Fighting to Forget Read online

  Fighting to Forget

  J.B. Salsbury

  Also by J.B. Salsbury

  Fighting for Flight

  Fighting to Forgive

  To every child who waited for a savior that never came.

  “Vengeance is mine; I will repay, saith the Lord.”

  --The Holy Bible, Romans 12:19

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-one

  Twenty-two

  Twenty-three

  Twenty-four

  Twenty-five

  Twenty-six

  Twenty-seven

  Twenty-eight

  Twenty-nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-one

  Epilogue

  Coming October 2014

  Acknowledgments

  Fighting to Forget Playlist

  About the Author

  Prologue

  Nothing, AZ

  1999

  I’m waiting, watching the glowing numbers on my Little Mermaid alarm clock. It’s been quiet in the house since twelve oh eight. I close my eyes and listen hard for their voices, but I can only hear the sawing of my dad’s snore through the wall. As much as I want to race downstairs, I have to wait until they’re asleep. I can’t risk getting caught. Fresh marks on the backs of my legs still sting from the last time they found me outside of my room after bedtime. I’ll wait two more minutes just to be sure.

  My tummy hums as if one hundred June bugs are buzzing inside. I’ve chewed off all my fingernails, so all that’s left is the area around them. I nibble and pull at tiny strips of skin. The salty blood hits my tongue and I move on to the next. My bare foot taps silently on the wood floor.

  Blinking through the darkness, I watch another number flip. Time is moving too slowly. I have to hurry. I know he’s waiting for me. He needs me on these nights—the nights after he has a visitor.

  My parents say that foster kids are trouble and that’s why he has to live in the basement. We’re homeschooled and my mom never lets him out; she only brings a few books for him to read. I’ve snuck things to him, sliding them through the space underneath the basement door that’s only big enough to fit my hand. I want to know him, but Mom and Dad say he’s not safe.

  Another number flips.

  I hop from my bed and creep across the bedroom and into the hallway. Wait. I should bring him something. I turn back to my room and grab a stuffed animal, a light brown bear wearing a blue T-shirt that says Las Vegas, NV. My dad brought it back from a work trip he went on. It’s soft and should be small enough to slide through the gap under the basement door.

  Sneaking back into the hall on my tiptoes, I stop at Mom and Dad’s bedroom and press my ear to the cold wooden door. They’re asleep.

  One by one, I take the steps as softly as I can. The wood creaks beneath my foot. I freeze and listen. Nothing but quiet. It’s safe to move again. I skip every other step until I’m finally at the bottom. I run to the kitchen.

  I can already hear him.

  I’m not even to the basement door, and I can already hear him.

  My chest pulls tight. What do his visitors do to him that makes him so sad?

  I run and drop to my knees at the door; my flannel pajama pants make me slide on the tile. I lay my cheek on the ground and search through the space beneath the door, but it’s too dark. His cries echo off the concrete walls.

  “Shhh, it’s okay. I’m here.” My whispers disappear in the black and get lost in the sound of his pain. “Please, stop crying.”

  Don’t wake them up.

  His gagging sounds make my stomach hurt bad. I reach up and wiggle the door handle, the way I always do when I come to see him, and like all the other times, it’s locked.

  He must’ve heard me, because he stops crying. I drop my cheek again, and a small light, maybe a flashlight, moves around in the dark.

  “Hey, it’s okay. It’s only me.” I wait, watching as the light gets closer until finally I see him.

  His cheek drops to the floor just like mine, and then one bright blue eye appears. The white part of his eye is red, and the skin around it is puffy, but it’s still the prettiest color blue I’ve ever seen, like the sky after a monsoon, when all the clouds clear and the sun is almost blinding against it. Dark black eyelashes are clumped together from his tears, and thick black hair is stuck to the part of his forehead I can see. His nose is red and his lips are swollen.

  “You came.” His words are croaked, and he hiccups on the leftovers of his crying.

