1985

"Go easy on him, girls, he's little," mother watches from her stagnant position the porch. I've always liked June. The scorching heat that fills the air and makes your mouth dry. Tomorrow is Lord's day, and for my siblings and I that meant no more play after the sun sets. We enjoy it while we can.

I picked up the hose, first. It's cold and somewhat slippery in my hands. I look up to find my victim, and it just so happens my oldest sister is looking back at me. She screams and runs away, a large smile on my own face the whole while.

Suddenly, I feel myself being pulled backwards, my grip still tight on the hose, although that same death grip would be my downfall. I hear my mother gasp before I hear the crack.

I feel a burning sensation coming from my arm, which lay strangely, underneath me. I heard someone crying, and it took me a moment to realize that I was the one crying as my mother scoops me up from the ground.

I'm surprised that at ten years old, my mother could still lift me. I hear apologies profusely shouted at me, above the volume of my own cries. I'll forgive them later, but at the moment I'm on the way to the emergency room.

•••••
1989

I hear my name being called from downstairs, and I swallow my own complaints and head down the stairs. Everyone's all dressed up, even myself.

Mother is wearing her fancier jewelry, and father has his nice ties on. They outfit me in dress pants. My siblings are similarly dressed, except they also wear a smile. They're so different from me, I think, as I look over each and every one of them.

I continue to regard the opposition as we all pile in the family SVU. They turn the radio on to a low volume. It's not regular music, with the upbeat extravagance missing from it entirely. It sounds acoustic, wether or not it is.

Once we arrive at the Church, my family takes their place near the middle, and we all file in. We're somewhat early as usual.

The sermon begins, and it happens to be an in depth discussion over Leviticus 18 & 20. I gently move to place my hand on my mothers arm, grabbing her attention.

"I don't feel good," I silently mouth to her. She slowly nods her head, and I excuse myself from the pew.

I slump against the wall of the cleanly restroom for the rest of Church. It's the last time I come to Church.

•••••
1990

I slowly walk backwards, trusting the pavement beneath my foot to be smooth enough as to not trip me. I walk evenly on opposite sides of the white fog line, but not in an entirely straight line. Headlights come into view, blinding me momentarily. Instinctively, I raise my thumb up to the night sky, my arm held high. The cold February air immediately attacks the point where my sleeve has risen up my arm slightly.

I run my free hand nervously through my hair as the old, beaten up truck comes to a stop. He pulls up beside me, and his headlights illuminate the road ahead of him. His truck must be too cold for the window to easily roll down, as he just sits in silence. Either that or he's just lazy.

I reach out and pull open the door, and immediately the musky scent of animal fur and alcohol hits me. Everything seems amplified, as my headache pounds in my head.

In the dim light it looks as though he has darker brown hair and a messy, short beard. I lift myself into the passenger seat, and he has yet to take his eyes off of me since I opened the door. Once I settle in, without a seatbelt because the truck is lacking them, he shifts into drive and begins down the long stretch of road again. The warmth of the cab slowly floats around me, eventually warming me up.

He continuously asks questions, which I reluctantly answer.

"Are you cold?" His hands are relaxed on the wheel. He must be a fan of rock. 'Sister Christian,' by Night Ranger blares through the stereo; it's almost over.

"Yeah," I say.

"You look young," he comments.

"I am young," I inform him. "Fifteen."

"You are young," he agrees, but he doesn't slow down and kick me out like I've come to expect. I'm both happy and annoyed at both. We both know our intentions, and a part of me can't stand that fifteen is old enough for him.

"I'll need some form of payment... I'm sure you've dealt with this before?" I ignore how forward he is.

"I'm familiar," I tell him with a small nod.

"Where you headed exactly?" He momentarily pulls his eyes off of the road to glance at me.

"Away from home. Probably Chicago," I shrug.

"Chicago ain't too bad. You been there before?"

"No."

"The winters there are hard," he tells me. "You got family up there?"

"No."

"Oh."

"Yeah," I sigh, slumping down into my seat. I rethink my sitting position almost immediately, and sit back up straight. Once I'm sitting up straight, I pull my legs up to my chest. Warmer, now. I feel so little next to the bearded man.

