Breaking Creed

45

O’Dell thought she had gotten good at disconnecting from pain. She had definitely had enough practice. Life was about sorting and tucking away and compartmentalizing feelings, emotions, and yes, even pain. It was supposed to be as simple as mind over matter. She needed to tell her mind to go somewhere else, to separate from the physical discomfort.

Simple, unless you couldn’t swallow. Unless you found it difficult to breathe. Every time she opened her eyes, her vision blurred, creating two-headed monsters, then lights swirled until there were only ropes of colors racing around in her head.

She squeezed her eyelids tight and fought against the damp chill that drenched her body. Any movement — a bump and slide — made her nauseated. Hands grabbed at her and she swatted them away. But they insisted — touching, dabbing, another sting. This time a needle. And so she went somewhere else in her mind. She tried to access sunny skies. Ocean waves. The sounds of seagulls overhead.

But the dark and the pain triggered other memories. A flood of them.

Suddenly she was in a dark forest. Red eyes watched her, hunted her from every direction. The electrical jolt of a Taser brought fresh pain. And the paralysis lingered, making her feel even more helpless. She felt herself curl into a bed of leaves that crumpled. The wet soil underneath made her cold — so very cold.

Then a gunshot made her jerk. Searing pain raced along her scalp, tearing, ripping, burning, until she could smell the scorched flesh. This memory was worse than the scorpion stings, and it pushed her to the surface of consciousness.

This time when O’Dell woke and opened her eyes she was able to focus. There were no trees, no forest. A high ceiling with polished wood planks. She was in a bed surrounded by cool sheets. Someone stirred behind her, and the panic grabbed hold for a second until she felt the wet tongue on her bare shoulder. She reached back, comforted by the touch.

“Hey, Grace.” She petted the dog as she relaxed back into the pillows.

Her eyes searched her surroundings. The bed was at the far end of a large loft apartment. A wonderful scent of something cooking came from the kitchen at the other end. She lifted her arm out from under the covers and in doing so saw that she was wearing only her panties and an oversized T-shirt, the V-neck stretched out and slipped down off her shoulder. The backs of her hands and her arms were covered with a sticky white paste. She could feel it on her neck and her cheek, as well.

Grace now sat on the edge of the bed staring at her. O’Dell’s eyes searched the apartment again: the overstuffed sofa, the wall of bookshelves, the desk in a corner.

“Where’s your owner?” she asked Grace.

The dog cocked her head.

“Where’s Ryder?”

Grace’s ears slicked back and she started to wag. She jumped off the bed and glanced back over her shoulder, ready to lead O’Dell to what she had asked for.

She was surprised to find her head quite clear. No swirling. Just a slight throb at her temples. There was no longer the deep, burning pain. Only an ache and soreness. Her knees didn’t wobble, and she was able to stand without assistance. The T-shirt’s hem came only to mid-thigh, and immediately she looked around the bed for her clothes.

Grace scampered across the room, her entire hind end wagging impatiently for O’Dell to follow her.

“You have any idea what happened to my pants?” she asked the dog.

Grace’s only answer was a two-step prance and twirl.

“No, I didn’t think so.” O’Dell couldn’t help but smile.

Grace led her to a door off the kitchen that had been left open.

The stairs were polished wood and spiraled down to a balcony that ran the length of the outer walls. It overlooked an atrium of a large warehouse-like building. Despite the open rafters and silver air-duct piping along the ceiling, windows at the top brought in streams of sunlight that sent shadows dancing across the earth-toned walls and the stamped cement floor. The place could easily be someone’s warehouse-style home. It was obviously the living space for Creed’s dogs.

From her stance on the balcony’s landing, O’Dell could see a full kitchen in one corner with stainless steel commercial-sized appliances and shiny countertops. But instead of a table and chairs, rows of different-sized bowls were arranged on the floor with decorative mats underneath.

There was a buzz and she saw a line of dog doors, several going up electronically now as dogs came in and immediately looked up at her. In the opposite corner, kennels lined the wall; more than a dozen dogs were sleeping or watching Grace and O’Dell from dog beds that were scattered around the floor. And in the middle of them she spotted Creed curled up — shirtless with only jeans on — nestled up between two large brown dogs. His head lay against the bigger dog’s back.

Despite the tousled hair and bristled jaw, she couldn’t help thinking how much he reminded her of a young boy, fast asleep and at peace among the friends he knew he could count on and trust most.