I want to thank everyone for reading Between Crash and Burn: Prelude! Your comments were very helpful! I'm adding the first chapter on here to see if the story flows well. I hope you enjoy!
Between Crash and Burn: Chapter One
There was a cracked pipe in the ceiling of my room. Whenever it was time to shower, the corner would gain a puddle, and it would grow over the nighttime, drops falling lazily. The sound of the water rushing through hallow metal sounded strangely like my thoughts, dribbling and sputtering until a wrench would come tighten a few dozen loose bolts inside.
Every time I would shake my head, there was a rattling. Where was that wrench? Maybe I could beat myself until the world was quiet. Except for the water dropping to the concrete floor, of course.
Drip. I would rest on the bed, counting the seconds in between each leak. One, two, three, four, five . . .
“So she’s ready to go?” The double-edge sword of my mother’s voice cut through my concentration and caught my senses.
My on-again, off-again doctor added a smile to her statement. “Definitely, Mrs. Caldwell; Juliette has greatly improved from her last set of tests. Her mental stability has increased by 60%. She’s fit to go home.”
“Good.” The volume decreased. “Now, um . . .about that violent streak. Has she gotten a grip on that?”
“Yes. She hasn’t threatened to kill any of the nurses in a month.”
Doesn’t mean I haven’t thought about it. My cynicism made me giggle.
“And the screaming in the middle of the night?”
Doctor Rochester was wary to respond. “Well . . .no. She keeps shouting, ‘Dad.’ Same time every night.”
“And you really think she’s sane.”
“It’s optimism, Mrs. Caldwell; without that, we can’t give her anything.”
I couldn’t handle it anymore, resistance scratching and scarring the inside of my throat. “I’m crazy, not deaf.”
I felt the two woman blanket themselves in stillness even from the other side of my door. A smirk grew onto my face.
Drip. Twenty-two.
One, two, three, four, five . . .
The door swung open, and Doctor Rochester and my mother came in. The doctor’s face was a lifeless slate, full of cracks and imperfections. Dottie was the pure opposite. She was almost the splitting image of Dolly Parton, except for the fact that she was thirty pounds lighter. That didn’t make up for the slithering thing she called her personality.
“How are you feeling this morning, Juliette?”
My head rolled to the side, letting me glance outside my window. Rattle, jangle, swish, bolts and screws sliding to the other side.
Through the steel barricade’s diamond openings, I saw the snow. I hadn’t seen snow in such a long time. They floated to the ground, dancing to an unknown rhythm as they twirled and dipped and two-stepped.
I was mesmerized but quick to respond. “Cold.”
“Well, here.” Dottie moved into my line of vision to retrieve a folded blanket off a chair.
“I don’t mean the temperature, you dumb bitch.” She stopped, and my head rolled back so I could stare at the ceiling again. “I mean the quality. Emotionless. Callous. Detached.” Drip. “God dammit.”
Rochester said, “That’s a side-effect of the medications we’ve given her.”
“Oh yeah, blame it on the Zoloft-Prozac Cocktail.” I moved to sit up but was immediately yanked back. “You think you could loosen up these restraints, Cathy? I’d like to be treated like a human being.”
Rochester sighed; she obviously didn’t want to because I used her first name. But, being the precious archangel she was, the straps were untied from my forearms. Standing up, I gave her two gentle taps on the cheek. “Thanks, Doc. You’re a doll.”
Dottie’s throat made a scoffing noise that annoyed the Hell out of me. “You know, if you want to be treated like a human, you got to act like one.”
“’Have.’ I have to act like one. Good Lord, how can you talk and breathe at the same time?”
The clearing of the doctor’s throat made me look. There was a beat before she spoke. “I’ve cleared you to go home, Juliette. This visit was much shorter than the others.”
Rubbing my wrists, I said, “Go me.”
“What medicines will we have to take home?” Dottie edged toward me, and I took a rather large step to the side.
“All the bottles are in her bag. She knows the dosages.” She rose her wispy grey eyebrows at me. “Right?”
Refusing to answer, I sauntered over to the window, arms crossed. The snow was now collecting, lacing snowflakes into a brilliant, luminous quilt. For all I cared, the psychiatric hospital could burn to the ground; snowstorms kept me at a death-like ease that consumed my whole body. I could stare out that window forever and not move a muscle.