  “Yeah, I’m here.” I reach my hand through the crack and he quickly snatches it in his. “Are you okay?”

  His grip on my hand tightens, and he wraps his other hand around my fingers too. “Better now.”

  “I brought you something.” With my free hand, I shove the bear under the door.

  His eye darts down, and he releases one hand to snatch the bear. “For me?”

  “Yeah, he’s really soft. I thought it might help you sleep.”

  He’s quiet, staring at the bear. “Sleep.” He clutches it between his hands and mine. “Thanks, Gia.”

  The visitors who make him cry have been showing up more and more. At first it was the same men, but now there are new faces. I get locked in my room while they’re here, but I see them leave the house from my window. My mom tells me it’s none of my business when I ask why he gets visitors and I don’t. I guess they’re the foster care people coming to check on him. Maybe they tell him he’s a bad kid. That would make me sad.

  “Was that man mean to you?”

  His eye goes wide, he breathes in a deep breath, and his lip shakes.

  Watching him cry feels funny. I don’t know much about boys, but I’m pretty sure ten-year-old ones don’t get this sad.

  “Shh, it’s okay.” I try to hold his hand tighter, to let him know I’m here and not going to leave him, but his grip is so strong my fingers don’t move. “You’re not a bad kid, shhh.”

  His crying gets louder. My heart races.

  “Please, it’s okay.” I turn to look behind me out of fear that one of my parents will catch us. I don’t want to go back into the dark. “They’ll wake up if we’re not quiet.”

  Some nights are bad like this, where he can’t calm down enough to breathe. On these nights, there’s only one thing that works to make him stop. The first time I tried it I was desperate for anything that would work. It did.

  I start off in whispers and sing one of the only songs I know by heart, “Silent Night.” He quiets and his breath comes in hitches, until finally he stops crying. The song is so easy, I keep singing to avoid him breaking down again. Finally, my voice croaking and throat dry, I stop.

  “I’m gonna die in here.” His voice so soft I wonder if I imagined it.

  “Don’t say that. If I can figure out where they hide the key, I could—”

  “No.” He sounds mad. “Stay out of it.”

  A burning grows in my stomach and moves to my cheeks. “I won’t . . . I can’t stay out of it. You think I’m just a little girl and I can’t help you. You’re wrong—”

  “That’s not it. It’s . . . if you get caught . . .” His grip grows tighter around my hands. “I don’t want them near you. I won’t let them near you!”

  “Shh.” The heat in my cheek
s warms and moves into my chest. “We’ll figure it out. But it’s late.”

  We sit like this for a long time—not talking, only touching beneath the door—each of us with one eye on the other. My shoulder hurts, my arm is pins and needles, and my hand is numb.

  I yawn and my eyes flutter closed. “You should go to sleep.”

  “Sing to me?”

  “Hmm . . . What do you want me to sing?”

  “Anything. Your voice is enough.”

  I sing a few lines of “Rudolf the Red-Nosed Reindeer” and try to force my eyes to stay open. Finally, his blue eye disappears beneath the splotchy pink lid. His hold on my hand loosens. He’s fallen asleep.

  I’m so tired from all the worry and fear that my body melts into the tile floor. “I don’t know what’s happening to you down here, but I promise I’ll be here for you always. I’ll get you out of here. You don’t think I can because I’m only eight, but I can. I will.” I slide my hand back from under the door and watch to make sure he doesn’t wake up.

  Pushing up, I stretch and wiggle my fingers. Placing my hand flat on the only thing that separates us, that stupid door, I make a silent promise to save my foster brother from whatever’s hurting him. No matter what it takes.

  I kiss the wood. “I love you, Rex.”

  One

  Fourteen years later . . .

  Because inside my shell I’m that boy

  Who was never given a say

  The real me I’ll cover and destroy

  To keep the worst of the pain away.

  --Ataxia

  Rex

  “Rex, dude, heads up.”

