of a set of full lips. Pale blue eyes met mine, filled not with shock but something closer to fascinated concern. But before he could react, I turned and shoved my way through the crowd until I burst through the door and was spat out onto the street.

The heat gave way to cool wind and a flash of lightning zigzagged through the sky. I shivered and pulled my hoodie on. My hip protested as I broke into a jog, but the ache kept me grounded. The growing discomfort muted the effects of the meds and the liquor. It had been stupid to think I could manage being inside a packed bar. Confined spaces and crowds posed too much of a reminder of my experience. By the time I got home, my hip was screaming with pain, and I permitted myself one painkiller to take the edge off.

Sleep came eventually, and with it the memories I tried to suppress.

A thunderous noise shocked me awake. Disoriented, I looked around. Connor wasn’t beside me. The seat-belt sign was flashing, and a voice crackled through the speaker system. Panic set in as I buckled the restraint, craning to look for Connor. He’d only gone to the bathroom or something. He couldn’t be far.

The lights flickered, and the belt at my waist tightened painfully. Bile rose in my throat, and I gritted my teeth against the wave of nausea.

“Connor?” I called out. Fear overrode every other emotion as we were all subjected to another violent heave.

I looked to the couple on the left. They were holding each other’s hands tightly. Several emotions passed across the man’s face until sorrow settled in his eyes. Before everything went black, he turned to his wife and told her how much he loved her.

I woke up screaming, my tank top and sheets soaked with sweat. The images were still flashing like a slide show in my head. All I could see was the tortured look on the man’s face. The fear and the grief as the plane spun and plummeted. I gripped my hair in my hands and yanked, as if the action would wipe out the memories forged into nightmares. And still I screamed.

When my voice gave out from the strain, I crawled out of bed, my stomach churning. The clock on the nightstand read five in the morning. At least I could justify getting up. I hoped the walls were soundproof, or my neighbor would think I was being tortured. Or insane. Both were not far from the truth.

A small light illuminated the bathroom. I turned on the tap and splashed cold water on my face, waiting for the nausea to pass. It didn’t. The contents of my stomach spewed into the sink; the taste of vodka made me retch again. When I was capable of moving, I pushed up on weak arms and met my reflection in the mirror. The ugliness had forced its way from the inside out. My fingernails pressed hard into my palms, but the pain barely registered. Despair made the ache inside unbearable. I slammed my fist into the glass, shattering my image. Now it matched the rest of me.

HAYDEN

I woke up on Saturday morning with a mild hangover, already late for work. Lisa had left me a message more than twenty minutes earlier.

When I walked in, she was sitting at the desk, browsing the latest ink magazine, checking off things she wanted to order. She glanced pointedly at the clock. “How is it possible to be late when you live above the shop?” The question was rhetorical, because she didn’t wait for an answer. “Fortunately, your first appointment isn’t for another hour. Go get me a latte. Chris called and said he won’t be in until one. He’s feeling worn out.” Lisa’s eyes shifted to me, gauging my response.

We both knew what that meant. He must have found a chick to hook up with after I left the bar. From the look on Lisa’s face, she didn’t approve of his choice, which wasn’t much of a surprise. For the most part, his taste wasn’t very discerning. Female and breathing were typically sufficient criteria.

“Good for him.”

“How was your night? You left early.”

I could hear the hint of potential disappointment. She hadn’t seen what had happened with Tenley, so as far as she knew, I’d done the same as Chris. I hadn’t. I’d drained my beer and followed Tenley out of the bar.

“Not nearly as exciting as Chris’s. I wasn’t feeling the scene, so I called it a night.”

By the time I’d gotten outside, Tenley had disappeared. Despite the urge to go back into the bar and find the fuckwad who’d put his hands on her, I’d walked home instead. When I’d gotten there, I’d been relieved to find the lights on in Tenley’s apartment right above Serendipity and her silhouette moving around behind the curtains. I still didn’t like that she’d walked home alone.

Lisa gave me a pensive look.

As little as six months ago, I might have engaged in similar behavior as Chris’s, although I liked to think I had better standards than he did. It had been a long time since I’d brought a random home. It was the awkward postorgasm kick-out that posed the biggest problem. No one stayed the night in my bed. Hell, no woman I brought home even saw my bed. The couch, the floor, the wall; they were all fair game, but my bedroom was mine.

Lisa was sensitive about casual hookups. I assumed it reminded her too much of her days at The Dollhouse, when it wasn’t just lap dances that were for sale. Lines got crossed in that business all the time until there weren’t any left. Lisa had only waitressed there, but even that job could entail more than serving drinks. I didn’t like to upset her or make life difficult for Jamie, so I refrained from pulling that kind of crap when she was around. Chris wasn’t perceptive enough to realize how it affected her.