I make quick work of the antiquated lock, the thick metal rattling open and dropping with a clunk. I leave it there and will make sure to put it back later.
That’s the trick—making it like you were never here. I smile at the ease.
And Doc said tonight would be eventful.
I shake my head and tuck my steel pick into the leather kit and slip them into my inner jacket pocket, the one closest to my heart. I doubt I love anything as much as this tool kit. Everyone and everything else has let me down. My cracking tools haven’t failed me yet.
I slide my nimble fingers over the outer frame, feeling each bump and divot, calculating.
Stuck tight.
A quick spray of oil and a slice through the thick coat of paint, and the outer hinge swings open—the contents mine for the taking.
All I need is ten seconds and it’ll be like I was never here.
It’s the easiest score this week. I’m already calculating my take. If this goes to plan, I’ll only be three jobs away from my goal and my freedom.
I’m halfway in the room when the switch flips and the light flares bright. I freeze, my eyes trained on the shotgun that’s trained on my face.
The woman’s cool blue eyes take me in, dressed in all black, my red hair swept into a bun, her finger calmly on the trigger.
“Right on time,” she says, voice clipped.
Doc was right.
Eventful indeed.
A collective gasp echoes through the room as I walk through the door, dripping red on the white stone tile. The room so bright after the darkness from outside and the dim red interior of my truck.
“Shit man, are you alright?” Mac leaps up, dribbling beer on his Alabama shirt and turns off Jason Aldean in the middle of “You Make It Easy.”
This definitely ain’t easy—my entire family staring at me in the sudden silence, the Championship game playing on mute.
“Jason!” Mom shoots to her feet, knocking her wine glass to the floor, her face white. She pushes past my dad, who gawks at me like Saban himself walked in and said how do.
I hold up a hand to stave off her examination, but she pats me down anyway, checking for evidence of injuries. She won’t find any, but she does helpfully manage to contaminate some evidence in the process. I stop her before she gets to full blown hysterics.
“I’m fine. It’s not my blood.”
She freezes, not taking her eyes off my hand as blood run down my wrist like drips of paint. Matt and Bobby eye each other on the couch but don’t say anything. I know they won’t—for now.
The only one who isn’t fazed is Grandpa Richard. He didn’t even blink when I came in. He got the hard look, eyes flicking over me, already assessing the situation, already calculating.
I counted on that.
It’s the main reason I got here so fast. If anyone’s going to save me, it’s gonna have to be him. Even if it was all my fault, I’m still a Montgomery and in this house, family comes first.
I did it.
I hit a goal I set out to do.
It felt glorious.
100 days in a row on this app.
Proof of my dedication, proof of my consistency, my driving force.
I exalt— joyful, proud
I did it.
The only question is what do I do now?
Do I keep going, forever without pause?
Is it can I write for a year?
A whole 365?
Or do I take up a new challenge?
A new feat to climb?
I’m not sure, but for today, I am proud.
And that is enough!
2020 was a good year for me.
It finally sucked for everyone else as much as it generally sucks for me.
I think even my brother Jamie finally understood what’s it’s like to be me, stuck inside, afraid of getting sick, resentful of medical advice, even if it is good for you.
As bad as it was, the freedom that came with it was better. Everyone wearing masks meant I could finally be anonymous. No being stared at. No little kids pointing. No parents shushing them and saying that’s the way God made me. It’s glorious.
I’ve never had that before.
You tend to stand out when your nose and part of my mouth were missing. People turn into literal fish gaping wondering what happened to me. Pushy Christian ladies say that everything happens for a reason or that they’ll pray for me. I don’t know what those thoughts and prayers are gonna do, if God was the one responsible for this. He saw fit to do this, why would he do anything different?
Mom says I shouldn’t be too harsh, though. ‘Jack, maybe God made the surgeons and surgeries.’
I don’t know about that, but they have been getting better. When I was little, all they could do was cut two holes in my face, and fix my cleft lip. Can you imagine looking like Voldemort for most of your life? Growing up pain was my one constant friend. I was always healing from some procedure. As soon as I get well enough from one, it was time for the chop shop to have another. Don’t mind my dark humor, it’s just a side effect of growing up “differently abled” as the new term of the day. It’s way better than freak they shouted on the playground that one year I went to regular school.