  I look just in time to see a bottle sailing through the air, and I snag it before it hits the dirt. “Thanks, man.”

  Talon drops down into the folding chair next to me. I pop the cap on my beer and take a long drag. The bonfire flickers, illuminating at least two dozen faces standing around it. Some friends, others strangers, most shitfaced.

  I keep my eyes to the fire but, with my peripheral vision, tune in to a few new faces that look as if they’re out to shake shit up.

  “How many crates did Lane throw in that bitch?” He scoots his chair back a foot, distancing himself from the fire. “That shit’s hot. How can you sit that close?”

  Talon’s been Ataxia’s drummer since the band started. He should know me better than to ask that.

  It burns, yeah. But I like the pain.

  “Don’t be a pussy. It’s not that hot.” Yeah, it is.

  “Not that hot, my ass. That thing’s like, what, at least five feet of pure flame.” He cringes away from the fire. “Good thing we’re out in the boonies or the cops would be all over our shit.”

  It’s become a tradition, coming out here in the middle of nowhere with nothing but our dirt bikes and enough beer to intoxicate a small country. Our band has been playing so many local clubs lately it’s a nice change from the everyday Vegas nightlife.

  The sound of a girl squealing gets my attention. She’s wrapped up in the arms of some dude, and he has her lifted off the ground. She kicks her legs and he puts her down. I go back to watching the fire.

  Tonight started off relaxing, but as the pile of empty beer bottles grows, so does the tension in the air. A group of guys who don’t usually hang out with us followed some girls out here. There are only a handful of them, but they’re drunk, loud, and throwing vibes.

  “Speaking of being all over our shit, who invited the assholes?” I flick my gaze over to a group of girls who’re laughing loud and trying harder than usual. They’re huddled around the guys they brought out here. Chicks and their bad-boy fantasies. No doubt they could smell the trouble and flocked like pigeons on popcorn.

  He laughs and chucks his bottle cap into the fire. “Pretty sure they came with Trix.”

  I shake my head. Should’ve known. She’s a local stripper who hangs around some of the bigger gigs we play. The ballsy blonde is popular with the guys and rightly so. She’s gorgeous. Everyone in the band has had a taste, except me.

  Groupies are notorious for blabbing about their sexual conquests. I prefer to keep my encounters private, but not for the reasons most would think. It’s not the media I care about or the fear of getting a playboy rep; it’s that I hate doing it. Nothing turns my stomach more than my body’s primal needs. I fight off the urges for as long as I can until there’s no other choice but to find a willing female and pray that it’s over quickly.

  A mix of shame and nausea well up in my throat. I swallow it back with the last swig of my beer.

  My face is so hot it feels like the skin’s about to peel off. I toss my bottle into the flames. “I’m bored. Wanna ride?”

  Talon stands and downs the rest of his beer in a few short gulps, tossing the bottle into the fire. “Fuck yeah.”

  Night riding is a rush. Even with a light, it’s impossible to see anything beyond two feet of my front tire. All the shit I got going on in my head dissolves with an adrenaline ass-kicking. And right now, I’m looking for a beat-down.

  “Hold on. I have an idea.” I move to what’s left of our woodpile and fish out a few long planks, laying them down to make a ramp toward the bonfire.

  “You’re fucking crazy,” Talon says louder than I would’ve liked.

  The small group of partiers stops talking and moves closer to my makeshift ramp. I throw a few two-by-fours that I don’t use into the flames, stoking it higher.

  “Rex, dude, you can’t jump the fire. It’s too tall.” Lane, our guitar player, pushes through the crowd. “That ramp’s only high enough to get you about two feet of air.”

  I ignore him and continue to make the ramp, checking the angle before standing on it to check its stability. Good enough.

  Ty kneels down to check it. “He’s right, dude. You won’t clear the flames.”

  No shit. I walk over to my bike and grab my helmet, which is hanging off the handle bars. Everyone erupts in different versions of what-the-fuck. I straddle and kick-start my CRF-450.

