Booted by Pam Godwin

Author:Pam Godwin
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2018-09-17T16:00:00+00:00

Raina doesn’t show up for dinner that night. I tell myself I don’t care and head outside to escape the crawling sensation of confinement.

For the rest of the evening, I ride Captain across the acreage, checking the fences and perimeter security around the house. Between stops, I let him stretch into a gallop. As he flies over the dark terrain, Raina’s voice vibrates the air.

The wind in my face, the freedom on his back, the feel of his strength between my legs, the sound of his loyal heartbeat.

For the first time since the tragedy in the ravine, I give myself permission to enjoy the ride. It’s not just the solace in reconnecting with my old friend. It’s the memories tucked into the nature around us. The flower-picking, rabbit-hunting, stargazing memories of the trails I traversed as a child, the trees I climbed, the pond I swam in, and the fields where we camped every summer.

Happiness has been here all along, in the spirit of the land, waiting for me to wake up and be the man I’m meant to be.

A man who’s willing to dip into his soul and remember what calls to him.

Raina knew.

She always seems to know what I need.

I don’t know what time I finally sprawl on the sleeping bag. There are no watches or clocks in prison, and I’ve found I no longer want them.

As I lie on my back and stare at the stars, I evaluate my mental health. When inmates are released, we’re warned about PTSD, anxiety, depression, and nightmares.

I’ve felt the tug of those things. My nerves riot in public places and social situations. I’ve lost the drive to take over the ranching operation. I only exercise because I refuse to be weak.

And I think about drinking. I haven’t touched a bottle since that night in the stable. Haven’t so much as sipped alcohol since I was eighteen. But the urge scratches through my blood.

The interests I had as a kid are gone. I didn’t consider playing guitar again until Conor returned my instrument at dinner tonight. When I wrapped a hand around the frets, I relived the last night I played it, a night associated with masked men and brutality.

I have flashbacks. If it’s PTSD, it only surfaces when I sleep.

Because of the nightmares.

Every night, the goddamn nightmares. Usually the same ones. I’m back in prison and don’t know how I got there. I’m exhausted, and all the bunks are taken. I’m standing in the chow hall with shit on my tray, stark naked, and I can’t find my clothes.

The worst is when I’m in the ravine, hands bound by rope as Conor’s rape plays out before me. Except Conor is Raina, and the man violently fucking her is John Holsten. I scream through my gag, but no one hears me. Then I wake screaming into the night. Alone.

Even with Raina’s tea, I struggle to fall back asleep.

If I’m on the verge of a mental breakdown, I won’t allow it to sink hooks into me.

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