Page 106 of Rush
The sound echoes through the garage, and suddenly I'm not here anymore.
I'm back in juvie, fourteen years old, and someone's being dragged down the hallway.
He's screaming and fighting, and the guards are rough, slamming him against the wall.
The sound of his body hitting concrete makes my stomach turn, the wet crack of bone on cement.
I'm pressed against my cell door watching. My hands are gripping the bars so tight they hurt.
The kid keeps screaming and one of the guards hits him, hard.
Blood splatters on the floor.
"Rush."
The voice cuts through and I'm back. I'm in the garage and Tank's standing in front of me.
My hands are shaking and the wrench is on the ground.
"You good?" he asks.
"Yeah."
"You sure? You looked gone for a second."
I take a breath and let it out slow, focus on the present.
The smell of oil and metal, the sound of bikes in the distance, Tank's concerned face in front of me.
"Just a memory," I say.
"Juvie?"
"Yeah."
He doesn't push, just nods. "You need a minute?"
"No, I'm good."
And I am. The memory came and went. I didn't get stuck in it.
I pick up the wrench and get back to work.
Tank watches me for a second longer, then goes back to his own bike.
That's progress. The flashback happened but I grounded myself quickly.
I didn't spiral, didn't let it take over.
I go back to work and focus on the feel of the wrench in my hand, the resistance of the bolt, the way the metal fits together.
Grounding myself in the present instead of the past.
The anger is there, humming under my skin, but I don't fight it. I just let it be.
Acknowledge it and let it pass.
That's what Esme said. Feeling things doesn't mean losing control.
