Page 2
Rio
The room looked emptier than it had any right to. Two years in the Army, and I’d accumulated almost nothing that mattered. A few clothes. A laptop. Some books I never had time to read. Everything I owned would fit in a duffel bag. Twenty minutes to pack, then I’d be gone, like I’d never existed here at all.
The bed was already stripped, sheets washed and folded in a neat stack on the bare mattress. The closet held my uniforms -- two sets of ACUs, one service uniform. I took them off their hangers one by one, folding and rolling them with crisp, precise movements, muscle memory from countless inspections guiding my hands.
My fingers lingered on the sleeve of my service uniform. I’d worn it exactly three times. Basic graduation. The promotion ceremony when I made E-3. The memorial service for a soldier in my unit who died in a training accident. I’d never wear it again. Another life, discarded like a snake shedding its skin.
I packed my civilian clothes next. Jeans. T-shirts. The one dress I owned for occasions that never seemed to happen. Everything folded and rolled to the exact same dimensions, arranged in the duffel bag like pieces of a puzzle.
Everything except the Army shirts. I lifted the my faded PT shirt, held it between my hands. The fabric was soft from countless washes, the letters cracked and peeling. Army . Such a simple word for something that had defined my whole existence. Something I’d believed in.
“Fuck you,” I whispered to the shirt, then packed it anyway. Precise corners. Exact creases. I stuffed it down the side of bag. I wasn’t taking it because I wanted to remember. I was taking it because I didn’t want to forget what happens when you trust too much, believe too deeply.
The nightstand drawer contained the few personal items I’d kept. A photo of my mom from before she got sick. The last birthday card she’d given me before cancer took her when I was sixteen. A smooth stone I’d picked up from the lake where we’d scattered her ashes. A silver necklace with a small pendant -- her gift for my eighteenth birthday, the day I’d enlisted. Even though Mom had died before that, she’d made arrangements for it to be delivered to me. I hadn’t worn it since the night it happened. Couldn’t bear to, knowing they’d touched it when they’d…
My hands froze mid-motion. Breathe. Just breathe through it . I tucked the necklace into the side pocket of the duffel bag, wrapped in tissue paper like something precious and breakable.
Like me .
I caught my reflection in the mirror as I zipped my toiletry bag closed. Strawberry blonde hair pulled back in a severe ponytail. Blue eyes that used to spark with humor, now watchful and guarded. Freckles scattered across pale skin that hadn’t seen much sun lately. I hardly recognized myself.
“Rio Taylor,” I said to the reflection, testing the name like it belonged to someone else. In a way, it did. The Rio who had enlisted -- eager, idealistic, desperate to belong somewhere after years of foster homes and group housing -- that girl was gone. I didn’t know who was taking her place yet. Just that she was harder. Angrier. Less trusting.
Maybe that was better.
Back in the bedroom, I pulled my laptop from the desk and wrapped the cord around it neatly before sliding it into its case. The desk drawer held my discharge paperwork, the pamphlets from Dr. Winters, and the plain white business card with his direct line. I almost left them behind, a symbolic rejection of everything the Army wanted me to do -- get help, get better, move on quietly. Instead, I tucked them into the laptop case. Not because I planned to use them, but because part of me -- a small, scared part I didn’t want to acknowledge -- was afraid I might need them someday.
Everything essential was packed in twenty minutes flat. Military efficiency, turned toward escape rather than duty. I stood in the center of the room again, duffel bag at my feet, and took one last look around.
My gaze fell on the car keys laying beside a map of the United States I’d bought yesterday at the PX. I picked it up and unfolded it. I’d already marked my route with a red pen -- Georgia to Tennessee to Arkansas to Oklahoma, then straight west through the Texas panhandle to New Mexico, Arizona, finally California. No timeline. No reservations. Just the open road and as much distance as I could put between me and this place.
I traced the line with my finger, imagining empty highways and anonymous motel rooms. Different towns every night. Different faces. Places where no one knew my name or what had happened to me. Places where I could be anyone I wanted.
“One month max in any place,” I said aloud, making the rule real by speaking it. “First sign of trouble, move on.”
Trouble meant different things now. Men who looked at me too long. Rooms with only one exit. People who asked too many questions about my past. Anyone in uniform. I had a mental list of triggers a mile long, things that made my heart race and my palms sweat. Easier to run than face them. Easier to keep moving than to risk getting trapped again.
I folded the map along its creases, tucked it into my pocket, and picked up my keys. The metal was cool against my palm, the weight familiar and comforting. Freedom, right there in my hand.
