Send The Pain Below
Rachel
Three pumps later and the stranger thrusting his mediocre-sized wiener inside of me finishes, collapsing his sweaty body on top of me as he pants heavily in my ear. Another failed attempt to scratch an itch on my part that did not work.
It never does.
I push myself out from under no name as he collapses next to me on the bed. He gasps for air like he just ran a marathon.
A minute and a half marathon.
Pathetic....per usual.
I get up and walk to the bathroom while he takes care of himself. I do not care what he does. As long as he gets the hell out.
I turn the water on to hellfire hot in hopes to wash the latest two in the morning booty call off my body. My muscles hurt from working a double shift. With only four of us on the squad, when one gets sick, I am shit out of luck.
The one with the least seniority must cover.
And that is me.
Always me.
I sighed loudly as I shut my eyes and let the water run over me. Every time I get drunk, I see the memories that haunt me, but I cannot function as a normal freaking person with the memories, so I drink to forget them.
Then I remember them.
Nothing helps me forget.
I step out of the shower, swaying slightly on my feet and wipe the fog off the mirror. My long, thick black hair hangs down my back. I haven’t cut it in years as it reaches the middle of my buttocks. I don’t know if I can bring myself to cut it.
I have grown it out in rebellion.
Standing up against the monster in my memories, despite him being dead and unable to see my long hair, I grow it regardless.
He always shaved my head.
I threw my hair on top of my head, wrapped it in a towel and left the bathroom nude, heading to the kitchen.
Who cares at this point?
“Come here,” the man says sitting at my kitchen island. He only has his underwear on but has had ample time to leave.
“Why are you still here?" I asked as I walked to the cupboard and pulled down my bottle of Tequila Rose. It always sits well after the four hours I cram beer and shots in at the local pub and, for some reason, I think the black bottle holding the pink liquid is pretty.
“What do you mean? Did you want me to leave? I’m drunk,” the unknown man says. He’s bald with a dad bod. I don’t know what I saw in him when I left, because I don’t see it now.
“Not my problem,” I grumble, tipping the bottle back as I walk toward the opposite counter. Chugging as I stumble.
“Aren’t you a cop?” He asks, sounding shocked at my words but shouldn’t be. He must be from out of town. I’m well known for my behaviors.
I could not care less.
The area is small, and I am the only female police officer on the force at the Red Ridge PD, and I have a cruiser parked in my driveway.
“Yeah, and I want you the hell out of my house,” I answer, taking another drink from my bottle as I slide my gun out of the holster on the counter.
“Are you serious?” His eyes go wide with shock as I stand in the kitchen naked, swaying with a towel on my head, a bottle in one hand and a gun in the other.
“Yes, get out.” I gesture toward the door, flicking the gun at it as he stands, shaking his head and walking to the bedroom to get his things. He doesn’t seem to be that drunk considering he is swaying as much as I am, and I can still tie one on all night.
Moments later, he returns, scowling and heading toward the door. “Thanks, I guess.”
I say nothing as he leaves, slamming my door. I lock it and walk toward the couch, still naked as on the day I was born and still drinking my tequila. The smooth strawberry is like drinking a milkshake and going down exceptionally well tonight.
I sit and drink.
I think about my life.
I think about who I used to be.
I think about what was taken from me.
I think about who I am now, and how much I hate it.
I think about where I am now and where I came from, wishing I was never born.
I spin the gun around on the coffee table, wondering how long I can go on living like this. The pain, the memories, the grief. The total disconnect from who I really am.
I was stripped of my identity at twelve years old because of my father.
Placed in witness protection with a new family.
I was forced to testify against him in court, spilling my life story.
Telling the nation what I saw in the cellar.
I was given a new identity after my father was sentenced, and bounced around until I was adopted.
My father, Canowicakte, was the first Native American Serial Killer in the nation. He lived up to the meaning of his name, “Forest Hunter.”
He definitely hunted.
And tortured.
And killed.
My mother, a white crackhead from a neighboring town, made me a half-breed pariah to my father’s full-blooded Native family on the Red Pine Reservation in South Dakota. My father was an alcoholic. It was banned on our reservation, but it didn’t matter. The council managed to shut down alcohol in one bordering town, but he always found a way to bring it home.
Just like my mother, she always found a way for a fix.
Then one day, my mother disappeared, and my life got real messed up after that.
My father snapped and turned into a monster.
I don’t even want to think about my sister.
I became a cop to do good, give back, and be the opposite of my father in every way, and here I am, drowning my sorrows nightly over and over again.
I hate my life.
I hate myself.
I hate that I have a normal generic name instead of my real identity.
Probably for the best. Not too many people could pronounce Wakinyela anyway.
It means strength and power.
Sorry to disappoint my ancestors.
I am Rachael Sinclair now. Raised in Montana by my adoptive parents after my father was caught in South Dakota.
I was dragged from our shack of a home off the reservation. Unclaimed and no family stepped up to take care of me. I am 30 years old, an alcoholic and a cop in a podunk town in the middle of nowhere.
I stood up, staggering to my feet as I stumbled through the living room trying to get back to the kitchen. I lost my balance and hit the wall, but luckily, I bounced off quickly and headed to the fridge.
I will question in the morning where the bruises came from, have no memory, and shrug them off. I will repeat this daily.
I’m always covered in bruises.
I was then.
I am now.