Untamed

“He can’t breathe,” I whisper in horror.

“Emery, grab a shovel and help me dig,” my father demands, pointing at a shovel leaning against the wall. “And stop whining.” When I don’t answer, he bashes the shovel against the wall, missing my head by inches. “Help me or else join your brother.”

My body trembles as I skitter across the room while my father continues to dig.

Clank. Clank. Clank.

My fingers wrap around the wooden handle. I feel so cold inside as I turn back around. My eyes immediately drop to Ellis’s body. I don’t want to do this.

His eyes are still open and his lips move again. “Then don’t. Let your mind take you somewhere else.”

I suck in a breath and shut my eyes. Everything around me fades away.

I’m familiar with drugs as much as my lungs are familiar with air, my body with blood, my wrists with restrains, and my mind with hallucinations. When Evan plunged that needle into my arm, I knew I was going to go under for at least a couple of days. That’s the way it always is with Donny’s experimental drugs. I saw firsthand that night I snuck out what kind of damage his drugs do to people. All those people living on the rundown side of town were malnourished, out of their minds, and tortured by their addiction Donny was intent on feeding.

Still, even knowing what happened to me—that I was dropped into some sort of high—when I open my eyes the panic sets in.

I’m awake.

I’m awake.

I’m awake.

What happened?

What happened?

What happened?

I bolt upright in a bed, but immediately regret it as my head pounds. “God… how long this time?” I mutter as I scan my surroundings.

An unmade bed that’s not mine, a table and chair, a television, and a single window with the curtain drawn shut. Dust lines the orange carpet, and the walls are stained. I’m in a cheap motel room.

“How did I get here?” I fling the blankets off my body and cringe at the sight of the T-shirt and boxer shorts I’m wearing that definitely don’t belong to me, and my bracelet is gone.

The latter is a relief. After remembering what my mother said about her own pendant—about it being so my father could keep track of her—I worry mine may serve the same purpose. Still, I wonder how I forgot about it… And how I forgot about my brother.

Ellis, I’m so sorry.

I rack my brain for an image of how I got here, perhaps an image containing blood staining my hands or with my fingers wrapped around the handle of a shovel. The last time something like this happened was the night I saw my brother dead… God, how could I have forgotten what I did to him? How I helped bury him.

“I’m so sorry I forgot about you,” I whisper, sucking back the tears. “I really am.”

“You did what you had to do,” Ellis’s voice fills my thoughts. “Don’t worry, I forgive you. It wasn’t your fault. You need to let me go.”

I think about how I see him all the time, how I talk to him—talk to the dead. It should mean I’m crazy, but at the moment, I feel strangely sane, like my mind has found inner peace.

Still, I have to wonder what’s real and what isn’t.

“Is this real?” I ask myself, peering around the motel room. “The last thing I remember is being drugged.”

Silence is my only response. Unsure what else to do, I check my arms for more injection sites, but only spot the one, which has faded to a yellowish bruise. I reach for the hem of my shirt and lift it up to check my body for fresh wounds. Other than the faint traces of a few bruises, everything appears to be intact. I release a breath and stand to my feet. My legs shake like two wet noodles as I stumble for the door. After unlatching the deadbolt, I reach for the doorknob, but before I can turn it, the door swings open.

I trip backward and bump into the wall as a man a bit younger than my father walks in, carrying a cup of coffee. He’s wearing a white button-down shirt with a loosened red tie around the collar. His slacks have a stain on them and his shoes look a little worn.

He startles when he sees me, but quickly composes himself. “Oh good, you’re awake.”

I skitter away from him, but my feet are still figuring out how to work again, and I end up tripping into the dresser.

“Easy,” the man says, raising his free hand up. “I’m not here to hurt you. I’m here to help you.”

I grip on to the corner of the dresser as I fight to keep my legs underneath me. “That’s what they all say.” My voice is scratchy, and my throat feels like sandpaper. I cough, trying to clear it.

The man slowly shuts the door then extends the coffee toward me. “Here, you probably need this more than me.”

I shake my head. “Do you think I’m stupid?” I ask, eyeing the cup as if it’s the enemy. “I just woke up from being drugged. I’m not about to let it happen again.”

He glances down at the cup with his brows knit, then he must realize something because I see something click in his eyes. “Right. I get it. Trust, right?” He raises the cup to his lips and takes as sip, watching my reaction over the rim. “See, perfectly drug free.”

“Nothing is perfect,” I tell him, taking a few more steps back. The world spins around me and I stop, realizing that I don’t have anywhere to go. “Who are you? And where am I?”

He sighs and moves to set the cup of coffee on the table. “It’s there if you change your mind.” He pulls out a chair and sinks down in it. “This was never supposed to happen,” he mumbles, rubbing his hand across his face. “If he would have just followed the damn rules,” he shakes his head and lowers his hand, huffing out a breath, “none of this would have happened.”