Fear of Falling by S.L. Jennings

his rude and crude ways, I knew he was a good guy. And he was family. He and Uncle Mick were the only ones there for me when shit had hit the fan, resulting in my return to Charlotte a year ago. I could have gone anywhere else, but I needed to be with the people that knew me…that understood me. And though they were both rough around the edges, they were there for me in my darkest hours. I owed them.
    CJ took a long swig of his beer before launching into stories of his latest conquests. As disgusting as he was, he somehow pulled his fair share of women. It was pretty damn surprising. Either they had to have extremely low self-esteem, the IQ of a fruit fly or they had to be deaf and blind. I needed to tell myself that to maintain just an inkling of faith in the opposite sex.
    “So I pull up to one of my job sites at some strip mall and there she is, Wendy Tig-o-Bitties Braxton, looking as hot as ever. And I swear her tits got even bigger! Of course, I wanted to hit that, but before I could even grace her with the famous Jacobs charm, she was asking about you.” He downed the remains of his beer and shook his head. “I swear, this whole broken-hearted-puppy-dog shit gets you more pussy than ever. Pisses me off.”
    I couldn’t help but laugh at his analogy, as I filled an order for a nearby customer. The regulars had grown used to CJ and his mouth. And if they hadn’t, they soon would. He was a permanent fixture at Dive and even filled in on occasion, though he sucked at making drinks.
    “Don’t blame me, CJ. Blame these clueless chicks you keep running behind. I don’t ask for their sympathy or their charity.”
    “Yeah, but you sure don’t hesitate to take it,” he snorted, just as I placed an ice-cold beer in front of him. “Admit it, the whole Lonely Boy shit is all an act to get easy ass. It is, isn’t it?”
    “Lonely Boy?” I asked with a raised eyebrow.
    “Oh yeah,” CJ replied, embarrassed. “The girl I’ve been banging has some obsession with Gossip Girl. She makes me watch that shit with her to get her in the mood. Fucking irritating at first but it’s a pretty cool show. The chicks are hot as hell, and Chuck Bass is one cool motherfucker. I might start wearing bowties.”
    I couldn’t do more than shake my head. Yeah, Craig was family but he had about as much sense as a houseplant.
    “The things we do to get laid.”
    “The power of the pussy,” he nodded in agreement. I couldn’t argue with him there.

My earliest memory was at the age of two. Experts may argue that it’s impossible to have memories at that tender age. But some things you just can’t forget, no matter how bad you want to rip them from your memory. And I remember…everything.
    I remembered the tiny apartment with the sand colored rug and the bare, off-white walls, barren of any mementos of family vacations or milestones. And I remembered my father shoving my mother’s head through one of those off-white walls, leaving a large, gaping hole.
    I was sitting on the floor, looking up at the two of them as he tried his hardest to beat her until she was unrecognizable. I don’t remember crying though. I never remembered crying. I should have cried for my mother. I think any normal child would have at the sight of their mother’s agony. She cried all the time. It seemed like that’s all I remember her doing when I was younger.
    That memory was revealed in kindergarten, when I was about six years old. Most girls drew pictures of flowers and hearts. I drew pictures of terrifying monsters that preyed on women. There were no flowers and hearts in my world. I didn’t even know they existed. And I told stories...elaborate tales of bloodthirsty beasts that brutalized my mother and me every night. About how we would cower in my room, trying to stay as quiet as possible, in hopes that he wouldn’t find us.
    But he always did. My stories never had happy endings.
    My teachers called me a liar. They would place me in timeout and revoke