Bottom Feeder Read online

  “What does that even mean?” Maddy asks.

  “He has to pee,” Beraz answers. “Come on, Monroe. There’s a bathroom right here.”

  The next thing I know I’m on the floor in front of a bathroom stall with Beraz struggling to lift me up.

  “Monroe, you have to cooperate or I’m leaving you on this shitty floor.”

  I am cooperating. I think. I don’t feel good.

  “You know what? Just lie there.”

  I crawl further into the stall and try to lift myself up.

  “Jackson,” Maddy’s voice says, “What the deuce are you eating?”

  What is she talking about? I’m not eating anything. She squats beside me and snatches something from my hand.

  “Where did you get crackers from in a men’s bathroom?”

  I don’t know, but I like crackers.

  “Monroe,” Beraz says, “Were those sitting on the back of the toilet?”

  “Fucking delicious crackers. Crack-crack-crackerrrrs.”

  “Let’s take him out. He can’t drive like this and I’m sure not holding his package while he pees.” Maddy reaches into my pockets, searching for keys. Beraz sighs grudgingly.

  The cool night blows a breath of air on my face as I stumble into the parking lot.

  “Follow me back,” Beraz says to Maddy as he places me in the passenger seat of her car. “We can hang out if you want.”

  I hear the smile in her voice when she replies, “Sounds good.”

  She is silent during the ride back to Fort Bragg, aside from mumbling something about cleaning seats.

  I wake up to my shoes being tugged off and a blanket tucked around my chin.

  “What Dominguez?” Beraz says when his familiar ringtone plays. “Where’s Morris? Anybody else?” He waits for a long moment before a last, “Fine. Twenty minutes.”

  “You have to leave,” Maddy says with a note of sadness. I recognize that same note from the day I left for Laney’s house. Even through my drunkenness, I know she thinks he is leaving on purpose.

  “They need a DD. One person gets a DUI, we’re all in trouble.”

  “Jackson, do you need anything?” Maddy whispers when my door snaps closed.

  I groan. My stomach churns. I stumble-run to the bathroom and dry heave until my stomach aches. And I still have to piss. I can’t seem to unzip my jeans. I try shrugging them off, the urge to pee worsening with each movement.

  “Mad—Maddy,” I slur. “S’elp, please?”

  She steps into the bathroom without turning the light on. God bless her.

  “Hafsa pee.”

  “So pee.”

  “Canna get my jeans to work.”

  She unbuttons and unzips my jeans. She lifts my hand and places it on the wall to steady me. “You’re on your own with the rest.”

  I wash my hands and lean against the sink.

  “Jackson? You okay?” Maddy calls a few minutes later. She steps into the bathroom again and leads me to the bed.

  “Don’t roll over until I can get a trash can beside you.”

  I pry my eyes open. Even this makes my stomach turn out a loud snarl. I close my eyes and wish for the nausea to go away. Some time later, I am awakened by my own snoring. Maddy is sitting on the floor, reading through an Army Guidebook.

  “You feeling okay?”

  I nod. She brushes her hand across my face and forehead.

  “You’re sweating, but the alcohol needs to get out of you somehow.” She tucks the blanket underneath my chin.

  I peek over the side of the bed where there are two small trash cans for me and a pillow on the bare floor for Maddy.

  “Cold floor.”

  “I’ll manage.” With a sigh, she glances at my alarm clock and clicks on the dim desk lamp before switching off the overhead lights.

  She bends to my ear. “I’m here, okay? I’m not going anywhere until you feel better.” Another glance at the clock. “What is wrong with me?” she whispers to herself.

  “Absolutely nothing,” I want to say. Instead, I turn on my side. My stomach sloshes and growls in disapproval. Maddy quickly has the trash can up with my head buried in it. She rubs my back while I wretch violently for the next few minutes.

  I lay half-slumped over the side of the bed. She gingerly removes my soiled shirt and pushes me up before darting to the bathroom with the trash cans. She emerges seconds later with damp wash cloths. I feel like a child as she places one of the cloths on my forehead and uses the other to dab the corners of my mouth.

