Determined To Live (20 page)

All I'm capable of
doing now is moan and try to keep from passing out. I hear his feet
slap on the floor as he comes closer and then his body blocks the
light once he stands over me.

"Please...please.
No more. I'm sorry. Please," I beg, barely able to get any of
the words out. When I feel his hands on my arms, I expect more pain
and start crying in fear. But instead, he helps me out of the tub and
carries me to the bed. I just lay there, unable to do anything from
the pain in my body and the terror inside me, as he strips my clothes
off.

Jake examines all
the damage done and tells me I was
lucky
it wasn't any worse.
Unbelievable!

Then he disappears
into the kitchen - or whatever the hell is in there - and comes back
with a bottle of whiskey and two shot glasses. I haven't moved, not
even to cover myself with a blanket, and I'm so grateful when he does
it for me after he sits me up in the bed. He pours a shot of whiskey
and hands it to me. I stare at it for a minute until a sharp wave of
pain sweeps through me. Without any more hesitation, I gulp it down
and hold out the glass for more. After a few more shots, the pain
becomes a dull ache. My head, however, turns into a mushy mess.

As Jake and I get
drunker and drunker we talk, joke, laugh. The burn of the white
lightening makes me forget Jake's other side. Makes me forget
everything he's done. Makes me forget all the pain, both physical and
emotional. So when he climbs into bed behind me as I lay on my side
and wraps his arms around me, I forget to be disgusted. I forget to
resist. I forget to stay guarded.

When his body is on
mine, I forget all the reasons it
shouldn't
be.

Slowly I wake and
feel a strong arm around my naked waist. When I try to bend my head
to look at the arm, the pain that shoots through my head makes me
throw my hands up to keep it from exploding or falling off...or
something
.
And the movement of throwing my hands up produces a pain that has
fireworks bursting in my eyes.

What the hell?

And then my eyes
land on the empty whiskey bottle on the floor and the shot glasses
lying on their sides beside it. I vaguely remember saying screw the
glass and drinking straight from the bottle. Little things come back
to me from the night before. But the biggest thing I remember has me
turning on my side and throwing up all the booze, bacon and god only
knows what else on the floor. I feel movement behind me as Jake sits
up and puts his hand on my hip. When he asks if I'm ok, I give a
quick shake of my head before throwing up some more.

I feel him get out
of bed and a little later, a cool rag is pressed against my forehead.
I lay back when the vomiting finally stops and use the rag to wipe my
face. I'm aware of Jake cleaning the mess, but I avoid looking at
him. When he's done, he tells me he's run a tub of water for me and
he helps me get to the bathroom where he seals my cast and helps me
into the water. I lay back and stare at the ceiling, tears running
down my face. I call myself every bad name I can think of, tell
myself how incredibly stupid, worthless, ignorant I am.

I'm glad my
family thinks - or will think - I'm dead. I don't want them to see
me. I don't want them to know. I don't want them to hate me as much
as I hate myself. All I have to worry about now is me, and I don't
even care that much about me anymore.

I look down at my
body and am shocked to see the large mass of bruises that cover me.
Then I remember what happened to start the drinking in the first
place. I sit up, cup some water in my hands, and splash my face. When
I look down at the water after a few more splashes, the water is
tinted dark with the dried blood I'd had on my face all night.

Apparently that
didn't bother Jake at all. Hell, it probably turned him
on
more than anything.

I wash the rest of
my body, wanting badly to scrub my skin, but the pain is too much.
Clean, but still feeling dirty, I give up and lay back again. Then I
finally give in and look over at Jake, who's been sitting on the
toilet watching me this whole time. He grins at me.

I turn my head back
and close my eyes before I start puking again. He never says a word
and neither do I, but eventually the water turns cold and I have to
get out when my teeth start to clack together and my body tightens
and clenches with each shiver. Jake grabs a towel and helps me up and
out of the tub. Then he dries me while I just stand there. He removes
the bag around my cast and then wraps a thick blanket around me. With
one hand I hold the blanket together as Jake grabs my arm to help me
back to the other room.

He helps me back
into bed and covers me up, then asks if I need anything.
Should
I give him the list?

"Just
something to drink, please. Um, no alcohol tho."

Jake laughs as he
walks into the kitchen and a few minutes later, comes back with a
glass of water. I sip it while he goes over to get dressed.
No
need to ask me, I don't even
want
to look this time.

When he's fully
clothed he comes and kneels beside the bed. His hand reaches out for
my face and I flinch away from it. I see his eyes widen and then
harden, and I rush to prevent another beating.

I laugh lightly and
say, "I'm sorry, honey, but my head is pounding. I believe I
drank just a little too much last night." I continue smiling at
him and eventually I see the spark of anger dissipate.

He grins at me. "A
little? You damn sure out-drank me!" He laughs loudly and my
head pounds right along with him.

I
had
to drink so much because of the frikken' pain you caused me, asshole.
Just shut the hell up.

Then he tells me
he'll be back in a little while, he has some things he needs to do.

Don't hurry
back. Oh, while you're gone, could you feed the zombies? Your body
perhaps?

"Ok. I'll be
here." I reply, not giving one shit where he's going or what
he's going to do - I just want him gone.

He leans over and
kisses me, tongue and all. I feel the bile rising but his lips leave
mine before I have to risk pissing him off again. I swallow over and
over to keep from getting sick. The last thing I need is for him to
postpone his little outing. I force myself to smile up at him and
tell him to be careful, then as soon as the door closes behind him,
my smile drops and I allow my body to relax in defeat. The click of
the lock being engaged echoes throughout the room. I don't even let
it get to me.
Why bother?

