“Perhaps it is our
imperfections that make
us perfect for one another”
-Jane Austen

WYATT

    I'm awakened by the cool fall air and a chill in my bones. My body is stiff and bruised. Slowly and with my entire body aching, I lift my body off the floor with the broken chair once laying across my back. I manage to limp toward the dim light of the kitchen to check the time on the stove. The bright green numbers read 2:00am.

I stand in awe, taking in sight of the room in front of me, destroyed to no end, my dining room chairs busted, the arm of the couch ripped down the side, the curtains and all of Abbie's books torn, lying on the floor covered in damp dirt, the prints of muddy steel toed boots and droplets of fresh dew the night air carried through the windows. The screened windows and door are still open, allowing the air to whip straight through this cold and broken home scattering the ripped and ruined pages along the floor. 

Leaning against the door frame of kitchen entry, rage quickly consumes me. Did he leave me here because he thought I was dead, or to let me fend for myself, to teach me a lesson? I bellow out in anger, smashing the chair I was using as a crutch toward the broken banister. Watching as the legs crack from the force, felling to the floor, where Scott's limp body had been. My stomach quickly filling with knots as I take sight of the dry pool of blood that stained the bottom of the stairs. Where was Scott? My eyes going wide as my thoughts rapidly trial the Abbie.

Abbie, I wonder if she got out in time? How long was I able to put up a fight against my father and the guys? Did they go after her?

I'm done with this family; my father can go to hell. The pain I saw in Abbie's face when I walked in and saw her sitting on the floor with tears streaming down her sweet face, made my anger uncontrollable toward my father. It was a long time coming, but the first time I stood up to him. I was supposed to be there to protect her, I should have been there to stop it!

I should have killed him! His throat was in my hands, damnit. I was closing in...I could feel his shitty life fading in my bare hands. But I lost focus when I lifted my head. I had to make sure my Abs was gone. I never wanted to be the man in her life to cause her pain. I didn't want her to see that side of me, hurting someone. I wouldn't have been able to bear the idea of knowing the fear in her eyes could have been caused by me. I was relieved to know she was gone, but before I could shift my attention, the room went black.

I pop a few aspirins' in my mouth and swallow it down with the rest of my coffee. I head toward the small linen closet in the loft. Throw blankets and decorative pillows fall to the floor as I reach for the small worn wooden jewelry box that once belonged to Abbie's mom.

I remember the first night Abbie and I really talked, when she opened up to me. For weeks, she thought I was heartless and cruel just like my father. She would flinch when I would enter through the kitchen door after work, it hurt me to know she was afraid of me, to think that I would dare to put my hands on her or force myself on her.

She sliced her finger while cutting up some yellow onions for dinner. By the time she shut the water off from washing off the blood, I had our small first aid kit spread out along the counter and a bandage in hand. That was the first time she smiled at me, with a slight giggle and her cheeks red from embarrassment she tucked her wavy hair behind her ear with her free hand, before pushing her index finger to me.

"You alright?" she asked, after I was done wrapping the bandage around her tiny finger.

"Me? You cut your finger open, and you're asking about me? I don't get it?"

"But you didn't see your face! You were in full panic mode, were you worried I was going to bleed out on the floor in front of you?" She threw her head back belting out a laugh, barely able to finish her sentence.

That night, for the first time, we ate dinner in the kitchen together. We stayed up late talking about a life away from this place and dreaming of moving West. I could see the surprise on her face to learn I thought my father was an ass and couldn't wait to get out. We cracked jokes and mocked my fathers' "charming" southern accent. I'd never forget her pushing her nose up to resemble a pig and saying "Names, Jason Pectin" in by far the worst accent I had ever heard.

After that, she was different, I swear she seemed open, shined with more color as opposed to the dark demeanor she once carried on her shoulders, and comfortable with me. I enjoyed the days in late spring and early summer, when the humid air would just begin to cool a bit, but still hot enough for the crickets to sing as I walked the trail from the ranch back the cabin. Being blessed enough to watch the warm breeze dry her damp hair as the evening sun laid on she freshly washed skin, seating in a comfy side lean on the porch swing reading until I'd walk up the porch steps.

            In the old wooden box was some cash and a worn map with stars drawn in black ink on the places we dreamt of running off to, Wyoming, Utah, and Colorado. All places the Rocky Mountains stretched across. I remember Abbie mentioning something about how the Arkansas river draining back all those miles to the Mississippi and out to the Gulf was a sign of where she needed to be. The river was significant in the fact the Louisiana would always be home, and the water that flowed through Colorado down the Arkansas and Mississippi river would touch Louisiana soil. That was why bright yellow highlighter smeared that particular black inked star.

We planned to get out together once we saved enough money for a month or so of rent, two – one-way tickets, and a crappy car once we both established "separate" roots. I closed the small box, running my hand through my hair, and stuffed it to the bottom of a duffel placed at the foot of the bed. Covering it with a few black t-shirts, funnels, jeans, and a picture of Abbie. With Abbie gone there is no reason to stay.

My chest tightens at the thought of Abbie out there alone and scared without any money. What if I can't find her? I never got to tell her how I felt, so many times I wanted to tell her, but I she didn't look at me that way, I knew I was just an escape plan and once we got a fresh start, she would leave. Planting separate roots like she suggested. Why would she stay if she didn't have to? Only to be reminded of my dad and how cruel he was to her with each look at me. Ripping out a page of journal paper from my nightstand, I decide to write Abbie a note just in case she's to come back.

If you ever find your way back here in

hopes of finding me. I'll be where we

spoke of going. And if our paths should

never cross again.

Know that I have always loved you. And you'll always have my heart Abs.

Yours forever, Wyatt

             I decide to grab my journal and the stack of books from the small bookshelf, wedged in the corner, throwing them in the duffel. Giving the room a once over, I cross the squeaky pine floors to Abbie's nightstand, the only nightstand used in the room, deciding to grab the three nicely stacked books tucked in her drawer bound with thick rubber bands. She would want this back.

Placing the note for Abbie in the linen closet next to the extra pillows and blankets, Duffel in hand I walk downstairs to the kitchen to eat some leftovers before setting out to town for the cheapest running car. With Abbie finning for herself, I had enough cash to afford a clunky car rather than the two tickets from our original plan. I overindulge, enjoying every bite; Chicken and Dumplings was by far my favorite meal prepared by Abbie. It was the way she put cracked pepper within the dumpling batter that made it unique from the others I had tasted. Simple. But yet, it made all the difference. I was starving plus this could be the last time I ever have Abbie's cooking again.

           An hour later, and a countless amount of offers, I'm finally on the road. In a more perfect world, I imagined finding an old gem, and driving off the lot in a sports car, I'd even take an ecofriendly coupe if I had to, but instead, I settled on an older model Toyota 4runner. A fucking mom car. The title was salvaged but the dealer and I both think it's an '02. It was the cheapest ride on the lot, second from the white Astro creeper van. So, I'll take it as a win, It's a little small for my size, especially my height. I'm six foot two and can feel my hair slightly pressed against the roof. Thirty minutes into my drive, I've already found numerous flaws in this piece of junk, but if it can get me to Colorado, it will be my saving grace.

What did you think the note to Abbie will say?

Do you think Abbie Loves Wyatt? or is it a one way street?

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I see you Casper👻, thank you for the reads, but please feel free to comment and vote!