At the door, I paused for one final sweep of the place. Two years of military service, all ended in one night by two men who saw me as nothing but a body to use. My jaw tightened. My fingers curled into a fist at my side. The anger was always there now, simmering just below the surface, ready to boil over at the slightest provocation. The counselor had said it was normal, protective. But it felt dangerous, like a live wire inside me that might burn everything it touched.
I picked up the duffel bag and stepped into the hallway. Didn’t look back as I walked down the stairs to the parking lot, to my truck. I tossed my bag in the passenger seat, climbed in, started the engine.
The truck rumbled to life, faithful as always. I’d bought it used when I first got stationed here, saved up from my meager Army pay for months. It wasn’t pretty -- faded blue paint, a few dings in the fenders -- but it was solid. Reliable. Like I used to be.
I pulled out of the parking space, navigated through the base housing area toward the main gate. MPs checked my ID one last time, waved me through. Just like that, I was off-base. A civilian again. The weight of that reality settled over me as I merged onto the highway, heading west.
The late afternoon sun slanted through the windshield, warm on my skin. I rolled down the window, let the wind tangle my hair. Reached over and turned on the radio, found a station playing something loud and angry that matched the feeling in my chest. Turned it up until I couldn’t hear myself think.
Everything I’d planned, everything I’d worked for, wiped away in a single night. But I was still here. Still breathing. Still moving forward, even if I had no idea where I was really going.
One day at a time. One mile at a time. One state after another until I found a place that didn’t hurt to exist in.
I pressed my foot harder on the accelerator, watched the speedometer climb. The road unfurled before me like a promise. Not of safety -- I knew better than to expect that now. But of possibility. Of space to breathe, to rage, to become whoever I needed to be to survive this.
It would have to be enough.
I drove until the stars came out, until Georgia was nothing but a memory in my rearview mirror. Tennessee welcomed me with a sign that barely registered as I blew past it. My shoulders ached from tension. My eyes burned from staring at the endless ribbon of highway. But I didn’t stop. Couldn’t stop. Movement was survival now.
The gas gauge finally forced me to pull off at a truck stop somewhere near Nashville. The place was all harsh fluorescent lights and bleary-eyed travelers. I pumped gas with one hand, the other hovering near the pepper spray in my pocket. Old habits from basic training -- always be aware, always have a weapon within reach. New habits from trauma -- trust no one, especially men who look at you too long. I still didn’t like that word, but counselors sure seemed to love it. Inside, I grabbed coffee and a shrink-wrapped sandwich. The cashier barely glanced up as I paid. Perfect. Invisibility was my new superpower.
“Heading far?” he asked, ruining my moment of anonymity.
I shrugged. “California, maybe.”
“Long drive for a pretty girl alone.”
My spine stiffened. My fingers tightened around my change. “I can handle myself.”
He raised his hands, placating. “No doubt. Just making conversation.”
I nodded, already backing toward the door. “Have a good night.”
Outside, the air was cooler. I leaned against my truck, sandwich forgotten, coffee scalding my palm through the thin paper cup. The interaction shouldn’t have rattled me. It was nothing -- less than nothing. Just a bored cashier making small talk with a customer.
But my heart hammered in my chest like I’d narrowly escaped danger. Like threat lurked behind every casual question, every glance, every smile from a stranger.
“Get it together, Rio,” I muttered, forcing myself to take a bite of the sandwich. Tasteless. Mechanical. Fuel for the body, nothing more.
My phone buzzed in my pocket. I fished it out, squinted at the screen. Unknown number. Georgia area code. My thumb hovered over the reject button, then curiosity won. I answered without speaking.
“Rio? It’s James Winters.”
The counselor. My jaw tightened. “How’d you get this number?”
“Your file.” No apology in his tone. “I wanted to check in, see how you’re doing.”
“I’m fine.” The default answer. The lie. “Just stopped for gas.”
“So you left already.” Not a question.
I took another bite of sandwich, chewed deliberately before answering. “Yep.”
“Where are you headed?”
“West.” I wasn’t giving him specifics. Wasn’t giving anyone specifics. “Look, I appreciate the call, but I’m good. Really.”
A pause on the line. I could almost see him making notes in that leather portfolio of his. Classifying me. Diagnosing me from hundreds of miles away.
“I understand you want space,” he said finally. “But trauma doesn’t just disappear because you’ve crossed state lines.”
“Thanks for the bulletin.” I crushed the sandwich wrapper in my fist. “Anything else?”