I lay in bed and
try not to think about everything that has happened. I've decided
that since this is my life now, I'd better just get used to it.
Either I'll be with him til one of us dies - which I realize now why
he thinks I will die before he does. Most likely he's going to be the
one to kill me - or I actually get the opportunity to escape. Which I
believe is only wishful thinking - not something that could actually
happen.

I finally struggle
out of the bed and wrap the blanket tighter around me, then hop into
the other room. The kitchen/closet is bigger than I imagined and it's
not just one room either. There
is
a kitchen, but the clothes closet and linen closet are in two fairly
large separate rooms of their own. Inside the room with the stacks of
different sizes, colors, and types of clothes is a washer and dryer.
Another door leads to the hall, but of course it's locked. I search
the piles of clothes and find a black military t-shirt that's extra
long and extra big. After pulling it on, I hop back to the kitchen.
Opening drawer after drawer, I find that if this kitchen had any
knives before - and I'm sure it did - Jake has removed and hidden
them now.

So I give up and
instead pour me a glass of ice water. Then I hop around the main
room, pausing once to look out the windows. My view is now of the
undead, so I turn away. I hop around a few more times, bored out of
my mind! I'm pissed off at myself that I didn't ask Jake to get the
book out of the backpack. I see a familiar object sitting on the desk
and it takes me a few minutes to comprehend that it's a laptop.

Oh hell yeah!

I hop over and ease
my aching body -
the hopping
wasn't helping with the pain any, by the way
- into the chair. Flipping the lid up, the laptop lights up, already
on. I open the browser and then freeze with my fingers held over the
keys.

What do I do
now?

Was I excited
because I thought I had a way of contacting my family? Why? I don't
want them to know I'm alive. I don't want them coming after me. I
don't want them to die!

So instead, I think
of anything else I can do that will help the boredom, but won't harm
my family. An idea hits and I search the internet for zombie
apocalypse. The results are flooded with games, movies, books, tv
shows, articles - but nothing about the real zombie problem. I search
for more specific results and finally something relevant pops up.

Searching
For Lost Loved Ones

The
REAL Zombie Apocalypse

This website is for
people who are searching for loved ones who have gone missing,
haven't been heard from, and for letting others know of a loved one
who is deceased. Please make your pleas or announcements on the
correct page using the links below.

I click on the Gone
Missing link, and read through the names quickly, not really paying
much attention until I see the names of Kaleb and Grace Holderman and
their babysitter, Lilly Dawson. My heart beats faster and I gasp,
unable to believe that the parent's of those two babies are alive -
or at least at the time of the posting. It has their contact
information and I quickly copy and paste their email address.

I switch over to my
email provider and then stop halfway through typing my email address.
When they contact my family,
they're sure to mention who they had received the email from, so I
can't do this! But I can make a new email account. I'll worry about
the other details later.

So I make an email
account for a totally different person, then click on the New tab. I
tell Grace and Kaleb's mom and dad everything; from the time we met
Lilly and the kids, until I last saw them. Then I give them my mom's
cell number.

Fortunately, I read
the email before I click Send, and delete all but my mom's number.
Then I add; Grace and Kaleb are with the person who owns this phone
number. They're safe and have been taken care of. They had no idea
how to contact you.

Then
I clicked Send.
Sure, it may
be easy for my family to figure out, but it's not a certainty.
At least, that's what I tell myself.

A thought occurs to
me that Jake may not believe I didn't try contacting someone for
help, and panic builds. I delete the history, close the browser, and
shut the laptop's lid. I consider hiding it, but then worry he would
notice if it were gone, even if he didn't notice it before. Not
knowing what else to do, I hop back to bed and lie down.

After lying here
for what seems like hours, but which was probably only just a few
minutes, I get back up, needing to do something -
anything
.
I decide to wash the dishes we've used and that takes less than five
minutes. So I go and clean the bathroom. Ten minutes later, I stand
in the middle of the main room and look around.

Bed!

I'll make the
bed.

With some
difficulty, I'm able to transform the bed back into a sofa and by
that time, I'm exhausted enough to collapse on it. Things are a hell
of a lot harder in a cast, that's for sure. When I get some energy
back and the boredom becomes unbearable again, I head into the
kitchen to make something for lunch. The fridge, freezer, and pantry
are stocked so we won't run out of food anytime soon. I find some
marinated chicken breasts in the freezer and pop some in the
microwave to thaw. Then I start peeling potatoes.

I've got the
potatoes boiling and the chicken baking when Jake steps in the
doorway and scares the living hell out of me. I scream and almost
fall on my ass when I lose my balance. Jake rushes over and grabs me.
I recover somewhat, but the fear turns to anger and I give him a good
slap on the arm without thinking.

"You almost
killed me! Don't frikken do that!" I scream at him.

"I'm sorry. I
really am. I thought you would have heard me." He does look
sorry, amazingly enough. He also doesn't look so healthy either. His
face is paler than normal, except for his cheeks which are bright
red. He's sweating a bit, and his breathing is a little off. Maybe if
he's sick, he'll leave me alone.

"It's alright.
I'm sorry for hitting you."
Actually,
I'm not. But I'm damn sure not going to tell him how much I wish I'd
had a knife in the hand I slapped him with.