"What's your name?" I ask, unwelcome curiosity plaguing my voice.

"Bill," he responds gruffly. There's no way to tell if this is his real name, of course, but I take the idea and run. Anything, really, to make him a little less of a stranger. "Yours?"

"Brendon," I respond truthfully.

"Got a good name," he tells me. I agree silently. We remain that way for bit, silent, both of us. Eventually, he begins useless chatter again. I wish he would just be silent until we got to motel I know he's searching for.

"You hear about the lights at Wrigley Field, up there?"

"Huh?" I question, not really paying attention to his boring small talk. 'Runaway,' by Bon Jovi picks up on the stereo, ironically.

"A couple years ago," he explains, "they installed the lights at Wrigley Field. Was a big deal, you know? They're finally able to play games at night, now. Maybe you'll see one of their games while you're up there, eh?"

"Yeah, maybe." I shrug, disinterestedly. I've never cared much for baseball, that was my father's hobby.

'MOTEL' in bright, neon letters appears on the edge of what seems to be a very small town. He grins at me, and quickly parks the truck, managing to take up two stalls.

•••••
1992

I wipe the tables quickly, preparing for the next set of customers to come in. It's busy now, and I don't get much time to rest. I'm not entirely complaining. I'm not eighteen yet, so I don't get normal pay, however, to be fair my boss really doesn't pay me what little he should. I get about half of what I think I should be getting by now.

Although, I shouldn't even hint at any complaints I may have, as anything is better than what I had done to afford the move out here. It's been a few months since I've entirely retired from ... that line from work.

I return to the kitchen, rinsing the dirty rag I have in the murky water. Boss is a cheapskate, and doesn't spend money on things to improve them. The bare minimum, always.

Suddenly, the door bursts open and now the neutral April air floats into the room, enveloping the restaurant easily. There's a man in the doorway. He's older than me and his hair is a mess. His cheeks are slightly reddened.

"Hey! Mark!" He yells the name of my manager loudly, and several customers and I turn to look at the cause of the commotion.

"Mark, Mark," the man rushes out, leaning on the counter when my manager comes up to the front of the restaurant to greet him.

"Lower your voice," he says roughly, crossing his arms. He's a big man, and not originally from Chicago. The man who was yelling for him earlier had a very obvious Chicago accent, indicating he was born and raised here.

"Mark," he says yet again. "Did you hear?" He continues without waiting for Mark's response, "There's been a flood!" He exclaims, looking grief stricken.

"Well, where?" Mark asks him as I pretend not to stare. I pick up a broom and move a little closer to the pair. I absentmindedly begin sweeping.

"Downtown, it's- Theres so much water, Mark, I swear! So much, Loop- it's flooded, even. They can't say why yet, or anything, but it's flooded," he gets quieter as he speaks, and having snooped enough, I begin to slowly sweep in the opposite direction.

•••••
2001

I am constantly lost in thought. I am constantly rambling in my head.

My father used to have this brilliantly dumb saying, and it went a little like this: "If you don't want to be hurt, then don't let yourself be hurt." Then he'd scrunch up his face, spit into that disgusting old can of soda, that I can guarantee hadn't had actual soda in it for weeks prior, and lean back, content in his own world, one I'd later find he liked better without me.

Until now, I hadn't really understood what he had meant by that, or what significance that phrase would soon carry. In all reality I had thought that it was a reference to baseball, however - eventually it became clear. I just hadn't had the life experience to understand. Sometimes I wish I didn't, but it's not a feeling of regret that pushes me to wish, it's more than that, some form of amplified regret. However, it's not really regret at all if you'd do it all again, is it?

As of now, it might not yet be clear how this simple phrase weaved and wrapped itself into my life; a serpent, cold and dark, slowly suffocating any unsuspecting prey. However, if you care to listen, I'll just have to explain.

Although heartbreak is not quick and easy to explain. Heartbreak is not simple. Heartbreak is not a few words, eloquently placed upon a milky white page. Heartbreak could be said with four letter words if it could be said with only words exceeding twelve. But that's the beauty of it, it cannot be said.

I'll try my best, but let's be honest. This is far more for me to try to cope, than it is for you to listen and learn, but let's attempt both.

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Playlist for story can be found in my other works.