Mom always tries to see the bright side of things. It must have sucked having a kid like me that coded as soon as I was born. I spent more of my first year in a clear plastic box than I did with her.
Dad bailed on us, though he sent money and kept us on his insurance. That stopped once I hit 18. He wasn’t manly enough to not have a perfect kid, but too prideful to fully abandon his family. He’s remarried now with ‘normal’ kids. His wife sends Christmas cards.
Mom would say I’m morbid because God gave me a broken face and broken family. She always smiles with the people pray for me. She said God was the only one who got her through.
I’m sorry to say I do thank God for the pandemic. My condition put me at the head of the line for a vaccine and with that came freedom. The docs were so worried about Covid, but my lungs and heart are fine, I just didn’t have holes to breathe or eat from. Once I was vaccinated, it’s like the whole world opened up. I could suddenly go into to stores, go to events, and no one hassled me, except the idiots screaming personal freedom. They’re the same group of people who like to pray for but never actually help people like me.
It’s funny though. I’ve needed help my whole life, so now that I can finally help our family, it’s a problem. James always saw me as a burden, a thing to be helped.
Growing up, he never understood—never had any sympathy. I can remember him, sitting and glaring at me, cause we missed a baseball game cuz my trach stopped working or the weeks of visits to the hospital for every infection. My therapist says I have to let it go because he was a kid, but I know he doesn’t see me as anything but something that got the priority—something that was always taking.
That’s why me making more money than him pisses him off. How does burden baby bro become the meal ticket? I took a course on coding and bring in twice was he does a month, all from my room. He’s got his own place and comes over for dinner sometimes, but it’s hard to eat with all that rage across the table. I don’t really blame him, but it’s good to know where he stands.
What he doesn’t get that I’ve been here too. That I know how much my face impacted the whole family so now that I finally have money, I can pay them back and pay for things.
I’m a whole person. I’m more than my face. I’m more than my experiences. I’m a 100% and that’s what matters.
I don’t know what made today different than the thousands that came before it.
We’re in his family room, same as always, watching Youtube videos on their projector, sound blasting from the speakers. The window’s open and the aroma of fresh cut grass wafts in from outside. My sister’s sitting on the tan carpet in front of us painting her nails an eye-popping lime green on the low coffee table. Mike’s brother Sam is in the squishy arm chair, playing his Switch, car crashes erupting every so often.
I can’t hear them, but our Moms are probably in the kitchen, hatching their lastest MLM scheme—planning beauty parties they swear are the wave of the future, so different than the Mary K of the past. This is their third such endeavor.
All I know is that when Mike reaches forward for more Doritos, I notice the muscle on his forearm. It’s defined, running along the back of his hand. For some reason it startles me. It’s like a man hand, not the skinny bird arms I’m used to. I continue to sit on my side of the couch, but examine him from the side of my eye.
Was he taller? His legs sprawled in front of his side of the couch. Was his hair always so swoopy? The blinding brownish mop hung almost over his eyes. How did he see? For some reason, he looks less like my best friend and like one of the boys inside my magazines.
Out of nowhere, my heart kicks into overdrive and I feel hot. I’m like Grandma’s pet mule, Silas, ready to run at first chance possible. Slowly but surely, heat creeps up my face and I need to get out of here.
I unfold my legs, managing to kick Kristen in the shoulder in the process.
She yelps, almost turning the polish over. “Hey! You almost messed me up!” She inspects her nails and then glares at me. “What’s your problem?”
“I don’t have a problem, I have to go to the bathroom.” I bite back, aware of when Mike’s eyes flick over and counting watching the screen. He’s used to our fighting. We’re almost like siblings, at least that what everyone says. I cringe and want to run even more.
“Then go,” she grumbles, tossing her black hair over her shoulder, brown eyes back on her nails.
I make it to the bathroom without incident and shit the door. I close the lid and sit, hugging my knees.
I don’t believe this.
Do I like him?
Like, like him, like him?
It’s not possible. Our parents are best friends. We’re like brother and sister. He even cut my pony tail once. I’ve known him since before we had permanent teeth.
Despite all that, my hearts still rocketing in my chest and my stomach shakes. I want to throw up.
