It worked like a charm, the way it always did before, blanking his mind with pain and then a flush of endorphins to soothe it. These sorts of coping mechanisms are hard to shake when the stresses that manifested them to begin with are magnified by the world ending.
The first time he did it, he was mimicking his mother. She tried to hide it from him, but some nights she would come home from a shift at the diner, exhausted and hopeless, and he would spy her through the window on the back porch, a cigarette between her fingers that she would alternate taking to her lips for an inhale and pushing to her arm. It didn’t happen every night, but it happened enough that he was curious. So, he stole one of her packs while she slept, hiding the mark on his thigh so she wouldn’t find out. He didn’t understand why she did it back then, but the endorphins that came with the pain were enough to convince him it wasn’t so bad…
The second time he tried it, his wife had just left him. Ran off with someone from a dating app, claiming that their marriage was a mistake. He got wasted that night and pulled out a long hidden pack of smokes, burning the sorrow away in his lungs and searing a punishment into his skin for being such a terrible husband that she’d rather leave with a stranger than try to work things out.
The third time was after his final rescue flight to a wildlife facility in Barrow, Alaska, where he missed his window to save a friend. Gwen insisted that he transport the animals first in case anything happened to her, so they wouldn’t be stranded in their cages. How stupid of him to listen. He failed her. Couldn’t even be a decent enough friend to convince her that her life was worth more than a few penguins, and so he did what he always does when he found she had passed before he got back to her. What he always does when he’s overwhelmed with guilt and shame and craves a hit of endorphins. He lit up in the cabin of his plane outside a ruined safe zone and burned the hot end into his palm.
Now, it just hurts. The endorphins are stingy these days. Red, angry evidence of another poor choice stares up at him, but that’s what he gets for falling back on old habits. Thought he wasstrong enough to have kicked it by now. Maybe the urge had only been lying dormant, waiting for the right moment.
Addison’s opinion of him shouldn’t matter enough to have an ounce of influence over his coping mechanisms. She’s no different from anyone he’d pass on the street. He’s only got a hair trigger now because the entire situation is straight out of a nightmare.
It felt damn nice when she found him in the kitchen, and they had a real conversation, though. She wasn’t looking at him like he was a snake waiting to strike anymore. She told him about the grape in her belly and surprised him by laughing about her husband losing his balls.
He wonders if that poorly executed proposition in the bedroom was for the best. At least now she can seehiminstead of waiting for the catch in their deal.
Yeah, a lot of things are blowing his mind lately, and Addison is taking the top spot, but that runner ain’t far behind.
They put off feeding the animals this morning for fear of drawing attention. The fence can’t wait, though, now that it’s letting in bigger threats.
“You don’t have to come,” he says for the second time. “I got it.”
Addison shakes her head, determined as ever. “There are still four panels left, and it’ll go faster with two people. I’m not leaving you to do it alone.”
Truth is, he wants to tell her in no uncertain terms that she needs to stay in this house. She’s got kids to worry about, and if something happens to her, who the hell is going to watch after the girl? Not him. That’s for damn sure. He’s no one’s substitute father.
He can’t forbid her from going. Can’t tell her what to do. He doesn’t know much about her husband, but gets the feeling that she’s had more than enough of that to last a lifetime. If she isn’tletting her fear get the best of her, then all he can do is try to arm her for the worst.
“Alright, come on, can’t go out there empty-handed.” He leads the way into what he’s claimed as his room and takes out three knives from under the mattress, leaving a hunting rifle where it is in the corner. They gotta know how to use it first, and grabbing a gun in the heat of the moment is how people shoot their own feet off.
“The pointy end goes in the bad guy.” He hands Addison two knives. “Aim for the eye socket. It’s softer. You have to hit the brain to drop ‘em. The little knife can go in your…shit, you ain’t got boots.”
He’s appalled that he never noticed she’s wearing thin shoes in early winter.
She hefts the larger knife in her hand, fingers slotting into the knuckle grooves. “I’ll tuck it into my back pocket.”
“Gotta find you some steel-toe boots, this is the apocalypse for the fuck’s sake.”
She raises a brow. “I’ll add them to my shopping list.”
“Do I get one too?” Emma asks, her presence reminding him that he needs his mouth washed out with soap.
“I think it’s a good idea,” he tells Addison, as if his opinion on the matter means anything. “If something happens, then it’s better than bare hands.”
He holds up a knife for skinning game. Smaller and lighter, not meant to kill anything, but the blade is sharp enough if need be.
Addison hesitates as if he’s offering her child candy from an unmarked van. He’s certain she’ll refuse, but then she shocks him with a reluctant agreement. “You keep it in the sheath at all times unless you plan to use it, understand?”
Emma nods, taking the weapon and letting her mother tie the sheath to her pant loop with a hair ribbon. “I will, I promise.”
“It’s not a toy, remember that.”
“I know. I do.”
“Always run if you can instead of fighting. Always.”
“Momma, I know.”
“Okay, there are chips in the cabinet if you need something to eat until we get back.”
