J. Salsbury - Fighting to Forget

Sadness whips through me. “I want you to turn around and walk the hell out of my life. I never want to see your face again.”

Her tears fall faster, but she faces off with a stubborn lift of her chin. “We meant something to each other once.”

“No. Gia meant something to me, but she’s dead, replaced by this”—I roam my eyes from her face to her feet and back in disgust—“lying, selfish bitch.”

She folds from the verbal blow, grips her stomach, and a sob rips from her throat.

“Forget you knew me.” I push off from the dresser and head back to the bathroom. “I’ll sure as shit forget I knew you.”

When my bare feet hit the tiled bathroom floor, I hear her whisper, “I don’t want to forget.” I slam the door behind me, hoping like hell she gets the fuck out so I never have to see her again.

~*~

Mac

I’m overcome with the urge to run. I struggle to take a full breath as the enormity of what’s happened sinks in.

He’s leaving me again.

My heart cramps so badly I grip at my chest. I can’t breathe, think, move, but everything in me begs for escape from the devastation. I need to put distance between me and the only person who’s ever been able to hurt me, the only person who’s owned my heart so completely I’m not sure it’ll survive without him.

Rex is right. Gia is dead. She died the day vengeance took over. Mac was born from necessity and kept alive by hope. I scrub my hands through my hair. God, what did I think would happen when he found out? I was in too far, expected too much.

All I wanted to do was make up for letting him down by telling him everything I know, gift him the answers to his questions, fill in the blanks of his past.

But instead, I did it again. Being a part of his life is what turned him into this: bloody, crying, broken.

I move through his condo like a ghost, not feeling my feet or aware of my body at all. The ride home is a blur of headlights and street signs as my thoughts are left behind with Rex. By the time I pull into my garage, I know what I have to do. I move through my house on autopilot, and within a few hours, I’m showered and dressed in warm, comfortable clothes.

Peace washes over me as I pull up my bed covers and place the pillows in a tidy row at the top. Rex ripped open old wounds, exposed his fears, and gave me everything he had to give. I relive the tender moments, our bodies bared and pressed together, giving, taking, loving. Tears burn my eyes as I force myself to leave the memories here. There’s no place for them where I’m going.

I pack the metal box full of his writings and the bear. His bag still sits in my chair across the room. With no use for it, I slide the rusted metal container in with his belongings and zip it up. I gave him back as much of his past as he’d allow, and what he chooses to do with it is up to him.

Adrenaline should be racing through my veins with what I’m about to do, the unknown as scary as it is liberating. And yet, I feel nothing. I shove as much as I can fit into a backpack and scratch out a quick note to Trix with a check for next month’s rent.

My entire life has been about seeking redemption, giving Rex everything I had, all the information about his past so that he could put to rest his questions. I failed.

It’s time to move on.

Maybe he’ll forget; time will heal the damage I’ve caused. His happiness means more to me than my own, and if he can find that without me in his life, I can die at peace with my demons, finally released from a lifetime of guilt.

I throw my leg over my bike and fire up the engine.

Without looking back, I take to the open road with nothing to keep my company but my thoughts and the growl of the engine. Leaving my past behind me, I say goodbye to Las Vegas forever.

Rex

“I don’t know, Rex. Are you sure it’s a good idea to fight tonight?” Darren studies me, looking for something he doesn’t seem to find.

After Mac left, or after I kicked her out, I called Darren, leaving message after message. Finally at five a.m. he called me back. I’ve been sitting on his living room couch for two hours, going over all the memories that are still flooding in. He’s listened, comforted, and sat silently with me.

For years, we’ve dissected my dreams, lack of memory, and compulsions. This is the kind of breakthrough he always hoped for. Too bad the triumph in psychology feels like being eaten alive from the inside out.

I’m drained, but I can’t sleep. I’m not hungry. I feel nothing. Numb all over and distant. Like an out of body experience I’m watching from someone else’s perspective.

“I have to fight. Can’t let down the UFL.” My words sound robotic. “They’re all I’ve got.”

He nods. “You’ve had an unimaginable few days, making breakthroughs only to . . .” He shakes his head then rubs his eyes. “Fuck, I’m sorry.” Clearing the emotion from his throat, he sniffs and meets my eyes. “You’ve got me too.”

