Page 38 of Fight or Flight

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I HAVE ONLY EVER BEEN to a few times to Madison, not counting my time at the hospital, but I can navigate through the city fairly well. It wasn’t that hard to find a motel room that I could afford.

Nora dropped on the bed as soon as we entered the room and fell asleep about a second after I told her it was safe now to do so.

I, on the other hand, am not so lucky. It’s been three hours since I’ve been pacing the short length of the room, too wired to get some rest.

We can’t go to Bell Ridge. My father moved away soon after I tried to off myself, supposedly unable to live at the house any longer. And that’s it for the people that could be of help.

But maybe... No, it’s been too long, and I didn’t keep tabs on what happened after I left. The whole town could be gone by now, and I wouldn’t know any better.

Then, an idea struck me. Brody wasn’t actually Bell Ridge; he turned out to be FBI. If there’s a person more suitable to deal with this stuff, it’s him. Yes! He would be perfect. I hope he remembers me.

How do I find him, though? Isn’t the FBI in Washington? Or is that just in the movies? Can you just call them and ask for an agent you know?

“Nah, Claire, that’s fucking stupid,” I reprimand myself and then wince, worried that I woke Nora. When she doesn’t even stir, I resume my pacing.

There has to be another way than going straight to the police. I don’t trust anyone right now. What if Ramirez has someone in his pocket? What if I get there, and it makes everything even worse? What if they assume I kidnapped her? Would they believe my story?

I could really use my phone right now and do some online research on the stuff, but of course, all I have right now is about ninety dollars, sticky clothes damp from sweat on my back, and a traumatized kid in my care.

Eyeing Nora, I decide it’s best to let her sleep and leave the room to speak with the pimply teenager sitting at the front desk of the motel to let me use the computer.

It takes some convincing and a big chunk of my barely existing budget, but he agrees and gives me an hour before stating he’s going on a break and to ring a bell on the console if someone comes.

Not wanting to waste any time, I google the name Damon Brody and am surprised by the abundance of online articles and references I get right away. I blink back the stingy tears when I find a report of what happened at the Mill about a year ago, my hand going to the picture of a more mature Jenny with her chin jutted out defiantly at the photographer as she’s smoking outside a hospital.

“She... she made it,” I whisper in awe, my heart almost bursting with real happiness. Not the fake, medical-induced one, but real, pure joy.

Clicking out of the page, I scroll some more to find out what happened to Brody and find a company named DB Constructions operating here in Madison as one of the upper searches under that name. Could that be him? Unlikely, but this is my only chance. There’s no Jenny Wallace or Damon Brody on social media that matches them unless they moved far away and don’t have a profile pic.

“Are you done?” The bored voice behind me asks, and without waiting for my answer, the teenager moves the chair back, indicating that my hour is up and I should bounce.

I quickly scribble the address of the company on a notepad, much to the young clerk’s annoyance, and walk out of the small office.

When I go back to the room, Nora is sitting by the headboard with her arms around her knees, flinching slightly when the door closes after me.

“Hey, I hope you didn’t get scared when you saw me gone. I was just downstairs to speak to the clerk. I think I can find someone that can help us. You wanna come?”

The girl doesn’t react, continuing to stare at the wall, but I see her arms trembling slightly. I take a seat next to her and sniffle when my nose starts burning.

I want to take her in my arms and console her, but I don’t think it’s me that she needs right now. She needs her parents and is probably just realizing that they won’t be coming back. Ever. That her innocent life is over. And maybe that she’s stuck with a mentally unstable junky as her last resort. Likely not; I think she’s too young to think like that. Hopefully.

“Would you rather stay here and wait for me? I can bring you some snacks from the little store we passed while coming here. What do you like? Chocolate? Candy? Maybe some chips?”

Again, I don’t get a reaction, and I sigh. “Okay, I get it. I’ll be back as soon as I can, okay? Don’t open the door for anyone else apart from me. Don’t go out. Please just... Wait for me.”

Nora blinks slowly, indicating that she heard me, so I stand to walk on unsteady legs toward the bathroom.

My reflection in the rectangular mirror above the sink causes me to wince. I look awful—no remnants of the sweet Claire I used to be. The purple bags under my eyes and the sheen of sweat coating my pale skin make me look sick. There’s nothing else here than a bar of soap, so I use it to quickly wash as best as I can and then comb my tangled hair with my fingers. I try to straighten my clothes, but it’s no use. They’re too wrinkled and dirty.

Staring at my reflection brings a heavy wave of despair that almost suffocates me, and I have to grab onto the sink to keep myself from falling to the floor in a heap. I can’t fucking do it. None of it.

I’m too weak. Too pathetic. Too unstable.

I wrap my hand around the small plastic bag in my pocket and hesitate. If I do this right now, I won’t be getting more anytime soon, and I feel my body protesting at the thought. But if I don’t charge myself a bit, I won’t be brave enough to leave the motel and search for people who could help me.

At this point, my body takes over, and I lean over the flat surface next to the sink to quickly snort the small line. My body buzzes from the hit, and a wave of nausea pulls at my stomach. I don’t know when was the last time I’ve eaten something, but whatever is occupying my stomach right now is desperate to get out. I breathe a few times through my nose, and something wet touches my lip.