Instinct

Chapter 1

Love has never come easily for me. Emotionally immature people have been my only experience of love. My therapist once said that I don't attract these people—I simply allow them around me. But lately, I wonder if she was wrong, or if more people are becoming emotionally unavailable. I think I might be one of them.

The Jones family has a history of trauma, passed down unhealed from generation to generation. My siblings and I were raised through fear, and fear latches onto the mind like an old friend. I roll over in bed and see the clock reading 3:28 a.m. Another night of endless tossing and turning; anxiety never lets me rest. I sigh and pull myself out of bed. "Might as well get high," I mutter to myself.

Reaching under my nightstand, I grab the mason jar holding my stash. As I grind the ganja, the sweet, familiar scent of Kush fills the air and I feel my heartbeat slow. Weed quiets the noise in my head better than any antidepressant. I tried medication, but it felt like poison, numbing me from feeling anything at all. And for a time, I preferred the emptiness. Joy is overrated, a constant up-and-down rollercoaster. Feeling nothing makes me feel invincible—ironic, since I'm still feeling something, even if it's the absence of emotion. The void is dangerous, though, an easy trap for the mind.

Sundae stirs next to me, stretching and licking his chops. As the herb kicks in, I feel a lightness spreading through my body. I glance at my phone and see two missed calls, one from my sister Payton and another from my friend Houston.

Houston and I go way back. We're opposites in personality but twins in humor and interests. Recently, she's been nagging me to start dating again. I'm not against dating, but I've sworn off men for now; they've only ever brought pain, and I'm finally at my limit. Women, though—well, a woman still has needs. I don't like labels, but to paint a clearer picture, I'm a nonbinary pansexual. The media often depicts nonbinary people as more masculine presenting, but I live in my feminine self and don't mind she/her pronouns.

A text from Jade pops up on my screen: "Hey, you up?"

Jade. She's a rare beauty, feeding my soul in both body and mind. We have an understanding; we don't seek to possess each other, but simply exist together when we feel like it. She knows of my insomnia and has her ways of helping me sleep. Thoughts of our past nights together drift into my mind, and I feel goosebumps rise. I shake my head and head to the bathroom, choosing not to reply.

Staring in the mirror, I barely recognize the person looking back. Tired eyes, worry lines, and a few strands of gray. It brings my mother to mind. Fuck her. The mirror fogs over as the shower heats, filling the room with a hazy warmth. Stripping off my pajamas, I imagine peeling away my negativity. I let the hot water wash over me, rinsing away my worries, my fears, and the torment that keeps me awake.

Jade slips back into my thoughts. I wonder if I'm using her selfishly; she recently expressed interest in something more monogamous. There's an allure in committing to one person, but I've always believed one partner can't fulfill all your needs. A relationship, I think, should be made up of more than one connection. But for now, Jade has been my comfort.

Jade understands my dark past without pressing for details, which is why our connection works. She's got her own demons, and we leave them in peace. It might be unhealthy, but it's our reality. The water turns cold, signaling I've been in here longer than planned. I step out, get dressed, and prepare for my early training session.

It's chilly as I pull up to the gym in my old tan Suzuki. My muscles hum with anticipation. The only other cars in the lot belong to Doc, my trainer, and an unfamiliar black Audi. I'm usually the first one here, alone until around seven. As I enter, the bell chimes, and I hear raised voices in the back.

"Thomas, I can't do that! I've worked hard to build something here. I told Jorge all this," Doc says, frustrated. His back is turned, but the man he's speaking to catches my attention. He has this intense gaze, his hazel eyes alive with anger.

"Who's she?" Thomas asks, and Doc finally notices me, startled.

"Belle! Hola! Qué estás haciendo aquí?" Doc sounds flustered. He knows I'm always here this early. He even gave me a key after seeing me have a panic attack in the locker room once.

"Everything okay?" I ask, crossing my arms and sizing Thomas up. He doesn't look remotely intimidated; in fact, he's smirking at me in a way that makes me want to slap him.

"¿Es ella una de tus luchadoras?" he asks Doc, his eyes never leaving me.

"Sabes que estoy aquí," I retort. "Puedes hablarme si quieres saber algo sobre mí. No, I'm not a fighter."

With an eyeroll, I turn to Doc. "If you need me, I'll be in the locker room." I head off, hoping that's the last I see of Thomas.

There's something about him that unsettles me. The way he stared at me with those hard eyes. I'm not about to let him see me sweat, though. As I prepare for my workout, memories of why I started boxing come back to me. It started with Tae Kwon Do as a kid, back when I believed I'd be the strongest fighter in history. That confidence got beaten down by life, but as an adult, I'm fighting again—this time to reclaim my control.

"RAF" by A$AP MOB blasts through my headphones as I begin my warm-up. Doc watches me, finally coming over with a smirk.

"If you keep hitting my bags like that, you'll have to buy me a new one," he jokes.

"Haha, very funny," I reply, barely breaking rhythm.

"Everything okay?" I finally ask, "Who is that guy, Thomas? Is he trouble?"

Doc just laughs it off, reassuring me with a hand on my shoulder. "Nothing for you to worry about, Mija," he says, and heads back to his office.

As I leave the gym, Thomas is leaning against his Audi, a blunt in his mouth. "You're pretty good," he says as I try to walk past him. His voice does strange things to me—my instincts scream danger, but there's a strange pull too.

Before I can think of a response, he grabs my arm. My mind flashes back, my hands shaking. "I'll only say this once," I growl. "Let. Me. Go."

He sneers, "You look cute when you're mad." He leans in, sniffing at my neck.

With a quick movement, I stomp on his foot and bring my knee up to meet his face. He yells and drops back, but when I stand up to leave, I hear a click. I turn to find a gun pointed at my head.

"Get back on your knees and show me that ass again, mami," he sneers.

What the hell is wrong with me? Why am I turned on right now?

"Fuck you!" I snap. His phone rings, and he holds his gaze as he answers. After a tense exchange, he hangs up, still watching me.

"It's your lucky day, puta," he says, tucking the gun away. "I'll see you around, Belle." He gets in his car and drives off.

As I stand there, heart pounding, one thought crosses my mind: Will anyone miss me when I'm dead?