DaySleeper

Maggie came back to see me the next day after Kane had already visited. She asked what I had thought of the packet, but didn’t let me finish. She went right on to tell me how if I was feeling up to it, I could leave today. She could even give me a ride home herself. Or wherever I wanted to go.

“Are you asking if I want to go to a shelter for domestic abuse?” I ask her. She smiles, but says nothing.

“My shift ends in an hour,” she says. We don’t say anything.

“Okay,” I agree. Her smile widens and she leaves the room. My heart is pounding.

~~
Maggie’s car is surprisingly shitty. I guess I figured it would be nice, seeing as she’s a nurse. I would think they’d be paid well. I’d hope so. I mean, they are taking care of people.

We pull up to the shelter, a long, one story building with no sign. My heart is racing.

“I—I can’t do this,” I stutter. She sighs.

“I didn’t think you would, really,” she admits.

I stare at her.

“I do this drive about twice a week. I usually drive people here maybe three or four times before they get out and go in,” she says and looks out the windshield, “sometimes I take them once, and I never see them again. But they don’t go in.”

I swallow thickly. Kane and I aren’t like that. We’re in love. He just wants to make sure I love him too. I can prove that to him. I can stay with him, make him better. I want to go back to him. I want to live with someone I love, not in some big, sad building.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Maggie informs me, jolting me from my thoughts. “That cast ain’t pink cause he loves you, baby.”

“It—it was an accident,” I assure her. She looks at me. With a sigh, she puts the car in park, and turns it off. I shift in my seat.

“I was your nurse,” she says, “I’ve seen your entire body. I am the one who cared for your concussion while you were unconscious.”

I don’t say anything in return.

“He cried the whole time,” she says. I feel a small smile forming. “They all do,” she tells me. The smile drops from my face. “They all regret it. Somewhere, deep down, he does love you.”

I open my mouth to speak.

“But he will always beat you. And he’ll beat the next one. And the next one will think they can save him too. Only he can save himself,” she says, “And he will not do it if there’s someone to hit.”

My heart is in my throat. My hands clutch at my bag of clothes that Kane had brought to the hospital for me. So I’d be comfortable. I wipe my eyes roughly.

“I want to go home,” I murmur.

She slams her hands on the steering wheel. I flinch.

“What’s home, Cadence?” she demands, “A man who beats you?!”

“He doesn’t mean it!” I insist.

“Listen to yourself! What if I walked in there and he hit me? Would it be okay then, because he didn’t mean it?” she demands, staring at me. I continue to look at my hands.

“He wouldn’t hit you,” I mutter.

“Why? Because he would know he couldn’t get away with hitting me,” she says. I shiver.

“I don’t want him to—”

“I know you don’t,” she cuts me off, “No one does. So why let him do it?”

“He loves me,” I say.

“Anyone could love you.”

I stare at her. Only Kane loves me. No one else would because we’re made for each other. Plus, I'm lucky to have him. I'm not really a catch, you know?

“I want to go home,” I say again. She says nothing as she puts her car into drive and speeds down the road. I don’t tell her where to go, but I am guessing she was expecting this. We stop outside of the house. The lights are all on. I reach for the handle and she locks the doors.

“Listen,” she says. I turn to her. “You’re not the first guy I’ve driven,” she admits, “You’re not the first one to have me take them home.”

We don’t say anything, and she reaches into the backseat. She pulls a backpack up front. I watch as she pulls a folder out. She takes my bag, and buries it under the clothes.

“I drove him home too,” she says, and unlocks the doors. I stare at her. “Go,” she says. I scramble out.

~~
“How’d you get back?” Kane asks.

“A nurse. They needed the bed. I didn’t want to bother you,” I tell him. He will not look me in the eyes. I am guessing it’s the brace over my nose.

“I am going out to the bar with some coworkers,” he informs me. I nod, and he pushes past me. I hear him locking the doors.

I bite my lip and go straight to the bedroom. I pull out the folder and open it. The first page is a photo of a smiling boy, maybe a year older than me. Old enough to be a man, but doesn’t seem quite there. I stare at him. He has green eyes too. Just like mine.
The next few pages are health records of Greg Holden, 21 years of age now, but the records span a total of three years. Broken fingers at first, a few cuts, a concussion three months later, a broken arm not even a year after, another concussion, an infection, a broken arm again followed closely by yet another concussion, a fall down the steps which led to emergency surgery to stop internal bleeding, a broken leg six months later, 15 stitches three weeks later, an empty period for four months, and then one visit. The last record includes four broken ribs, yet another concussion, a punctured lung, and a stab wound. I stare at the page where it turns blank before turning the page. I stare at the stack of photos, which seem to go in order of the records. I start feeling sick as I get to the end.

I stop just before the end, and stare at the stitches crossing his face I touch my nose, or rather the brace over it. I hold the first photo in one hand and this one in the other. My fingers can barely grasp it around the cast. The same people, maybe. I can’t tell. The eyes are sunken in now and tired. His hair is thinner, shorter, darker. I feel my eyes well up at the stitches crossing his cheek, black and ugly. I wipe my nose and wince as I go to the next photos. I am surprised to not see more photos of his body. I stare at the photo of another man. He’s strikingly handsome, with frustration lines creasing his face, bent awkwardly from how tired he seems. His eyes are glassy, like he’s on the verge of constricted tears. I bite my lip and realize suddenly that it’s a mug shot. I go to the next and find the final photo of Greg. His body is thin and scarred and his skin is blue. I realize with a twist of my stomach that he’s dead. I choke back a sob for a man I never met, whose path I am following.

The next paper is his obituary. It says he died suddenly at the local hospital. Why do suicides and touchy subjects always say “died suddenly” instead of “Shot himself/herself in the head” or “was murdered by intruder/lover/stalker”? Why do we sugarcoat this? Warner’s obituary said he “died suddenly in a car accident”, instead of “murdered by a careless driver”. It made me sick. This makes me sick, but for other reasons. The next is the news paper article on it. I read it through. Even they seemed afraid to point fingers at the man in jail for it. I bite my lip.

Kane wouldn’t. Would he? I shove it all back in the folder and hide it at the bottom of my drawer of clothes. I curl up under the covers, and try to get comfortable. This cast is annoying. It’s off in 6 weeks. I can’t wait.

~~
I wake up the next morning, Kane kissing my check.

“Hey, beautiful,” he says. I smile tiredly at him.

“Hi,” I say, “What’s up?”

“I made breakfast. Want some?” he asks. I shake my head and try to curl back up under the covers. He hesitates. “What did they say?” he asks.

“Huh?” I ask, looking at him. He still will not look at me.

“How long will the brace be on?” he asks, “And the cast?”

“Three weeks, and six weeks,” I murmur. He nods, and gets in bed. “I'm not very hungry,” I say. He nods into my shoulder and I feel tears soak my shirt. I don’t turn to comfort him. He just murmurs he’s sorry over and over, and holds me tightly. I hold his hand finally, and he breaks down completely.

Maggie was wrong. He’s going to stop now. He loves me.