  “I do this for Dixon when he’s sick,” she says, placing her hands on my bare stomach. “Does this hurt or help?”

  “Feels nice.”

  I fall into a dreamless sleep with Maddy rubbing slow, gentle circles on my aching stomach.

  Maddy

  Groggy from little sleep, I am uncertain of the time when the loud banging, trailed by a high-pitched voice begins echoing in the hallway.

  Four loud smacks land against Jackson’s door, followed by a string of profanities.

  “Monroe, open this damn door,” the nasally voice commands.

  Jackson awakens with a start. Unsure of what to do while he runs to the door, I quietly panic.

  “Yes, Sergeant?” Jackson answers in a deep voice. His military pitch, I guess.

  The man, dressed in full uniform, forces his way inside the room. He is shorter than Jackson, with a shaved head and skin the color of milk chocolate. His barking abruptly comes to halt when he spots me sitting on the floor.

  “Females in the room, Specialist?” The man shoots his finger toward me. “DUIs! Unauthorized females in the rooms! What’s next? A meth lab? A fucking prostitute ring?”

  Did he just call me a prostitute?

  “Sergeant Wotley, allow me . . .”

  “At ease, Specialist. Stand at parade rest when addressing me.”

  Before I can blink, Jackson stiffens his body, places his feet shoulder length apart and wraps his arms behind his back, palms facing out and thumbs interlocked.

  “Get your ass dressed and at the Company in exactly ten minutes. Willis and Rodriguez managed to get DUIs last night so you know what that means for everybody else. As for this,” he pauses to glare at me, “we’ll deal with after a briefing from the Commander.”

  Sergeant Wotley stomps into the hallway, yelling again before the door closes behind him.

  “Jackson, what . . .”

  He raises a hand to stop me from talking. I think he’s going to say something—anything—to let me know what I should do. His erratic breathing is the only audible thing in the room. He dresses in record time and bolts out the door.

  I ease back to the floor, exhausted. I gave my only pillow to Jackson last night so his head would stay elevated in case of a hurl emergency. Suffice it to say, sleep did not happen. I’d like nothing more than to get thirty minutes of good ‘ol REM.

  So many questions run through my head. Do I stay? Leave? Where would I go? Are there restrictions against me being in his room? Exactly how much trouble is Jackson in because I’m here?

  Maybe it’s panic, or maybe I just have to pee, but I can’t gather my scattered thinking into one cohesive thought. My feet come to a screeching halt the moment I switch on the bathroom light. I was so preoccupied with taking care of Jackson last night that I missed the most horrifying, disgusting scene ever. The shower curtain is pulled back, exposing black rings around the bottom of the stall. The toilet has similar rings around the inside of the bowl, not to mention yellow streaks running down the side. Someone obviously wasn’t taught how to aim correctly.

  I back out of the bathroom. Slowly. My feet reluctantly stay on the cold tile due to the unknown sticky substance on the floor. How does he feel clean after showering in here? Ew.

  I search the room for supplies, locating a broom and dustpan tucked between the wall and his roommate’s closet. The cleaners underneath the bathroom sink are still sealed and shrink-wrapped in plastic.

  So not sur
prised.

  Using two plastic grocery bags to tie around my hands for gloves—I was not touching that toilet with bare hands—I spend the next hour scrubbing, disinfecting, sweeping, mopping with paper towels, and repeating where necessary.

  I think about Dom to distract myself from the nastiness.

  Last night was amazing. Kisses that weren’t practice sessions and singing for someone other than Dixon was an incredible feeling. The crowd actually applauded after I finished the song. Sure, it’s just karaoke in a small club in North Carolina, but it’s a big step for me.

  Dom swooped me off the stage and asked for permission to kiss me. Permission. I’m a sucker for good manners.

  Excited tremors course through my body as I recall his soft, gentle lips against mine. Then I remember how he promised to come back last night but never did. What a stupid, silly little girl I must seem like to have fallen for his ruse. I allowed myself to get caught up in a web of deceit, probably crafted by Jackson so he wouldn’t have to deal with me while he was out ruining my car seats. But what a glorious, intricately woven web it was.