Dad and I would do that together every winter: gather blankets and steaming mugs of hot chocolate, stare out windows like we were in one of those trinket houses, the center of a snowglobe. He would tell me stories. Every year, they grew up along with me. The subjects morphed from the littlest reindeer to how he met Dottie to dealing with his father’s death.
Everything changes when you grow up.
Drip.
Like your ability to take control.
Drip.
Drip.
Drip.
“Juliette.”
I snapped back to reality and looked at Doctor Rochester and Dottie, who seemed concerned and suspicious.
Turning away from the glass, I felt my soul harden up with a thick layer of ice. “When can I get the Hell out of here?”
“Whenever you like. Hank has your bag ready in the lounge.” Something caught in Rochester’s throat. Whether it was distain or vile, I was unaware.
Dottie sent her a look full of confusion, then said, “Well, I’ll go get your bag and crack, and then we can leave.”
With that, she exited, and it was just me, The Good Doctor, and a bundle of tension. I felt like I was caught in one of those famous paintings that made you wonder about your own existence, question if you were the subject or the artist. Beneath the swirling watercolors and overlying sfumato, I was confused whether I was controlling what was being rendered or not.
“You’re analyzing the situation, aren’t you?”
For the first time in a millennium, my eyes bore right into Rochester’s. Nothing has ever been comfortable, yet eye contact was the worst. When you look at someone’s eyes, you’re unlocking their vault of thoughts. More often than not, you learn something you don’t want to know. However, when I peaked at her eyes, I saw something questionable. They were encircled with coffee irises, sweetened with creamer and hope.
She was letting me be the painter.
“Yes, is that a problem?”
Rochester shook her head. “No, not at all . . .this stay was your best one yet, Juliette.”
I said, arms crossing, “Yeah, I’m practically an Alumni.”
“. . .I don’t expect another visit from you. Ever,” she said with a slight laugh.
“Although I should be relieved, it’s only putting more stress on. “
“I’m out of your hair. The only stress you should be feeling is worrying if you have enough booze to celebrate such an occasion.”
A smile crossed her face, the first one I had ever seen. It tugged at her skin, creating ripples in its wake. “You’re the closest thing I’ve had to a success story. . .” My soul’s icy shell got slippery. “I just hope you can keep it on that track.”
My mouth opened to speak, but her hand shot out. “Goodbye, Juliette. It’s been an arduous experience being your doctor.”
My fingers clasped her hand and shook. “It would be boring if it wasn’t.”
Moving around her, I made it to the doorway before I heard her turn.
“Yes?” I prodded without looking.
There was a long, overdrawn pause. Finally: “Happy birthday.”
The mountainous hills of Tennessee had never been so appealing until acknowledging a car ride with Dottie Caldwell was the other choice. Taking an nap in the electric chair was more enchanting that listening to that whistle-like voice gab and gab.
She found it important to rekindle every event, ones that I hadn’t even missed while I was gone. When she got down to the important stuff, however, details were slim. The inconsistency pissed me off.
Nails dug into the center of my palm, leaking logic into my system.
Keep calm.
Control your crazy.
My silence apparently towered over the entire car, and Dottie wasn’t content with being ignored. “Are you done moping around?”
Looking at her, faint incredulousness swept over me, but it was quickly replaced with spite. “I’m sorry if my depression is bringing you down. You know how I just love causing myself misery and having people treat me like I’m a maniac.”
“Well, you could at least try to get a grip on yourself. It happened ten years ago; your PTSD should be gone.”
“One, it’s Psychological Trauma. If you’re going to offend me, please try to get your facts straight.”
Her claw-like manicure tapped on the steering wheel as we hit a red light. I heard her teeth grind together, something a former debutante was taught to never do. “I’m not trying to offend you.”
“Then stop throwing my condition around like it’s preventable. I can never wipe away what I saw.”
A lump rose in my throat, and my right temple began to throb. It was a warning light, a pulsating shine that I ignored.
“That’s number two: nobody understands. Nobody will ever understand. And that’s what happens when the world turns; everyone is at a miscommunication, struggling to hear snippets between clouds of static and prejudice, and all they do is mutter fake condolences. No one really cares. No one really wants people to succeed or overcome anything. They just care for the crash and burn. That glorious crash and satisfying burn. Like insects flying into a bug zapper, they’re blinded, and, because they’re blinded, they don’t understand. So if you would please shut the Hell up, we can get through this drive without anyone being thrown out of the vehicle.”
