Protector - Laurel Dewey [45]
Hours pass before Jane wakes up on the dirt floor. She is alone. The snow outside has turned to pellets of hail that beat a drowning rhythm on the workshop roof. At first, she wonders if she is dead and that Hell looks just like her former existence. She starts to move but feels a bolt of pain in her tailbone that works its way down both legs. Jane looks in the mirror and sees the dried cakes of blood smeared with dirt crisscrossing her face. She remains on the floor for another hour, considering her next move. About five feet away from her, she spies a gallon jug of whiskey hidden underneath a chair. She drags the bottle closer and pops the cork. Jane looks around for a clean cloth but finds nothing. She tips the jug and pours a handful of whiskey into her palm. Jane then holds her palm against the deep gash on her head. A low, guttural moan emits from her throat but she continues to bathe the wound in the whiskey.
Jane uses what is left in her palm to wash away part of the blood on her face. She pours another handful into her palm and rinses off the thick crusts of dried blood that settled in the crease of her lips. A few drops make their way into her mouth and she winces at the bitter taste. She continues to cover her face in whiskey. Each time, more of the liquid makes its way onto her tongue. She shakes off the flavor, but then begins to notice a comforting warmth enveloping her injured body. Jane takes a small sip from the jug and then another, until she swallows several ounces.
She starts to free-float. The pain in her tailbone fades. A penetrating heat surrounds her body. For the first time in her short life, she feels safe and protected.
Jane drinks another few ounces of whiskey before shoving the cork back into the bottle and sliding it under the chair. Using the chair as support, she pulls herself up to her knees. Jane looks down and catches a glimpse of dark, dried blood in the crotch of her jeans. She unzips her jeans and pulls them down to reveal her underwear soaked completely through with bright blood. She stares at her body but cannot connect with any emotion. There is blood and yet there is no feeling attached to it. She zips up her jeans and drags herself to her feet. Jane makes her way carefully outside the workshop, closing the door behind her and enters the house. The morning sun is cresting in the distance, allowing slivers of light to illuminate the landscape.
Jane makes her way through the kitchen and enters the living room. Her father is sound asleep in his barcalounger, a bottle of whiskey precariously propped up in his hand. Carefully, Jane walks around the chair and starts up the stairs toward her bedroom. The stairwell is dark and full of early morning shadows. The top step creaks and a door slowly opens. Jane looks over to see her brother peering from around his bedroom door.
“Janie?” Mike asks quietly.
“It’s okay, Mike,” Jane whispers. “Go back to bed.” Mike closes his door and Jane softly pushes open her door. She walks inside, but before closing it, she peers outside into the hallway one last time. The stillness of the house blends with the long shadows. It draws her into its grasp. Jane records the memory before closing the door and going to bed.
Jane sat on the dirt floor of the workshop, staring straight ahead. She didn’t jolt out of the memory this time. It was more like sliding out of it, while making sure to leave the door open so she could return to the nightmare.
She finished off her Corona and threw the bottle against the mirror. Jane stood up and grabbed a nearby cardboard box. She dumped every gun from her father’s collection into the box, including the ones he had taken apart to rebuild. Wedging the box of guns under her arm, she snapped the lid down on the