  Yep. A stupid, silly little girl in-freakin’-deed.

  On the bright side, I have no regrets. I kissed a guy that made me feel like I was the only person in the room that mattered. And I liked it. I like doing things I like; the luxury is a rare occasion.

  I can kiss boys and they don’t have to talk to or see me again, right? No big deal.

  Your luggage is in his room.

  “Crap,” I say aloud. I sigh in disgust of my inexperience.

  I finish up the last corner of the bathroom, making a final decision to store last night away as a warning to refrain from being so naïve.

  I step back to check out my work, much like an artist after finishing a masterpiece. That is, if said masterpiece was covered in grime and urine. I remove the grocery bag gloves and give my hands several good washes before scrubbing my something-sticky encrusted feet. Yuck.

  The heavy door to the room flies open, smacking against the wall and closing again. I jump, unsure if I should hide or stand still. Jackson stalks through the room with fists clinched at his sides, stopping only inches from my face.

  I rub my wrists from the memories Jackson’s crazed eyes conjure up. His glare is reminiscent of Larry’s when he tied my hands—and sometimes my feet—in the room beneath his stairs.

  I am inside the calm before the storm. I wait for the hellfire to rain down.

  And rain down it does.

  “Do. You. Know. How. Much. Trouble. I. Am. In . . . because of you?” Jackson’s tone is quiet, thoughtful. “You.” He begins circling me like a lion stalking its prey. “Because of you, my spotless military record is stained. Stained! You know what, Maddy? You are an omen. Did you know that? A useless fucking nobody. Absolutely good-for-nothing except, of course, for bringing everyone down with you and around you. To be seen and associated with someone as beneath society as you are is a disservice to everyone else in the world who does not fuck things up on a regular.”

  Never let them see how much they hurt you. Never. They feed off your hurt and fear like vultures on fresh roadkill. Jackson’s words are nothing I haven’t heard before during Daddy’s drunken rants and Larry’s every day conversation.

  I keep quiet and alert for sudden fist movements or flying objects.

  “I know you want me to want you, Maddy,” he purrs. “But I would never ever give you the time of day. You are disgusting.” Jackson’s shoulder brushes mine. I fight back the instinct to flinch. Never let them see you flinch.

  His tirade continues as I silently take his assault. “Nobody wants you. Cordell was right: you are a bottom feeder. No one wants a bottom feeder. Not me. Not your daddy. Not your mama.”

  I fight back the urge to sigh. I'm running out of patience. Is he going to swing, or continue spitting salty venom on my wounds?

  “I cannot believe I agreed to take you on this trip.” His voice rises to an earsplitting octave as he continues, turning his back to me. “A car and cash as tradeoff to spend a few days making sure you get to New York. There is no question why he didn’t want you. You’re a thorn in everybody’s side. No wonder he was making his getaway as soon as you left.”

  I manage an unintelligible, “What?”

  Be quiet. Allow him to finish the tirade. Then get out as quickly as your feet can move.

  He snaps his head around at the sound of my voice, a menacing smile spreading across his face. “I guess the secret’s out now. In the beginning, I didn’t understand. Now I know why Cordell wanted to get on with a new life he’s made with his wife and real child. But it’s all crystal now.”

  His words aren’t locking into place in my brain, like he’s speaking in riddles.

  I shake my head. “I don’t understand.”

  “Because you’re an idiot,” Jackson says matter-of-factly. “Let me lay it out for you.”

  “Please, enlighten me.”

  “Do you know how much Madelyn Carrington is worth?” he questions, choking out my name like a toxin. “Your father—well actually, he’s not but we’ll get to that later—paid me ten thousand dollars, along with a seventy-five thousand dollar car to move you to New York. He paid me to take the scenic route so he could make his exit from you nice and quietly. Frankly, I’m not sure if you’re worth any of that.”

  He begins pacing the length of the room, turning his back to me. “Cordell isn’t your real father, you know? He bought your way into school just so he could get you, and all of your embarrassing self, out of his life. He married another woman, even has a daughter who is living up to everything you could never be.”