“The offer stands. If you need to talk --”
“I won’t.” I cut him off, throat tight with something I refused to name. “But thanks.” I ended the call before he could say anything else, before whatever emotion was building in my chest could escape. Shoved the phone deep in my pocket like I could bury the conversation along with it.
Back on the highway, long past dark, the roads emptied. Just me and the occasional semi-truck, all of us running from or toward something. The miles slipped by one after another. The dashboard clock ticked past 2 AM before my eyelids grew too heavy to ignore.
I pulled into a rest stop, parked under a bright security light near the bathroom building. Locked all the doors. Reclined my seat just enough to be horizontal without losing visibility through the windows. Kept my hand on the knife I’d tucked between the seat and the console.
Sleep came in fractured pieces, broken by every sound -- doors slamming, engines starting, distant voices. Each time I jolted awake, heart racing, sweat beading on my forehead despite the cool night air. Each time I forced my breathing to slow, reminded myself where I was. Not in that barracks room. Not helpless. Armed. Alert. Free.
Dawn broke gray and misty over the Arkansas hills. I splashed water on my face in the rest stop bathroom, brushed my teeth, pulled my hair into a fresh ponytail. The woman in the mirror looked exhausted, shadows under her eyes like bruises. I stared her down.
“One day at a time,” I told her. She didn’t look convinced.
Back on the road, it wasn’t long before Oklahoma came in a blur of flat farmland and small towns. The state stretched endlessly. I stopped only for gas and coffee, eating from the stash of protein bars I’d picked up along the way. Avoiding conversations. Avoiding eye contact. Avoiding everything but the asphalt ribbon unwinding before me.
Within hours, I’d reached the Texas panhandle. The land flattened further, horizons stretching so far they seemed impossible. I felt exposed here, visible for miles in any direction. No place to hide. But also nothing to run from except memories, and those followed no matter how fast I drove.
I pulled into a motel outside Amarillo just as my vision began to blur from fatigue. The neon vacancy sign buzzed and flickered, casting red shadows across the cracked asphalt parking lot. Not fancy, but cheap and anonymous. Perfect.
The night clerk barely looked up from his phone as I paid cash for one night. No ID required. Another point in the place’s favor.
“Room 17,” he muttered, sliding a key across the counter. An actual key, not a card. Old school. Harder to track. I liked it.
The room smelled like cheap cleaner and cigarettes, despite the no smoking sign on the door. One double bed with a faded floral comforter. A TV that probably got three channels on a good day. A bathroom with rust stains in the shower. Home for the night.
I threw the deadbolt, then wedged a chair under the doorknob for good measure. I checked the window -- painted shut. Good for security, bad if I needed a quick exit. The bathroom window was too small for anything bigger than a cat.
One way in, one way out. The thought made my skin crawl.
I laid my knife on the nightstand, positioned so I could grab it in one motion. Put my pepper spray under the pillow. Kept my boots on as I stretched out on top of the covers, too exhausted to care about comfort, too wired to truly sleep.
The ceiling had water stains that looked like continents on a map. I traced them with my eyes, making up names for these imaginary lands. Anything to avoid closing my eyes. Anything to avoid the dreams that waited there.
My phone buzzed again. Not the counselor this time, but a number I recognized -- Sergeant Mills from the out-processing office. I let it go to voicemail. Whatever paperwork issue they had could wait until morning.
The voicemail notification dinged a minute later. I hesitated, then played it.
“Private Taylor, this is Sergeant Mills. Just calling to inform you that the court-martial date has been set for Private Ellis and Sergeant Denton. The JAG office requested I notify you, as you’ll be called to testify. Please contact Lt. Col. Harrison at your earliest convenience for details.”
The phone slipped from my fingers, bounced on the mattress. Testify. They wanted me to come back. To sit in a courtroom and tell strangers exactly what had happened. To look at those men again. To relive every moment while lawyers picked apart my story, my character, my behavior that night. Why the fuck hadn’t I considered all that before now?
“No fucking way,” I whispered to the empty room. “No way in hell.”
I grabbed the phone, deleted the voicemail with shaking fingers. Then I turned the phone off completely. They couldn’t make me come back. I was discharged. Civilian. Free.
The lie tasted bitter on my tongue. I wasn’t free. Wouldn’t be free until those men were out of my head, out of my nightmares. Maybe not even then.
I rolled onto my side, curled my knees to my chest, made myself small in the center of the sagging mattress. The knife glinted in the dim light filtering through the thin curtains. I focused on it, on the promise of protection it offered. On the cold comfort of knowing I’d never be defenseless again.
Sleep came eventually, dragging me under despite my resistance. And with it, the dreams. Always the same.