Page 63 of Misguided
TWENTY-TWO
Mel
My room looks as though a bomb’s hit it: clothes and personal belongings lay across the floor like casualties on a battlefield. It started when I had the basic urge to put on that sweatshirt I brought back from the trailer. It escalated when all I could find were tight tanks, skinny jeans, and slashed shirts.
I want to throw away everything that is the old Mel. I want a fresh start. But the more I dug through my drawers, slid things around in my wardrobe, the more I realized that I can’t escape her.
She’s everywhere. Worst of all, she’s still in me.
I wake up one day, loving how it feels to showcase my feminine curves in leather and lace, and then flip it all around the next morning wanting to shave my head like Brittney.
Check my Google history and you’ll find Symptoms of bipolar.
Only, I don’t think that’s it. I’m just … lost. Drifting out at sea with only a Harley badge as a flotation device, wondering how long I can keep kicking before I drown. I’m waiting for one of these people around here to sail in and rescue me with a purpose, something for me to do.
I’m waiting to be told who I am because heaven knows I can’t work it out myself.
“Hey, hold up!” Beth yells out in the corridor. “You should calm down first.”
The sound of boots scuffing to a stop on the floorboards is followed by a hastily growled, “Back up.”
“Look, we’re all worried,” Beth whispers.
I edge closer to my door.
“But charging in there with the kind of attitude you’ve got might be too much for her to handle. She’s …” Beth trails off, unsure of how to describe what is clearly me.
“Fragile?” The man’s voice scathes. I can’t quite pick it, but I want to say he sounds like— “Don’t give me that bullshit, Beth.” –Dog.
“Fine. But go easy on her, okay?”
Nothing else is said, but the silence speaks volumes in itself. I can only guess the look he gives her. Lighter footsteps recede as his heavier ones continue toward my room. I back up, tripping on a stray boot, and spin around to take stock of the mess around me.
Shoot. If I wanted to appear sane, I’ve got damn near no chance with my room like this.
“What the …?”
I shrink into my shoulders, cringing.
“Mel?”
I turn slowly as he takes careful steps over my mess. “What are you doing back here?” He belongs in Lincoln. This may be his club, but it’s not his home.
”I think the question is, what are you doin’ here?” He stares wide-eyed at my carnage. “Lost somethin’?”
“Only my mind,” I say with a giggle.
He sighs; the loose strands of his messed up hair hang over his right eye as he stares at me with nothing short of pity. I hate it, yet love it at the same time. I don’t need to be felt sorry for, but I sure as hell need the compassion he showed just by coming here.
I can only assume I’ve got Crackers to thank for that.
“Sit.” He points to the bed.
I do as I’m told, my chest all kinds of warm as he takes a deep breath and then proceeds to clean my room. The contrast is almost comical: a big strong biker in his leather and denim, carefully folding my clothes and placing them back in my drawers and closet.
“Dog or Koen?” I say quietly, too scared to speak fully in case it spooks this apparition away.
He can’t be real. I have to be dreaming.