  Not my real father?

  Nothing he is saying makes sense. Yet, everything makes sense.

  This brings to light a lot of things I’ve always questioned. I didn’t fit with my fath—Cordell—but I never imagined it was because I wasn’t his daughter.

  I always did what he asked: wearing the dresses, acting like a true Southern debutante should, pretending to be interested in any and everything he did. He even asked me once, when I was eleven, to ignore him when he screeched at me during his drunken outbursts. And you know what? I did ignore the name calling and anything else that spewed out of his mouth, even when he wasn’t drinking. I wanted to be the perfect daughter for him. I wanted to make him happy.

  Still, I never fit inside his world. I guess now I know why.

  Jackson continues to throw his insults at me like interminable slaps to the face. I can’t feel them. There isn’t much feeling left inside me right now.

  As the missing and misshapen pieces of my life are pieced together, my world begins breaking into bits around me.

  I am a lie. My life is a funhouse mirror that distorts and bends the reflection of whoever stands next to me. I’ve been looking from the inside of this mirror, thinking I see and read everything clearly when, in truth, I don’t know a thing.

  This new information makes me wonder if Cordell knew about the things Larry did to me.

  “. . . probably why Grace offed herself.”

  Holdupwaitaminute.

  “What are you talking about? Mama died of a . . . heart attack?”

  Jackson glares into my eyes for a moment and lowers his voice. “That’s right. You don’t know that either,” he says, cocking his head to the side. “Cordell’s money paid to say that Grace died of cardiac arrest. A handful of pills, chased by a bottle of Jack took her out. She didn’t want you, either. In so many words, Maddy, you killed your own mama—simply by existing. Like a fucking plague.”

  A rage like I have never experienced snaps like a rubber band inside me. An unexplainable film covers my eyes. Everything Jackson says after that rumbles through my ears muffled and distorted. Tears I haven’t shed in years are on the brink of spilling over. My hands grasp the strap of something on the nightstand.

  I pick up the heavy object and hurl it around as hard and fast as my arms allow.

  The shouting stops,
mid-sentence. Jackson’s eyes roll back as he falls to the floor. Every physical thing inside me is screaming to hit him again. I stand with my feet inches from his head, contemplating my next move. The decision to hit him again and leave him sprawled on the floor is overthrown when I look down at the object my hand.

  A Kevlar helmet. The very one that probably protected him in Afghanistan. I drop the helmet at the same time I drop to my knees.

  What have I done?

  I put my ear to his chest. Jackson’s body expands and deflates evenly. I cautiously graze my fingertips over the bump forming on his left temporal lobe.

  Do military bases have normal 911? Will he be in more trouble if I find someone and they realize I’m still in his room? I lift his closed eyelids. No dilated pupils, no concussion. I yank the blanket from his bed to drape over him. I stroke his head, hair, and face while I reassess the situation.

  What do I do? What do I do? What do I do?

  You’re going to do what you always do, Carrington.

  As long as the world continues to turn, I will continue to move on, to grow stronger in the midst of chaos.

  The first thing I decide to do is forgive: Cordell. Jackson. Even Mama. If her suicide was my fault, I can’t exactly blame her for leaving me. In twenty years, a therapist is going to have a field day with how I handled this information.

  Forgiveness is something I’ve grown accustomed to. Holding grudges means anger, and anger is not good when you need a real plan.

  Forgiveness is one thing, forgetting is another. Cliché, but true. My mind is numb, yet the tears continue to flow from my eyes, committing the second highest form of treason against myself.

  I feel so much shame for hitting Jackson. Not because I’m sorry. Because it makes me feel like he's won at breaking me down.

  I’ve never allowed someone to see how much they hurt me, how much their words or actions distress me. I have worked so hard not to show hurt or pain.

  I want to be angry. Jackson’s words were meant to slice through me like hot knives through cold butter. However, at the end of the day they are only words. Disrespectful, malicious, hate-filled words. But words nonetheless.

  I have learned more about life in the last hour than in all of my previous eighteen years.