Dottie and I didn’t talk after that, even when the snowy Tennessee hills turned into the red dirt-dusted outskirts of North Carolina. I kept staring out the window, not focusing on anything in particular.
The glare was enough to keep me occupied; it opened the memory glass and shook out the contents.
I had heard that the whole family moved to Denver, North Carolina in short, trite letters between me and my younger brother. Although no reason was given, I didn’t concern myself with it. Every one of my family members could move out of the country for all I cared.
Even if I hated my relatives, they did choose a nice house. Smack-dab in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by pines, its backdrop a sparkling cerulean. The home itself was fashioned like a cabin, woodsy and two-stories. A slew of cars crowded the driveway. When Dottie parked it, I saw the pale green curtains shift and shuffle.
“Who all lives here?”
“Well, me, Jeremy, Grandma McCoy . . .now you.”
So all the cars meant one thing.
Slamming the car door, it made the same sound as a shotgun would, harsh and deafening. If only it were made by a real firearm toward my head.
The wind whipped my hair into my face, telling me to shield my eyes from what was to come. I grabbed my bag from the back and stood there as Dottie swung her way up the drive and the porch steps.
I didn’t want to go in.
If I did, I’d see the faces of people I’ve let down.
The blank canvases of those who were better than me.
“Hey!” Blinking, I focused on my mother, who waved me toward her. “Come on now!”
How long would it take to run back to Tennessee? It was about 400 miles, and if I walked a few miles a day . . .
“Are you listening to me?!”
I finally gave in and walked. When I came face to face with her, she eyed me with disgust that only a disappointed mother could lay on her daughter. I wasn’t expecting remorse; my body wasn’t encapsulated by a wooden coffin, surrounded by silk lining or beautifully embroidered pillows. Pity wasn’t on that list, either.
If anything, disgust was a Godsend.
It reminded me that it could only go down from there.
Dottie fumbled with her keys, and, when she got the right one, the lock made a clicking noise. Hustling of footsteps and clanging of metals and rasping of paper’s coming together peaked, then faded almost as instantly as it occurred.
I made a noise of mockery and said, “These guys really know how to throw a terrible surprise party.”
“Just be thankful someone wanted to throw you one.”
The wind’s gust was stronger this time around, trying to push me off the porch. Maybe if I fell down the steps and snapped my neck, I wouldn’t be forced to walk inside that house of faces.
Well, I had to, and every face shouted, “Surprise!”
My expression didn’t change. I didn’t even attempt to act for their benefit. All I did was scan the few people that were there.
Jeremy’s mop of black hair.
Grandma’s fingers that were contorted and bunched and twisted like the roots of a 100-year old tree.
Cousin Johnny’s beard that hit halfway past his beer gut.
They all stood on a carpet whiter than a Christian girl’s soul. There were deer heads and stuffed ducks on the walls. Quaint.
When I focused again, my little brother came up to me. The nineteen-year old was almost as tall as me, and I realized how much his features had in common with mine.
“Are you back, Jules?”
As I looked closer, beneath the features was Dad. My lips turned up into a smile. I yanked him into an embrace. When my fingers smoothed the back of his head, I said, “Of course I am.”
As you could imagine, dinner wasn’t as silent as I would have hoped. The air buzzed with questions and gently prods. I was okay with it, though. Between rolling the peas around and slurping soup, I conversed. I spoke words. I even made full sentences with people.
If Dr. Rochester could hear me now, I told myself, she’d keel over from shock.
Jeremy kept staring at me. The way he mimicked a puppy’s face struck me. I would smile and nod to get him to glance away, but it was like I was an oddity. Some rare, alien entity he hadn’t been in the presence of before. Regret sharply twisting into my side like a crooked, rusted knife.
A knock cut through the evening, and Cousin Johnny stopped his rabid raccoon story to catch the door. I tried to see around Dottie’s mountain of curls to piece together who it might be. All I saw were red-and-blue flashes lighting up the trees by the porch.
Johnny’s full chortle broke the obvious tension. “Clayton! Nice to see ya, old boy!”
