III.

     The door opened with a rusty creak that Donny could feel in his teeth. The cramped space barely fit a mattress and the few necessities he was able to maintain. A twin-sized mattress took up the entire left side of the trailer, while the other side held a cabinet, a white mini fridge, and a dented microwave he'd found on the side of the road. A small wooden door hid a bathroom/shower combo that he often ignored for lack of running water.

      He crouched low to move around and opened the mini-fridge, seeing that it was empty except for a week-old take-out box of beef lo mein and a small bottle of vodka he'd left in to chill. He removed both items �" putting the box of lo mein in the microwave, and sat down on the bed to stretch his back and hear his bones talk again.

      God I hate this place, he thought.

      He held the cold vodka bottle against his throbbing ankle and closed his eyes, breathing a long sigh of relief. The pain in his head rushed back as his mind's eye flashed images of things he didn't want to remember:

The darkness drew white lines across the blacktop, blurring them together at a dizzying pace, creating a translucent stream lit by the motorcycle’s high beam, a spotlight against the inky black night that touched the road on all sides. Jimmy was thrashing it, roaring ahead, his blood pumping pure adrenaline with a smile spread wide across his face. The girl was laughing behind, clutching onto Jimmy for dear life, as her high-speed fear turned to enchanted glee. She was laughing the entire time.

       A phone buzzed in Donny's pocket, vibrating on a part of him that had been ignored for a long time. He considered letting it continue, then groaned and fished it out of his pocket. The screen was cracked and it was missing the #9 button - a casualty of some lonely drunken night where his self-pity had turned to angered waves of material masochism. On those special nights, he was happy he didn't own nice things. He flipped the phone open without looking to see who was calling.

      "Hello." he said, straining to keep his voice even. He rolled the bottle around his ankle, searching for areas that had stayed cold.

      "Donald?" said a raspy voice. "It's Ma." Donny threw the vodka bottle against the bathroom/shower door, cratering the hollow wood on impact. The bottle bounced off and rolled across the floor, coming to a full stop next to the cabinet.

      “Donald! What was that noise?” His mother yelled sharply. “What are you doing?” He clenched his jaw and took a deep breath, sure that he could hear the blood pumping through his forehead, pounding away at his psyche.

      “It was nothing Ma. I dropped something.” he managed to say, adjusting himself on the bed. He needed to be ready for anything when speaking with his mother. He lifted himself off the mattress and inspected the bathroom door, looking through the crater to see exposed fiberboard.

      Cheap bullshit, he thought. “Listen, I’m a little busy; can’t really talk right now. Did you need something?” There was a silent pause on the phone that he knew was his mother readying for the attack.

      “Well, for starters, I’d like the trailer back.” she said. Donny scoffed loudly and shook his head.

      “Yeah, okay.” he said sarcastically. He put his hand against the door and some of his weight on his swollen ankle to try and measure the damage, slowly applying more weight as he winced from the pain. He decided it probably wouldn’t need a doctor, and he sat back down on the bed.

      “It’s not your property Donald. I want it returned before I have to involve the police.” This was new, but Donny could sense the intent behind her words.

      “You wouldn’t do that.” He said slowly, hoping she’d reconsider.

      “Please don’t make me do it.” she said. Her voice was scratchy but firm. Donny tried to bend down to grab the vodka bottle, while keeping the phone pressed against his head with one hand, and slipped onto the floor of the trailer. His foot flung out from under him and whacked the edge of the bed, sending a rush of pain from his ankle to his forehead.

      “Goddamnit!” he yelled.

      “What was that?” his mother yelled back.

      “I said goddamnit Ma! You don’t even need it! You stay cooped up in that house every day, I mean s**t, when’s the last time you even went inside it? The door’s hinges are close to falling off, they’re so rusted out.” Donald’s face was red from pain and the boiling anger coursing through his veins.

      “I don’t care.” said his mother, her scratchy voice rising in volume with her irritation. “I want it back now.”

      “This is such bullshit!”

      “You watch your tone with me!” she commanded. “I am not one of your girls who allow that abuse. I am your mother Donald, you will speak to me with respect!”

      Donald stopped. He wanted to yell more, but it seemed his mother had reached her breaking point much faster than he was used to. He grasped his forehead and waited for his anger to subside.

      “I...I’m sorry Ma, okay? Look, I really am sorry, I’ve had a killer of a day and I gotta sleep it off. I need the trailer right now, okay? Just give me two weeks and I’ll bring it back to you. Promise.” His mother went quiet as she considered the terms. Donny’s jaw clenched tighter as the seconds passed in silence, and he felt like he was awaiting a death sentence.

      “You have one week.” She said at last. “Just one. If it’s not back here by then, I’ll consider it stolen and I will call the police to report you Donald. Do not test me.” She used to say the same thing to his father, and he hated her for it.

      “Fine.” he said, holding back a litany of curse words he kept at the ready. He would have to figure out a place to stay, and his list of favors was dwindling daily.

      “Alright.” His mother’s voice returned to normal volume. “I’ll see you soon then.”

      “I’ll be there Ma, I promise.” he said, and hung up the phone. Goddamnit he thought.

      Donny’s father was a beaten man by the end of their time together. He never smiled and barely spoke a word to anyone but his wife, though their conversations had diminished to nagging arguments and automatic responses. Donny knew a lot of it had to do with his sister’s condition - his sister Nikki had been born with Down Syndrome, and was a very difficult child to handle. She walked out of the house one day while their father was supposed to be watching her and she was killed by a car. He never forgave himself, and the guilt led to distance between him and Donny. He packed up and left home one day, never to return. Donny didn’t realize he’d left for almost a week after he’d been gone.

      The last time Donny had been home, his mother had argued with him over his temper, something that he found ironic in an aggravating way. She didn’t understand what the accident did to him - what it still did to him. Constant migraines, no appetite for company, no ambition or energy. Energy meant noise. Noise led to pain. He fought everyday to quiet the noise around him, but it seemed to be creeping back into his life, inch by inch.

      He lay back on the bed. The mattress was cheap and firm the way styrofoam is firm, doing nothing to relax his muscles or dampen the pain his body felt. His head throbbed in tune with his ankle, each flaring in time with his heartbeat. Sleep would be difficult tonight.