The Dark Light of Day (The Dark Light of Day 1)

A solid five minutes passed before the weight of the truck I was in shifted to the driver’s side, and the unmistakable sound of moaning filled the silent night.

Yes, it was definitely moaning, and it was close.

The passenger side window became a wall of black leather. Metal grommets scratched at the glass each time the figure stirred.

The moaning started moving... lower.

I crunched myself up as small as I could, trying to make myself invisible. It was still dark out and my black hoodie covered most of me, so even if whoever it was could see through the dirty window, they would hopefully think I was just a bunch of random crap piled on the floor.

The woman started to make exaggerated porn noises, larger-than-life sucking and groaning.

Flashes of unwanted memories flooded my mind before I could attempt to push them out, images of the endless parades of bruised and naked bodies writhing against anyone and anything they could find. Piles of men and women littering the stained couches and floors, smearing the dripping blood from fresh needle wounds and opening scabs of older ones onto one another as they grunted and groaned like animals. The unconscious ones in the crowd were treated no differently than the conscious. Their wide-open mouths and lifeless eyes staring beyond the popcorn ceiling weren’t reason enough to stop fucking them. They were taken turns with, until someone noticed they didn’t have a pulse. I had witnessed more than one dead body being discarded from my parent’s trailer like an empty pizza box.

Bile rose in my throat.

The last memory that burst into my head was of the night I’d gotten the scars I kept covered. A burning took over my body when I thought of the sharpness of the knife, and the crazed look in my mother’s bloodshot eyes. My chest tightened, and I willed the memory to leave, but it was too late. I tried to take a deep breath to steady myself. Instead, I inhaled a dust cloud. I tried to stifle my cough, but instead I ended up choking. The woman outside shrieked at the same time, and I braced myself to be discovered.

But, the woman only coughed and made a choking noise of her own. She cleared her throat and spat onto the pavement. “You were supposed to tell me when you were close, asshole!” she yelled. My pulse started to race. My hands were sweating.

“Oops,” A deep unapologetic voice said. He sounded amused with himself, actually. I heard the sound of a zipper closing. I was going to be sick. I felt it coming up and almost couldn’t stop it. I held my breath and placed my hand over my mouth. I heard the sound of their retreating footsteps, followed by the squealing of the fence as it slid open.

The second I heard the gate close, I opened the driver’s side door of the truck, leaned out from under the steering wheel, and vomited violently onto the pavement. My body convulsed long after there was nothing left in my stomach to expel. I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand.

Fuck my parents, and who I am because of them, I thought.

“Don’t move, motherfucker,” a deep voice growled, followed by the unmistakable sound of a gun cocking. It sent chills down my spine and the hairs on my neck stood at attention. My heart stopped. I didn't dare breathe.

With my head still down toward the pavement, I could only see black leather boots and dark jeans. I didn’t look up. I didn’t want this guy to think I could identify him. Those were the moments when shit usually went bad in scenarios like this, I told myself. He pressed the gun to the back of my head. I could feel the cool metal even through my hood.

I closed my eyes and prepared for the end.

For a moment, there was nothing but silence.

Finally, he spoke again. “Who the fuck are you?” His voice was menacing.

I didn’t know how to respond to him. Nothing I thought of seemed like the right thing to say to a crazed man with a gun.

“Who sent you, motherfucker?” He forcefully nudged my head down with the gun until my forehead almost touched the pavement. I don’t think he was used to being ignored. Maybe, this was the way it was supposed to end. My life had always been a fight, a struggle. Maybe, I was supposed to meet my end in a junkyard without anyone left to care where I was. Maybe, I was just fighting the inevitable by even trying to stay alive.

I remained silent and left my fate to chance.

“Okay. You want to play it that way?” He yanked me forward by my hood and sent me crashing to my knees on the pavement. I barely missed the puddle of my own vomit. He stood behind me and ripped the hood off my head, taking a handful of hair with him. The tearing sensation from my scalp caused me to cry out. He stilled for a moment before coming around to kneel in front of me. His gun was still pointed at my head, but he wasn’t looking at me, he was staring at the clump of red hair he was clutching in his other hand.

