I wanted to run away with him when I thought he was an opportunist named Bronson. I still want to run away with him even though I know he’s a con-man named Bronx. Why did I tell him to leave? He knows people who can help. I should accept the offer. I’d be a fucking idiot not to. But he’s also right in that my damn pride’s getting in the way. I don’t want his help because he angered me by being right; he pointed out a sad truth to me—that I’m a silly little girl playing with men who’ll hurt me just as easily as they’d turn their head to sneeze.
I’ve been going about this all wrong. I’ve been so blinded by my goal that I didn’t realize the road I was taking to reach it was eroded and dangerous. You’re a fucking idiot, Ryan. And right now, I feel deserving of whatever shit is heading my way because of it.
Pulling in a few deep breaths, I steady my racing heart and bend down to retrieve the gun. I don’t even know if it’s loaded—I just knew Gunter kept it tucked between the mattress and the end board of the bed in case of an intruder. Squeezing the release, I drop the magazine into my hand and suck in a sharp breath as I empty the contents. Seven bullets stare back at me, accusing, and reminding me all over again how dangerous and stupid what I did was. I could have killed him. What would I have done then?
Slotting the mag back in, I place the heavy handgun back in its spot and hotfoot it up the hallway to where I left my bag behind the sofa. Pulling my phone out, I type out a quick message to Gunter, asking what’s happening. I didn’t take note of the time when he left, so I have no idea how long they’ve been gone. What have probably been mere minutes feel like days, the weight of the unknown a heavy load to bear. How long does it take to find out? Having never been in this situation before, I’m in over my head when it comes to knowing what to expect. And yet, Bronx was so damn calm. He said he’s dealt with it before. What is it he usually does? Because it’s obviously a whole lot more real than what Gunter, Tommy, and I have been playing at.
I stand for what seems like hours, phone in my hand, willing a reply, but nothing comes. The plastic cover bites into my palm, I’m gripping it so damn hard. With a heavy sigh, I throw it on the sofa and head into the kitchen to get something to eat. All I end up doing is staring into the fridge for what also feels like forever before moving on to do the same with the cupboard. Time for a smoke instead.
The night air is warm and humid, clinging to my skin like a second layer as I step out the back door. My hands still tremble as I light the stick, taking a long drag and staring out at our ghostly gray back fence while I exhale. It’s empty out here, quiet, and solitary. It’s exactly how I like it. My parents’ murder may have confused me, left me hollow and searching for an answer, but the events of that night also taught me one valuable lesson that has helped me throughout the tough times over and over—all I need is myself to get by. Although a twisting in my gut tells me that isn’t quite true any more.
I want answers, but more than that I want him. Why is that so hard to admit? Why do I fight it? Why do I keep telling myself I’m strong and independent when my security blanket called Gunther proves otherwise? If I could do this alone, I would have walked out of here when Eddie took over and made it clear he wasn’t one to share information very freely. I would have walked right up to the gates of the Devil’s Breed after I met that whore and offered to do the same for a chance at learning something, getting a glimpse inside, and possibly finding Harris.
But I didn’t. I stayed with Gunter, telling myself I was being some fucking martyr to the cause, convincing myself that I was being clever by finding out what I needed to know without whoring myself to the Devil’s Breed for the truth. But that’s exactly what you’re doing here. I’m not clever—I’m a fool.
Tears run down the side of my nose, and over my lips to wet the filter of my cigarette. I pull in the last few drags and then drop it in the bucket on the back step. Standing here, alone, I’ve never felt more exposed. The mask I held up to even myself has been thrown aside, and I’m not sure I like the girl behind it. She’s scared, weak, and alone. She’s a fake. The clothes I’m wearing feel foreign, my tattoos taking on a whole other life. This isn’t my skin. This isn’t that girl who cowered by the fence as the house burned. This woman, she’s a stranger, and if I want to know her, I’ve got a lot of catching up to do.
I drop to the step, tucking my face into my knees as a gentle breeze kicks up, tangling my hair around my shins. To go forward, I’m going to need to go back, and that means facing up to what really happened and forcing myself to look beyond the obvious to find the parts of that night I’ve kept buried from myself because it was just easier to go on that way.
Somewhere in my memories lies the key to why Harris did what he did, and I need to be brave enough to find that . . . on my own.
“Okay, honey. I’ll be up to see you soon.”
I turn and leave my parents alone with Harris, keeping my chin tucked down, my eyes to the floor. Their voices carry up the stairs behind me, joking, laughing, like they have so many times before. Everything’s sure starting out the same, so why am I worried?
An hour passes with me lying on my bed, a book propped up on the pillow as I read by the lamplight with my radio playing. Downstairs is quiet, and I’m comforted by the fact they’re probably all down there sharing a drink while they talk around the coffee table. It’s a scene I’ve walked in on plenty of times before: Mom leaning on Dad’s shoulder while Uncle Harris takes up the entire sofa—one end for him, and one end for his feet.
Only the calm doesn’t last long. Something thuds loudly against a wall and my father’s yelling, words I can’t make out over the woman’s voice belting out my speakers. I close the book I was reading, and set it under the lamp, sliding off my bed to cross the room to my radio. Halfway there I still, my heart a thousand hummingbirds beating against the walls of their cage—my mother is screaming.
Leaving the radio as is, I run to my closed bedroom door, halting as my fingers wrap around the handle. Harris told me to stay in here no matter what I heard. But is this what he meant? I don’t want to get in trouble for going down there when I shouldn’t, but I don’t want to stay up here when my mom’s hurt. I inch the door open, leaning my face against its hard edge as the argument continues.
“How long have you known, Cathy?” My father sounds sad, and for the better part, hurt.
Whatever my mom says is lost halfway between where they are, and myself, her words quieted by the walls of the house.
“Why?” Dad cries out. His next words are so vastly different from the last. Instead of pain and anguish, I hear the hate and determination in his tone. “You fucking bastard!”
There’s scraping of furniture, dull thuds, and my mother hollering at them to stop. My best guess is Dad and Harris are fighting, but about what? What could have best friends become such heated enemies after one night?
“No, no, no!” Mom’s shouting. “Don’t!”
A gun fires, and I lurch off the door. My already tested heart seizes, and then restarts in the race of its life. Every inch of me is on fire. My head pounds, and my limbs tingle.
“What have you done?” Harris yells.
There’s crying, but I can’t make out who it is. I want to say it’s Mom, but the sound is just so wrong. Another gun shot—another blow to my stressed heart. The crying has stopped, but somebody’s moaning, talking to himself.