Yeah, and as much as I know those words are heartfelt, they’re white noise in my ears. I can’t pull up a reaction to them.

“I better go.” I push up from the couch and move to the door like a vapor, there in one aspect, completely gone in another, a body with no life.

He tells me to call if I need anything and that I should meet him at the office tomorrow. I don’t know why. He’s heard all that I know. The past is back; my memories are released from the mental vault I’d had them stored.

Now what?

Can healing ever be found for a boy who was abandoned by his mother and given as a sex toy to adult men only to end up in a group home with not a single person to call family?

Not even close to being ready to answer that question, I move through the day as I should. Back at my condo, I clean up the broken glass and straighten my room. Order is dependable. Cleanliness on the outside covers the dirt that infiltrates my insides.

A hot shower later and I’m staring at a full cup of protein shake. I have to put something in my stomach, or I’ll get destroyed in the fight. My camp needs this win. They depend on me. I pinch my eyes closed and open my throat, throwing back a healthy gulp. My stomach revolts against the intrusion and I gag. I force myself to finish it and pray that it stays down.

On the drive to the training center, my muscles begin to unwind. The guys I fight with don’t know about my past. They won’t look at me with pity or empathy as Mac and Darren do. The weight in my chest lifts enough for me to take a full breath.

To them, I’m just Rex the man, not Rex the boy.

Pushing through the lobby doors, the sweat and plastic covered foam smell of the training center inundates my senses, and its familiarity works as a salve to my nerves. My breath comes easier with every step that brings me closer to the locker room.

“There’s our welterweight.” Cameron’s standing with a couple fighters from Reece’s camp, clipboard in hand. “You’re late. Let’s get you weighed in.” He turns toward the locker room and motions for me to follow.

This is good. The normalcy of fighting is exactly what I need.

“You have no idea how much I’m looking forward to you kicking that cocky shit’s ass,” Cam says over his shoulder. “Punk’s been up my ass all morning.”

The soft pull of a smile tugs my lips. “I got him.”

He pushes through the door and swings his gaze to mine. “I know you—what the fuck happened to you?”

Tension surges back into my muscles. “Too amped to sleep, that’s all.”

“Yeah?” He glares at my neck and my arms. “Looks like you went one-on-one with a mountain lion. The fuck happened to your arms?”

“Yard work. Got scratched up.” I’m the master of lying about where all my scratches come from. I’ve been doing it for years.

His eyes form tight slits. “Yard work.” The way he says it, as if he’s letting me know my lie is believable but he sure as shit isn’t falling for it, settles in my gut.

“I’ve got a fight to win. Mind if we cut the bullshit and get to it?”

“Sure, man.” He’s still fucking standing here, looking at me as if determination will get me to spill.

I cross my arms at my chest and wait. Seconds pass before he gives up on his mission and moves deeper into the locker room. I follow behind him, and for the first time since I found that fucking bear in Mac’s room, a sliver of contentment breaks through my deadened state.

Life lies within the chain link of the octagon: the sweat, blood . . . the pain. It’s the only thing that reminds me I’m alive.

When most of the time I wish I were dead.

~*~

Mac

I can’t help but feel like I’m right back where I started, sitting in a bar full of belligerent drunks, one hand wrapped around a cold beer and the other clutching the bag that holds what’s left of my possessions.

Even though smoking in bars is illegal in the state of Colorado, the room swirls with the stench of burning tobacco and God knows what else. Clearly the rules don’t apply to those whose motto is “Live wild or die.” The clanking of glasses and ruckus of deep manly laughter mix to make this dive exactly what I expected. Everything, from the women who’re walking around half naked and one hundred percent tanked, to the air in the room, screams one thing.

Wild Outlaw MC property.

This is stupid. I shouldn’t have come here. Speeding away from Vegas, I chose highways at random and drove all the way through Utah until I saw the sign: Denver 465 miles. I remembered Hatch talking about a bar between Denver and Leadville that had a motel attached. I decided that’s where I’d go. At least, until I could figure out what the hell I’m going to do.