There’s no way I can like my best friend.
One: Baby smiles. Baby smells. Baby snuggles. Late nights. Worth it. First steps. First words. Love.
Two: Up and running. Bouncing off the walls. So fast. Watch for tantrum time.
Three: A world of words. Now the questions come. So smart. You’re a person now.
Four: No more baby. Now you’re a big kid. So strong. Off for preschool fun.
Five: loose teeth, big grins kindergarten learning time. Growing up, all day long.
“Get down from there right this second, you human headache!”
“You can’t talk to me like that. I’m your patient.” He grins, thick black glasses sliding down his nose.
“You’re also in a tree. Please, Mr. Peterson, I insist. You must come down!” I would stamp my foot, if it wouldn’t make me as childish as him.
“But Doc, it’s so nice up here.” He closes his eyes and breathes. “It’s breathtaking.”
“My view down here is breathtaking too. Can I remind you that you’re not wearing underwear?”
Indeed, a sliver of pale white skin pokes from underneath his blue gown. If I took two more steps forward, I’m sure I’d owe him money for the view he was giving Cedar Ave.
“It’s breezy. I feel free. Unrestricted.”
“You need to be restricted. It’s dangerous! How’d you even get up there?”
He smiles, sunlight bouncing off his thinning
scalp, whisps of white hair sticking out straight like a birds nest. The image of an aging, bespectacled bald eagle flies into my mind and I can’t get rid of it.
“Mr. Peterson, you’re breaking policy and protocol and putting yourself in danger. If you don’t come down, I’ll have to call an orderly.”
“Call him.” He reaches for another branch. “I’m feeling quite disorderly today.” He steps out on the branch, surprising limber for an 78 year old dementia patient. Like so much else, he seems to have forgotten his limits.
I, on the other hand, have reached the end of mine. I move closer, view and all, just in case. I don’t need him falling on my head, but I also don’t need him breaking his hip.
“Mr. Peterson, for the last time, come down!”
“Doc, take it from me. Life’s too short. You should come up. The weather’s fine.”
(Continues into chapter 1 meet cute with handsome guy from past)
The blade paused just by her neck, the vein jumping with each breath.
“I wouldn’t move if I were you.”
Karissa stilled, arms still bound, the metal blade just grazing her dark brown skin. If he stabbed her, she would only have less than a minute to stop him. ‘Better make it count’ she thinks.
In one motion, she tilts her head to the right and back, the knife swiping where her throat used to be, slicing air. She jams her knee up and straight through his crotch.
He gasps, sucking wind as he staggers back. She scrambles to her feet and levers her foot back and unleashes all her rage, connecting with his reddened face.
He drops almost immediately, groaning, as the knife clatters to the floor. She grabs it and it’s her turn. With one movement, everything is suddenly red, a spray blossoming up the walls.
He collapses with a thud. Once a big proud villain, now a worthless lump of meat.
She the knife off on the back of his shirt, the white blooming red, and assesses the situation. Many footsteps pound up the hall and a fist slams into the locked door. “Boss? You okay?”
She smiles. He was definitely not and soon, they would be either. She adjust her grip on the knife and sprints to the door, waiting just behind it.
Several someones are kicking now. The body on the floor must have the key. She pauses, listening. Four, maybe five. She shakes her head. They should have sent more.
The door shudders open and she . . .
‘Assassin Dreams will be continued tomorrow at 8 pm. Please tune in again to see Karissa James in action.”
The screen fades to black and I stretch, my neck cracking. The pod glows a bright blue, the machine whirring overhead. I pluck the the nodes from my skull as my stomach rumbles. I still, waiting to come back to myself. The adrenaline is still pumping through my veins.
‘Good morning, Marissa. The temperature is a breezy 73 degrees. Your dream was viewed by 126 million viewers last night with an 87% approval rate.’
I nod, climbing out of the pod. Solid performance.
Owen’s waiting, gripping my hand, pulling me to my feet, wrapping his golden brown arm around mine. “Good one.” He buries his face in my neck, lips meeting my sensitive spot.
He pulls back and smiles at me, appraisingly. “The chats are going crazy. What’re you dreaming up tomorrow?”
I grin. “You’ll have to sleep and see.”
