He hated me.
He hated me so much, he sold me to the Ruthless Kings in Jersey so he could finally have a pay day. I’m just done.
I hate living. I hate going day by day and never feeling like I do enough. I’m tired of feeling like a stain in this world. The Earth will still spin, people will move on, and Eric will see he’s better off. It’s not like we talk much anyway. I only ever talk to any of the Ruthless Kings when I go to the clubhouse for school breaks.
Everyone avoids me.
It’s like I’m a disease, some sort of plague, and no matter how hard I try, I can’t wash it off.
I’m not sad about dying. I’m sad about trying so hard to live a good life when nothing good ever comes of it. Everywhere I turn, it’s another hit I have to take. It’s life, but you know what I’ve learned? Life isn’t supposed to be this hard. It isn’t supposed to be a constant struggle. It shouldn’t be about trying to get away from the abuse all the time. It’s supposed to be filled with some love, with moments of happiness. I see people living good lives, like the people in the club, laughing, holding hands, having fun, and I’ve never had that.
I’ve always had this looming shadow following me, and it has fed off me for far too long.
Life. Isn’t. Supposed. To. Be. So. Hard.
It’s a chant I repeat in my head every day when I’m swallowing my anti-depressants. Pills that don’t even work.
Obviously.
“Jo—” Eric is interrupted when the door opens, and a doctor with big eyes enlarged by his glasses walks through the door. The top of his head reflects under the light, like he freshly polishes it every day for it to be that slick and shiny. Eric rubs his lips together in a firm line, annoyed the doctor took this moment to walk in to ruin the … whatever this was. He releases my hand and scratches the side of his cheek, the new stubble coarse against his fingers.
“Ah, Ms. Davis. It’s good to have you with us.” He opens the medical chart and hums, then crooks his head to the side when he reads something he understands. He has hair growing out of his ears and nose that needs to be trimmed. He seems to have hair everywhere but on his head. “You gave everyone quite the scare, you know. The waiting room has been full of bikers since you were admitted. I have to say, they are a caring bunch, no matter their appearances.” His voice is old Southern, reminding me of a wealthy man who grew up in Georgia who has sweet tea with his dinner every night. His eyes land on Eric, and that’s when he notices the cut Eric is wearing. “Why, you don’t look the type to be a biker; you lot are surprising me at every turn.” He places the stethoscope in his ears and lays the circular part against my chest, moving it right and left to listen to the different sides of my heart.
Eric rolls his eyes as if he isn’t satisfied with the old man’s technique, and it makes a smile tickle my lips. If I remember one thing about Eric, it’s how peculiar he is about how medicine is practiced.
“I’m going to have a counselor come up and do a consult. I think it’s important that you have therapy. Especially since you are pregnant. You need to be on bedrest for a few weeks. A lot of stress has happened to your body, and I cannot guarantee you won’t miscarry. I can’t believe you haven’t, to be honest.”
“Wait. Back up. Stop!” Eric’s face has gone pale, and he stares at me in pain, despair, hurt, regret. So many emotions are playing in his eyes. He scrubs both hands over his face and drops his arms at his side. “You’re pregnant?” he says on one long breath.
I look away, ashamed. I try not to cry, but seeing the disappointment on his face, the one person I thought would always be there for me, hurts more than I expected.
“I see,” the doctor says. “I’m sorry. I had no idea it was a surprise for your fiancé. I’ll give you two some privacy. I’ll be back to give you more pain meds that are safe for you and the baby.” The doctor pats my shoulder, and his big eyes try to look comforting, but they just remind me of bug eyes.
Fiancé? I don’t understand why the doctor would think that, but I’m not going to argue about something so trivial right now.
His shoes squeak as he walks out the door. He makes sure it’s closed behind him to give us privacy. The tension is tight, nearly suffocating, and when I manage to make myself look at Eric, he’s still staring at me, baffled.
“I… There’s a lot you don’t know, Eric.”
“Tell me, Jo. Stop leaving me out; stop making me guess. What’s going on?” He comes around the bed and sits in a chair, crossing his arms as he does. He isn’t happy with me. His legs are spread wide, his cheeks are red, and his lips are pressed together.
“I don’t know…” I let it all off my chest, hoping it will make me feel freer. “I just found out, and I didn’t think I could be a mom. I wasn’t ready. I don’t remember having sex, Eric. I haven’t had sex since before I was kidnapped. I only remember going to a party, and taking a drink from my friend. I don’t remember anything else. I swear, I don’t remember. It doesn’t mean I’m not held accountable, but I swear.” I lift my watery eyes to his. His fists are clenched on top of his knees, and his eyes are wide with horror. “I swear, I can’t remember. I don’t even remember finishing the drink, Eric. I don’t remember.”
“Jo…” His voice breaks as he comes back to the bed and wraps his arms around me. “Are you saying what I think you’re saying? If so, I need names. I need all the information you can give me. This is club business now.” He puts his nose against my neck and tangles his fingers in my hair. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there. I’ll never let anyone hurt you again,” he promises. “You aren’t alone.” He leans away, and I see the determination, the need for blood, and the honesty shining through his eyes as he cups my face with his hands. “You can count on me.”
My lips purse, and fire spears my eyes when the emotion doesn’t stop. “But I can’t count on me,” I admit weakly, but it feels good to say it out loud. A shaky breath leaves me when his hand falls to my stomach and his thumb rubs back and forth over it. I’m still not sure if I can be a mom, but the way Eric believes in me right now, he’s making me wonder if I can be.
“I’m sorry,” he says, pinching his perfectly groomed brows together. He lifts his hand away and rolls out of bed, sitting on the very edge. “I can’t keep it together.” He stands up and swipes his arm across the nightstand, shattering the lamp as it smacks against the wall. “Who touched you? Who made you cut your arms? Who nearly killed you? Tell me.” Eric kicks the chair, and it slides across the floor and then falls to its side. He drops his arms on the bed and grips the mattress. “Tell me!”
“No,” I answer.
He didn’t expect that answer because he straightens and scoffs, placing his hands on his hips. No one would ever think he would be part of a motorcycle club. I hear the guys when I’m there. They call him pretty boy because he has blue eyes and thick wavy hair. He doesn’t have tattoos, and he dresses nice, unlike the typical t-shirt, jeans, and cuts the other guys wear. Eric is usually in a polo and jeans, or khakis.