  Talon rushes to my front wheel, blocking me. “You’re going to get yourself killed. That fire’s five feet deep, eight feet tall, and we’re miles away from a hospital. This is fucking lame.”

  “I got it. Now move.”

  “You heard the guys. You won’t clear the fire, bro.”

  I shake my head. “Not trying to clear it.”

  His eyebrows drop low, and confusion pinches his expression. “You’re not gonna jump through . . . ?”

  I rev the engine and wait for him to move.

  He yells something, but I continue to lie hard on the gas, drowning his words in the growl of my bike.

  He throws his hands in the air and moves to join everyone else at the ramp.

  I hit the gas and turn. Rocks and dirt spit from my back tire. My mind spins with the hundred different things that could go wrong. If I hit the ramp off center, I’ll go face first into the fire. I take a second to consider what it might feel like to be burned alive—engulfed by flames, deprived of oxygen, the agonizing burn. My heartbeat speeds with excitement and I settle into the familiar feeling. Danger, possible death, pain . . . there’s nothing that compares. Not drugs, sex, or money.

  A good twenty yards away, I turn and face the fire in the distance. The small crowd of people fades into the background until it’s just the flames and me.

  “Do your worst, fucker.” I hit the gas hard but keep the brake engaged.

  With one full throttle, my bike takes off so fast the front wheel comes off the ground. I lean forward, tucking in for speed. My flesh itches to feel the flash of heat. I spot the ramp, tiny in comparison to the inferno raging behind it.

  Closer, closer . . .

  My front tire hits wood. I’m airborne. I hold my breath. Heat singes my bare legs and arms. I feel a flash of euphoria.

  Then it’s over. Unable to predict my landing, my tires hit dirt. Skidding out, I land hard on my hip and shoulder, sliding in a cloud of dust and rocks.

  Pai
n splinters through my shoulder and feels so damn good.

  “You’re fucking insane!” Talon kneels down by my face. “Asshole! You broke something, didn’t you?”

  I groan and roll to my back. Nah, I know pain. This isn’t a break. Sprain? Maybe.

  There’s a tiny part of me that recognizes I should feel bad. People count on me: the band, the UFL. But I can’t dig up enough concern to give a fuck.

  The pain is all I have. It’s the only thing that reminds me I can still feel. It may be sick and insane, but it’s real.

  I push up, stand, and pull off my helmet. “I’m going to try again.” There’s a small stack of pallets that still need to be burned. “More fire this time.”

  Talon shoves my shoulder, sending a shock of pain up my neck. “No way, dick. We’ve got a show tomorrow night. You’re fuckin’ stupid if you think—”

  “What’re you? His mommy?” One of the drunk-ass guys who’s been picking fights all night comes stumbling toward us. “Let the pussy do it.”

  Great, just when I was starting to have fun.

  Talon steps up to face off with the guy. “Who’re you callin’ pussy, bitch?”

  “Whoa.” The guy stumbles and laughs. “I get it. You’re not his mommy; you’re his boyfriend, that it?”

  My muscles tense. “What the fuck’s your problem?” Heat ignites my blood.

  The guy grins through his mustache and goatee. “Yep, you two are definitely fuckin’.”

  Talon and I advance on him just as a few other guys get this mouthy fuck’s back.

  He stands taller now that he’s got back up. “Cocksuckers.”

  My body floods with rage. I cross the few steps between me and the tubby shit. With a shove, I send his ass to the ground and straddle his torso.

  There are things I can’t stand, won’t tolerate. And this dipstick just walked right into one of my no-nos.

  “You call me a cocksucker?” I pull back and slam my forearm into his jaw. He tries to fight back with an uncoordinated swing that I easily block.

  The sound of an argument rages behind me, but I ignore it, seeing this guy through a haze fury, and I rain down shots to his face. A slight sting against my shoulder and jaw proves he’s getting his licks in, but it doesn’t stop me.