Wayward Wolf

Routine

Raymond

I don't know why Frankie even bothers knocking on my door anymore when he drops by. Besides the fact that he's the only person that comes here, I've told him I know it's him before he even parks his truck in front of my house. I keep telling him he needs a new fan belt, but he doesn't listen to me. He can hear it himself and I know he doesn't have the money to replace it, especially since he won't let me pay him back for the groceries he keeps bringing me. Having my younger brother buying anything for me makes me feel like shit, but that's nothing new. Everything makes me feel like shit.

"It's supposed to snow for the next few days, so I won't be around," Frankie tells me as he walks toward my front door. He already put the groceries away, snapping at me every time I even put a toe off the carpet and onto the tile. I could do it my damn self. It's easier if I do it because then I know where everything is, but he thinks I'm an invalid. For good reason, but still.

"I knew that, Frankie. I listen to the news every goddamn day."

"Don't leave the house, Ray, I fucking mean it." With that, the door slams and I hear his truck stutter on outside. Maybe I'll just order him a new fan belt and he can kiss my ass.

Even though he's three years younger than me, Frankie's taken it upon himself to try and take care of me. He'd deny it until his dying breath, but he feels guilty about what happened that day with Jerry. Why I have no fucking clue, he was only eleven at the time, but he does. It wasn't anyone's fault but Jerry's for doing it and Mom's for leaving me there with that rat bastard. I never quite forgave her for it, even when she died from a heart attack six years ago. If she'd just taken me with her, Jerry be damned, none of that shit would've happened. I can't say I wish she hadn't bonded with Jerry at all because I love my brother's, but I hate his guts so much I wish he'd come back to life just so I could choke it back out of him.

I've managed for the last thirteen years, but Jerry took parts of me that day I'll never get back. He stole what chance I had at a future and lit it on fire. There was no high school, no basketball team, and now I get to die alone in this goddamn house.

The only person I talk to anymore is Frankie, and Joey when he feels like calling. The second he turned eighteen, Joey moved to Oregon and hasn't stepped a toe back across the boarder since. He's got a wife now and kids though I've never met them. Every few months he calls to make sure I'm not dead. They never last more than a few minutes and sometimes I wish I could hate him for leaving us all behind so easily, but I can't really blame him. I would fucking leave too if I could. I just hate feeling everyone's stares when I leave the house so I only leave for the doctor's appointments Frankie would whoop my ass for if I didn't go to. It's not like they tell me anything I haven't heard a million times.

Irreversible damage. Hasn't gotten any worse. See me in a few months.

Tired of just sitting on my ass, I get up and make my way towards the garage. In the corner is a punching bag that I somehow managed to set up by myself. Frankie chewed me out good when he found out, but as previously stated, he can kiss my ass. All I needed was a stud finder, a few bolts, a metal hook, and a ladder. Not that fucking hard. Sometimes violence is the only way to get the swirling mess of darkness inside me out. And the punching bag is better than trying to hunt somebody down to hit instead.

I don't even need to change since all I wear these days are gym shorts and t-shirts, so I just grip the bag, take a step back, and swing. The impact vibrates up my arm and the hook squeaks as the bag swings. Every hit loosens the tight band around my chest a little bit more and the memories of that day fade a little. I stand there swinging at the bag until my shoulders burn and my knuckles ache. Really, I should wrap my hands, but the pain is distracting and it's not like they're bleeding. They'll probably be bruised as hell, but who fucking cares. Not like anyone can see it.

Grabbing the bag to stop it from swinging, I rest the side of my head against it and breathe. Sweat trickles down my back and plasters my hair to forehead. The ache in my limbs is a good reminder that I'm still alive, the biggest middle finger I'll ever be able to give Jerry. That fucker is buried while I'm still breathing. That spite is the only reason I made it through my teenage years. Hell, it's the only reason I'm still alive at all.

With one last punch at the bag, I make my way to the bathroom. I drag the tips of my fingers over the doorways as I pass through them and over the edge of the dresser so I don't accidentally slam my hip into the corner. Again. I swear that damn dresser moves. Turning the knob on the shower, I run my finger along until it hits a notch I carved into the handle so I know it's at the right temperature. It isn't long until the air in the bathroom grows humid and I can undress without freezing my ass off.

I stand under the spray, one hand braced against the wall. This is part of a routine I've followed since the day I started living on my own. Wake up, eat breakfast, listen to the news, read a little, eat lunch, sometimes Frankie comes to drop something off or check on me, I go to the garage, shower, eat dinner, and sleep. There's something comforting about always knowing what will happen, but sometimes I hate that this is what I've been reduced to. I'm twenty-seven for Christ's sake, not ninety. The doctor tells me it's good to have a routine, but that I shouldn't let what happened hold me back. The hell. How is it not supposed to?

Done with pitying myself, I grab the bottle of two in one shampoo and conditioner from where it sits on the left rim of the tub and get on with my shower, trying to ignore the ridge of raised skin on my side. As soon as I'm out, I dry with the towel and I grab the first clothes my hand touches from the dresser before throwing them on, having to sit on the bed so I don't fall over when I put my legs into my shorts.

Dinner is what it always is, a frozen meal that's easy to stuff in the microwave and hit the thirty second button ten times. I close my eyes and rest my elbows against the counter, waiting for the timer to go off. When it does, I don't bother opening my eyes and just run my thumb down the edge of the microwave until I feel the button that opens the door. I have a full kitchen, pots and pans and everything, though I haven't turned the stove on even once.

I sit at the table and listen to the wind rustle the branches of the trees outside my house. It's at the edge of town and backed up against the woods. There isn't a neighbor around for miles and it's just the way I like it. I'd be able to hear everything they do and it'd drive me up the walls. Having to listen to all the neighbors so much as flush the fucking toilet as a teenager was horrible. As soon as I was able, I bought this house and have barely left it since. It's easier this way, no one around to bother me or stare. I can shift whenever I want without having to worry about people seeing. Everything I need is right here.

As soon as I'm done, I wash my fork and make my way to my bed. I collapse down on top of it and pull my pillow under my head, not even caring if I'm lying straight. Not like it matters anyway. For a while, I just lay there, face buried in my pillow. The same images that have been forever burned into my brain float in my mind's eye. Jerry, standing over me with hatred and death freezing his eyes into sheets of ice. I'm filled with a strange mix of white-hot fury and hollowing depression.

Brushing the images away, I focus on the feeling of the pillowcase beneath my cheek and pull the blankets over my legs. I listen to the wind brushing the branches of the pine trees together and let it lull me into a restless sleep.