Ride (Bayonet Scars) by JC Emery Read Free Book Online Page A

Esmeralda, in the photo, had been the shy one in the corner.
    "Whatever happened to Ruby?" I ask, hoping for a direct answer .
    "Last I spoke with her she was out in California ." Gloria stands up and pulls me with her, marching us up the stairs and into my room. "Heaven knows how close she is to New York now."
    "What do you mean?" I ask. Gloria is acting weird , even for her. She purses her lips and straightens her back in thought. I allow her to lead me to my bed and tuck me in as though I’m a small, incompetent child. Everything she’s done since we left the hospital feels intentional. The entire situation leaves me reeling, my brain jumping from asking one question to another, ending with few answers and more questions than I can keep straight.
    "Just that I'm not sure where she is right now," she confirms. "It's a big country." She smiles and smoothes my hair away from my face.
    "You trust me, Alex?" she asks. I blanch at the question, my nerves on high alert.
    "Why do you keep asking me that?" I demand more forcefully than I intend, surprising Gloria with the volume of it. My body is so worn out and feels heavy with sleep already. I just want to drift off.
    "Because, I need you to know that everything I've done is for you," she says and goes into another speech about how I need to trust her. I try to pay attention, really I do, but I can't keep my eyes open anymore as I fall into a deep, dreamless sleep.
     

Chapter 5
     
    Trust your instinct to the end, t hough you can render no reason.
    - Ralph Waldo Emerson
     
    I SLEEP WELL for the better part of the night. My mind is groggy, confused. I try to keep myself alert and aware, but can’t get my brain to function. Something’s wrong with me. My limbs are heavy and slow to respond. I can still breathe and function despite the haze, but something definitely feels wrong about all of this.
    Light shines in through my window , much to my dismay. It isn’t quite morning yet, but it’s now moved into that place between darkness and light. It’s too early to be so awake, too early to be dealing with—well, anything. I hear my bedroom door crack open and try to move my head, but it’s too much effort. I give up and wait. Gloria comes into view with a nervous smile on her face. She’s carrying a short stack of clothes.
    “We need to get you up and ready,” she says. For what, I want to ask. The words stall on my tongue. She sets the clothes down on the night table beside me and peels back my covers.
    Gloria helps me with everything from brushing my hair and putting it in a long braid down to tying the shoe laces to my Chucks. She’s dressed me in fitted jeans and a baseball tee—one of my favorite outfits. It’s plain and comfortable and it doesn’t tell the world who I am, unlike most of the clothing my father prefers I wear. “We have an image, Alex” he says. It’s his image, not mine.
    “Why am I so tired?” I ask her as I search through my closet for my favorite hoodie. It’s old and worn and so very comfortable.
    “I’m sorry, Alex,” Gloria says as she stands next to me. “I didn’t want you to flip out so I…” And then I remember something—years ago right after my mother died, I’d been inconsolable. Aside from wearing her dirty nightgown day and night, I’d also been plagued with insomnia. It was awful. After a week or so, I became a zombie. That was when my father took me to the doctor, who had prescribed me some pills that would calm me down. I turn and look at Gloria, eyes bugged out and jaw slack.
    “You drugged me,” I accuse. In my head it’s a fierce yell of betrayal and anger. Out loud it sounds more like a child’s bedtime plea. My voice is hoarse , and the words come out slow. No wonder I had trouble moving in the night and have been in a haze since Gloria pulled me out of bed. I’m angry, though in this moment, I can’t feel it. This is why I stopped taking the anti-anxiety medication. I really hate how it makes me