Dottie got up, a huge smile revealing lipstick smudged on her front teeth. When he entered the room, she squealed and immediately wrapped her arms around the tall, muscular man from my past. He was in a dark police uniform, one that teamed with his coffee hair to bring out his eyes. The shirt bulged and pulled. In his hand was a pie tin covered in plastic wrap as his other arm hooked around my mom. His smile could kill any woman within a twenty-mile radius, just like he did long ago.
All I did was sit there, paralyzed.
It was like I was back in that moment again, being wrenched to the gravel by his arms. The way his shouting was muffled, even though it was screamed directly into my ear and soul. Fingers digging into my sides, keeping me at bay. He cared enough to stop me from seeing the carnage that was my father’s machine and, coincidentally, my sanity.
All the therapists said that seeing Dad right after the wreck would’ve made my condition much worse. The scenarios they tossed around all involved an ultimate end that would have tortured those who still cared about me.
Clayton saved my life that day.
And I had nothing to say to him.
Feet nailed to the hardwood floor, my body was cold. My knees burned as if they had hit the ground all over again, succumbing to the phantom tugging at my waist. Everything became more intense when he looked at me.
What exactly do you say to someone who saved your life, someone you haven’t seen in ten years? That’s what I needed to know. If there was some forgotten handbook about this sort of thing, I longed for it then. Or at least some Prozac and a hole to fall into forever.
“Hey, kid.” A half-smile came through as he walked to stand behind my chair, placing the pie on the table. His hands softly grabbed my shoulders.
I relaxed and looked back at him. Lips turning up, I said, “Don’t call me ‘kid.’”
He shook me once, laughing fully. “Still stubborn as ever. How ya feelin’?”
“…better.”
I watched him nod, and Dottie said, “Well, sit down and eat. We got enough!”
We all talked about Clayton for a while as we finished the food. Then it was directed at me again when dessert turned out to be a round cake with little flaming sticks on top.
As I yanked my hair into a ponytail, someone dimmed the lights, making the cake and me the focal point of the room. My stomach tightened in disgust. I didn’t want everyone staring at me; they could see all my imperfections then. I squirmed as Grandma pushed for everyone to sing before we burnt the whole damn house down.
The song began, and I tried to decide what to wish. Normally, I wouldn’t bother with something so trivial and meaningless. Whatever I sent off with a blow and faint smoke wasn’t going to become reality. Yet, if I did it, those around me would be thrilled. I could even smile afterward.
Shutting my eyes, I chose my wish. Air rushed from my lips just as a cell phone rang and Happy Birthday ended. Everyone but Dottie clapped. As I sliced the first piece of the pastry, she cut the call off, a content smile plastered on her face.
“Don’t eat too much, baby,” she said to my younger brother, “You have testing tomorrow at Hickory.”
Testing? I kept placing frosted sections onto paper plates. “Testing what?”
The air thickened as soon as I spoke. Nobody moved or breathed. I glared at Jeremy, who stood in the corner of the room, cake in hand. Slowly getting out of my chair, I moved like I was inching toward a wild animal, once that had the same facial expression as my sibling. My feet stopped a few feet in front of him, eyes still on his.
“Testing what, Jeremy?” I said, voice low.
His Adam’s apple quivered, like I was about to kill him.
Dottie cut in. “Oh, just tell her. It’s not like she can do anything about it.”
That’s what she thought. My hands balled into fists.
“Say it.” I didn’t recognize my tone. “I dare you.”
He finally breathed. “I get to test a K&N Pro East ride for TSM. I’m really excited, Jules.”
Red. That’s all I saw.
“Maybe if you went and saw your brother race, you’d ease back into the lifestyle.”
How could he? Especially in a car almost identical to Dad’s.
Did he not understand how it made him look?
“Juliette? Kid, you alright?”
I blinked, and it was like his face aged twenty years. The eyes, the Crow’s Feet, the beard. They all appeared. They smelled of sour cologne and hot tires.
Before I knew it, I was feeling his teeth chatter against my knuckles. I was screaming so loud I couldn’t hear the one word I always shouted. Nails scratched and fingers pulled.
Red. Red everywhere.
Clayton restrained me as Jeremy fell to the floor, freaking out over the scratches I carved into his cheeks. As everyone else rushed around him, I broke out of my trance.
Crazy is as crazy does.