“I’ll just dial your mother, alright? No need to get all flustered over something like this.” Nurse Davis said, ripping the selection right out from under me. She dialed the number and passed me the corded phone. I didn’t know what I was going to say to my mother. Thanks for putting me in here?
The call went straight to voicemail.
"You've reached the mailbox of District Attorney Joseph Evans." My hand began to shake before his last name was uttered through the receiver. "I’m unable to answer your call. Leave a message after the beep."
I quickly hung up the phone and jerked away, shaking my head repeatedly, "No. That's not right. It's the wrong number." I wanted to believe there had been a mistake during check-in, or confusion with whoever transferred the data to the computer.
Nurse Davis glanced back at her computer screen. "Huh, well that's strange. All of the numbers for your approved list are the same."
That bastard. Joe had taken away everything from me—my family, my future—and was now trying to wipe what was left of me clean off of this earth. The outrage I felt in that moment, the pain, aggravation...I swallowed the lump in my throat and handed back the phone. "Is there any way to get that changed?"
Nurse Davis' lips turned downward. "You were checked in involuntarily. Your power of attorney would have to meet with the office manager and make the adjustments."
Great.
Just perfect.
Fists clenched at the sides, I stormed off without saying another word. Never in my life had I thought about killing anyone. Stacey used to say I didn’t have it in me, that sweet southern girls like me didn’t kill, we buried. Girls like me were the ones always grieving the destruction of those around me. But I swear if Joe had walked through the metal double doors right then and there, I would’ve torn him apart limb by limb, and wouldn’t have thought twice about it.
Clutching my right wrist to my chest, I squeezed hard as the image of me tied to my bed—starving and lying in my own waste—slammed into my mind. I’d been twelve the first time I endured his abuse. And all because of a B. I’d been expected to keep a perfect 4.0, but had slipped in math towards the end of the semester. My mother had hidden the report card in her purse and grounded me before Joe could have his say. I didn’t like my punishment, but I’d dealt with it and went straight to my room after school for three days. Then, on the fourth day, I arrived home to find Joe sitting on my bed, report card in one hand, a long rope in the other. My mother had noticeably been absent, and the more I think about it now, I understand why. She knew what he was going to do and being the coward that she was, she didn’t want to be around. It seemed like I was tied to my bed forever, instead of just three days. “You will learn, cunt.” Joe had said once my frail body was free and staggering to the bathroom. “Until you start paying some damn bills around here, you’ll do as I say!”
And until six months ago, I had obeyed his every command. I had catered to his every wish.
“Joe has an anger problem, I know. But nobody’s perfect.” My mother had once said. “He doesn’t know how to express himself in the right way.”
I had glared at her from the kitchen table as though she was crazy. Nothing about Joe’s behavior was right, and because of her excuses I now had scars lining both of my wrists from where I had fought to break free from the ropes. “You need help, Mom.” I had said in a serious tone. “I can call somebody! The police!”
But she would hear nothing of it. To my mother we were the lucky ones. We had a beautiful two story estate in a gated community, fancy cars, and the adoration of everyone around us. To her it was an even exchange: we endured Joe’s sadistic ways and torture, and in return lived a life of luxury.
Maybe if she had spoken up years ago I wouldn’t have ended up here, I thought as I slowly entered my room. It was a fool’s notion, really, because my mother was the weakest one of all. She’d proved as much when she lied on the stand for him.
I was angry, miserable, and just wanted to sleep the rest of the day away, but little did I know there was a surprise in my room that awaited me. I had barely made it two feet into my room when I saw him:
Laces, A.K.A. Hannibal Sketcher, was lying on my bed.
Six
Laces
Sympathy, pity, empathy—these were words that didn’t register in my dictionary, and I planned on keeping it that way.
This, what I was about to do, was nothing more than a favor—an exchange between enemies at war. For whatever reason Gambrielle had been misinformed about the rules of war, and to keep peace among my crew, I felt it was my duty as a citizen of Hawthorne to give her a quick lesson; a reminder of who she was fuckin’ with.
I’d made myself comfortable on her bed—eyes closed, arms thrown behind my head, the scent of fresh roses attacking my nostrils—when I heard it: a soft gasp coming from the doorway.
Ah, showtime.
The sound of her feet shifting anxiously, and her fingernails digging into her porcelain skin, made my lips twitch.
I wasn’t a total shithead; Every leader deserved their Braveheart moment before pulling out their sword, and I gave her that as a courtesy: she had a minute to collect herself and speak her peace—but instead chose to stand in the same spot, presumably the doorway, and cower like a bitch.
Fuckin’ newbie…
“Word in the halls is my masterpiece offended your delicate sensibilities, milady.” I said, cracking my eyes. Gambrielle was standing in the doorway, her brown eyes full of shock, fear, and disbelief. I swear I thought she was going to shit herself, or maybe she already had. Rising from the bed like a predator, I stalked toward her, hands clasped behind my back. “You have yet to speak. It’s fuckin’ insulting, and starting to piss me off.”
“You’re not supposed to be in here without my permission.” she said in a soft rush, and I couldn’t help but chuckle. Permission? Ha! I was the judge, jury, and executioner, she just didn’t know it yet. Oh, but she will…
“Oh, I’m sorry, I thought since you already went into my room, uninvited, that I should extend the same courtesy.” I said matter-of-factly.
“I…I…I don’t. I mean…”
What’s this? I craned my neck forward to try to make sense of her stutters. Her voice was soft, low, like that of a choir girl. It only fueled my aggravation.
“I…run…you.” She tapped her chest. “I…r-rrrran to…”
Yeah, no shit, you ran your fuckin’ mouth—is what I wanted to say to her caveman rambles, but she quickly gathered herself and pointed a sharp manicured nail my way, surprising even me. “I know your kind, how your brain works!” She hissed, eyes still as wide as ever. “Just stay away from me, Hannibal Sketcher! Understand? Stay away!”
The only thing missing was a cross and holy water and we would’ve had a full-blown exorcism. And you know what? It was about damn time. This was the reaction I’d been waiting for.
Reyes was right: I had experienced a moment of weakness in my room when I cut a piece of her hair, and that type of behavior was no good at Hawthorne. The people here didn’t sweep shit like that under the rug, they exploited it. Just like Gambrielle exploited my sketch for her own gain.