When he looked up from the hair in his hand, his jaw dropped open. Our eyes met, and even in the poor light from the motion sensors, his eyes were the most brilliant shade of blue I’d ever seen.

Something deep inside me, something I thought to have been nonexistent, stirred.

He wasn’t much older than me, maybe just a few years. He was dressed in a tight black t-shirt and dark jeans. The leather jacket he wore during his earlier activities against the truck was gone. His sandy blonde hair lay in contrast to all the darkness, grown just long enough to keep tucked behind his ears. His blonde goatee and eyebrows matched. Black and grey tattoos, designs I couldn’t make out, started on top of his right hand and ran upward, covering his entire arm, disappearing under his t-shirt, emerging again out of his collar, stopping at the base of his neck.

When he spoke, the aggression from seconds before was gone. “You?” he asked in a whisper, which quickly turned to a frustrated shout. “What the fuck? I could have killed you!” The gun wasn’t pointed at me anymore. It was resting in his hands instead, like it was an accessory, as unthreatening as if he were holding his keys.

“I know,” I muttered. Part of me hoped he would have killed me. I stood up and brushed the hair from my eyes. The blonde stranger looked confused. He scratched at his goatee.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” he asked as he tucked the gun into the back waistband of his jeans.

“Nothing. I’m not doing anything,” I said. I reached into the truck, grabbed my backpack from the seat, and started walking toward the fence. The blonde stranger kept pace beside me, eyeing the truck and then my bag.

“Are you...are you living here?” he asked. Now, he was just getting on my nerves. I didn’t know this guy. He had no right to ask about my business, gun or no gun. “Answer me. What are you doing here?” He grabbed my shoulders and turned me to him.

Even with the layer of clothing in between us, my skin started to burn instantly. I shrugged out of his grip “Let me go!” I screamed. When he recognized the panic in my eyes, he did just that.

“Just tell me why you’re here,” he said, in a softer, less demanding tone. He smelled like leather and wind, and he kept rubbing his hand over his facial hair. I wondered if he always did that when he was trying to figure something out.

“Why are you here?” I asked, turning the tables on him. The best way to not answer a question was to ask one.

“This is my dad’s yard, and I’m in town running the shop out front for a while. I’m staying in the attached apartment, so technically, I live here.” He tucked his hands in his pockets the way any boy at my high school would do. He couldn’t have been more than twenty-three, but when his face was set in that hard expression, with his forehead creased and his lips set in a straight line, he looked much older.

“Shit,” I said. I was hoping he was trespassing just like me. Instead, I’d been caught—and by the fucking owner’s son no less.

I needed to get the fuck out of there.

I side-stepped him, to the left and then to the right, and he finally let me pass. I ran for the gate and tried to pry it open as fast as possible, but it was at least twelve feet high and extremely heavy. This was the reason I had cut the hole in the fence to begin with. I heaved and heaved until finally it gave way. Then I turned and found the stranger who, just moments ago, held a gun to my temple, was now helping me open the gate.

“You didn’t think you were that strong, did you?” A smirk played on his lips.

“Thanks,” I muttered as I stepped through the gate and hurried down the road.

“Hey, wait,” he called. I froze. I thought he was going to tell me he was calling the cops or his father, or someone who would end up sending me back into the devil’s lair of foster care. Instead, he asked, “What’s your name?”

“What’s yours?”

He hesitated. “Jake,” he finally said. He leaned up against the gate on one arm, crossing his legs at the ankles. I barely noticed I was biting my lower lip. I stopped when I realized I was openly gawking at him. He would be one hell of a good looking guy... for anyone who might like the creepy, angry, violent type.

I don’t know what compelled me to tell him my name. For all I knew, he’d use it to file the police report. “Abby,” I said as I turned again to walk away.

“Hey, Abby?” he called to me. “Next time just come through the gate. Or better yet, knock on the door.” He nodded toward the main building, and then gestured to a small garbage can hiding where I’d cut a hole in the fence. “No more cuttin’ holes, okay?”