Penalty Kill

Harper

Standing in the snow that's just shy of spilling over into my boots, I stare up at my mom's house. Much like it is, I'm frozen in time, looking at the home I lived in for 18 years before running out of it as fast as I possibly could.

Memories play out in my mind like they're happening right in front of me in the present. Helping my mom with yard work in the summer. Taking pictures outside for prom with heavy makeup covering my bruises. Mom screaming at my ex Charlie while I cried behind her in the doorway. Me screaming at my ex Charlie while he grabbed my arm so hard I cried out in pain, before he proceeded to shove me down onto the ground and continue his verbal barrage standing over me, spit flying from his mouth.

That one broke my arm.

As the reel continues on a loop inside my skull, I can't bring myself to move. I'm stuck, tears spilling down my face as I look up at my childhood home that always lacked a father, and provided shelter to a woman who gave up everything so I could live the life she wanted me to have. She tried her absolute damnedest to keep me out of harm's way, but I managed to find the worst kind of trouble with the most vile person I've ever known.

After what might've been five minutes or thirty, I finally turn away to head down the street, wheeling my suitcase behind me. Tears stream down my face as I march along on the crunchy snow covering the sidewalk, my suitcase bumping around erratically over the uneven, rough terrain. I can't tell if I'm shaking from the cold, my emotions spiraling out of control, or both.

My feet are carrying me to where I need to go. It only takes a few blocks of trudging through the snow before I push into the stale, overly warm air of the same hole-in-the-wall bar I used to underage drink in. Stepping inside feels like traveling back in time.

Meathead Moe's.

Next to nothing has changed in over a decade. It has the same dim, yellow lighting, the same ripped stools at the bar, the same farm, sports and antique nonsense decor covering every inch of every wall. The only upgrades I can see is the shitty old jukebox in the corner being replaced by a new digital version, a flatscreen TV with sports highlights on it, and as I scan the taps, some new beer selections.

There are only a handful of people inside, and as I wipe underneath my eyes with the back of my hand, a few of them turn to look, raise their brows, and then turn back, unbothered, to their pitchers of beer. It's still early in the evening, not that I expect this place to become a real barn burner at any point, but I'm glad there isn't anyone here under the age of 50—yet.

After stomping off my boots and taking a few sniffling breaths in order to come across as the tiniest bit composed, I walk over to the bar and slide into a stool, placing my suitcase right by my feet. Folding my arms across the uncomfortably sticky bartop, I tap it a few times to summon the attention of the bartender who I unsurprisingly don't recognize.

As the blonde-haired man who looks close in age to me walks over, I try to place him in my mind among my memories from all those years ago. With a squint through my newly puffy eyes, I continue appraising him in an effort to fight off the loop of awful memories playing nonstop in my mind.

"What happened to Moe?"

Leaning against the bar with his hands spread out on either side of himself, he quirks an eyebrow as he takes me in.

"Moe retired bout' ten years ago. He brought me on as a manager round' the same time." He gives me a squint as he tries to place me in his memory. "You from round' here?"

"Unfortunately, yes. Except I left 10 years ago and never really intended on coming back." I can see him nod slowly out of my peripheral as I stare down at my chilled hands on the bartop. Another beat of silence passes, and I can tell he's not getting ready to press me on why the hell I came back now. And thank fuck for that.