“I’m standing right in front of you,” I tell her, and then I lick my lower lip. It tastes like caustic biting remarks and bullshit, acid and fucked-up lies. I cannot stop the next words that fall from my mouth. It’s as if they’ve been summoned by some dark goddess just to incite drama. “Or were you referring to the one you let your husband rape on the regular?”
Pamela’s mouth thins into a line, but she doesn’t react, not the way I so desperately wish she would.
“Where is Heather?” she snaps, and I smile.
Heather.
I won’t let anyone use her or hurt her, not for any reason.
“Out of your reach,” I say, crossing my arms over my chest. I’ve got on an old t-shirt that has the face of some hideous guy on the front with the word NOPE! slashed over his eyes. I can’t remember if he was just a racist, sexist reality TV host or if he was like, a senator or something. He might even have been president, but shit if I can remember. I think the shirt used to be Pen’s, but it was in the duffel bag full of clothes I packed when I stopped by the house with Cal. I don’t remember packing it, but I’m damn sure glad to have it. “Why? Are you worried about her?”
“I told you that you’d regret pissing me off,” Pamela warns me, shaking her head. “And now Neil is dead because of you.” I cock a brow. This is the perfect opportunity to test out my bullshitting skills. They’ve been honed to a fine point living in Prescott; I expect nothing less than perfection from myself.
“Because of me? No, he was working for some white supremacist gang from Portland. Likely, that’s what got him.” I pause as Pam stares me down with matching emerald eyes. Why do we have to share the same eyes, me and her? The same skin color. The same shade of ashy white blonde hair (when hers isn’t overly processed, that is). It isn’t fair, for us to look so alike. If I share so many of her physical traits, is some of her ugliness in my DNA as well? “You didn’t … kill him yourself, did you?” I hazard and Pamela’s nostrils flare wide, the sickly-sweet scent of her perfume making me feel dizzy. Or maybe that’s the blood loss? I have no idea. I put a hand on the wall to steady myself.
“What the fuck are you playing at, little girl?” Pamela asks me, and I swear to fuck, I have to have a PTSD attack right then and there. Little girl, little girl, little girl.
“You sit your ass in here and think about what you’ve done, little girl.” Pamela’s nails are digging into my arm so hard that blood runs hot and wet down to my elbow, drip, drip, dripping to the floor. She shoves me into the bathroom so hard that I stumble, smacking my chin on the edge of the bathtub as tears run down my face like rivers. There’s something smelly in the bathtub, something that reeks of bleach.
“Mom, I’m sorry!” I wail, pushing up to my feet and trying to get to the door before she slams it in my face and locks it from the outside. I didn’t realize until I was much older how weird it is to have a lock on the outside of a bathroom door. “Mom, please!”
I didn’t mean to spill the orange juice. Pen stuck French fries in her nose, and I laughed so hard that I bumped it with my foot. I didn’t mean to. I didn’t mean to …
I shake my head and reach my fingers up to my temple. Oscar waits at the edge of the driveway, his eyes as sharp as daggers. Our eyes meet, but only for a second. Then Pamela is slapping me across the face as hot blood begins to run down my legs. I’ve overfilled my cup. Again.
Scratch what I said about the bleeding slowing down. Too optimistic too soon, I guess.
I feel dizzy.
I put my hand to my cheek, but I don’t retaliate. I don’t need to.
“I know you were upset when you saw that video of Neil raping Penelope. Any mother would be. In fact, I don’t blame you for doing what you did—”
Pamela is on me like white on rice. That’s white trash, southside shit for you. One time, her best friend went to a Halloween party without her. You should’ve seen how my mother blew up. “I will ruin that cunt! I. will. RUIN. her!” She ripped the woman’s earrings out and hit her so hard in the face that she gave her a blowout fracture.
Neil and his family got my mom out of facing any charges. Unsurprising.
Pam grabs my hair and yanks me toward the grass, and I let her. I could fight back and kick her ass. If I wanted to.
“Don’t touch her!” I yell at the boys, because I need them to show restraint right now. “She won’t hurt me, not really.” Pamela throws me into the grass, bleeding and shaking. But not because of her. Fuck. My fight or fight harder instinct is blazing so hot, I wouldn’t be surprised to stand up and see a burnt swatch in the grass beneath me. “Mom, please!”
Shit.
And now I’m triggering my own PTSD.
Mom, please. Please don’t lock me in the bathroom with a tub full of bleach. Please don’t hit me when I sneeze too loud or cough too hard. Please don’t laugh at me when I throw up on the rug in front of all of Neil’s awful friends. Please, please, please.
Be a mom.
Only … she isn’t. She never really was. Because being a mother isn’t just about pushing a human out of your vagina. It’s a state of fucking mind. It’s about caring for someone more than you care for yourself. Aaron is a better mother to his sister and cousin than Pamela ever was to me.
She gets on top of me, and I won’t lie: it hurts. She straddles me, one hand gripping my hair and yanking so hard that white fire explodes behind my eyelids. I guess I learned how to fight from watching her. I suppose we are similar in some ways, me and Pamela.
As I’m lying there underneath her, aching and hurting and bleeding, I realize that she was probably a victim of the system, too. My father was nearly fifteen years her senior. He was married. He got her pregnant at sixteen. As fond as my memories of him are, wasn’t he in the wrong?
The thing is: once you cross that line from victim to perpetrator, there is no absolution. You should know how much the atrocities you suffered hurt. How dare you perpetuate that cycle. How dare you.
But I let Pam beat my ass while my boys wait, gnashing teeth and foaming at the mouth.
From the corner of my eye, I can see them. Shit, I can feel them. Seeing me on the ground like this, beneath number seven on my list, must just kill them. If I were one of the boys right now, I’d probably defy my queen’s order and come out swinging.
Victor is standing there like a statue, stone-still, his control absolute. It’s what I see in his eyes that terrifies me, all the awful, awful things he’d do to Pam if given the chance. Aaron has his left hand balled into a fist, leaning against the doorjamb like he can’t bear to stand up. Hael is pacing, raking his fingers through his bloodred hair, while Callum crouches on the walk just in front of Aaron.
It’s Oscar, stoic, immovable Oscar, who looks like he might actually come for my mother. The only thing that stops him as he starts forward is a swift look from Victor, one that demands perfect obedience.
“Pamela Pence!” a voice calls out, and then my mother is being hauled off of me. She’s screaming at me, but I can’t hear a word she’s saying. I think I’ve learned over the years how to filter out her toxicity. I roll over in the grass and push myself up to my knees.
That’s how I’m going to win this war.
Cramping from a miscarriage and shaking from old hurts and raw anger.
I glance back to see Sara Young, Detective Constantine, and the uniformed officers from the squad car across the street.
Bingo, bitch.
“Are you okay?” Sara asks as Oscar moves over to stand beside her, his face so pinched you’d think he just swallowed a fucking lemon. Police Girl is crouched down next to me, one hand on my shoulder, but her eyes are on the blood between my legs. “We need to get you to a hospital.”
“The GMP did this to me,” I whisper back at her, and I don’t have to fake the way my voice quavers. I’m furious. At Pamela. At Ophelia. At this gang war. At the entire world. Justice is never meted out the way it should. I don’t believe in karma or otherworldly punishments. Only I can carve out my pound of flesh. “They took the choice away from me.”
Because that’s what I believe in: choice. My body, my choice. And they fucking took that from me. I shove up to my feet and stumble into Oscar. He catches me easily, and then holds me much closer and much tighter than I expected.
“It’s just a bad period, she’ll be fine,” Oscar says smoothly as I close my eyes and lean into him. “What are you going to do with Pamela?”
“Well, first off, I’m going to add assault and battery to her list of charges.” Sara pauses, and I glance over to find her expression bewildered. I’ve managed to confuse her. Again. She has no idea what to think of me.
See, look, my boys didn’t react to that violence. They are stable. They don’t hurt people just for hurting me.
“She killed Neil, didn’t she?” I ask, my voice grim as I try to stand up. Oscar won’t let me go, however. Instead, he keeps me clutched in his inked arms like I’ll drown if he doesn’t keep me afloat.
“I can’t speak on an open case,” Sara says, but there’s a strange lilt to her voice that tells me all that I need to know. “Bernadette, I’d like to speak with you again. I’m afraid you’re not safe here. The Grand Murder Party isn’t another high school gang to trade insults with. They’ve wiped out their entire crew here in Springfield.”
My eyes widen slightly. Don’t have to fake that one. Well, shit, that helps explain the shooting. Kill Stacey and her girls for the robbery. Get rid of the rest of the Charter Crew so there’s nobody left to squeal. Destroy Havoc.
Only … I once described Havoc as a five-headed hydra. You cannot destroy something that is legendary.
“We’re going to move to a safe house,” I tell her, pushing away from Oscar and then throwing my arms around the detective. It’s a risky move. The cops in South Prescott have been known to shoot you for less. But I go for it and then whisper in her ear. “I’ll send you the address; I’m afraid, Sara.”