Those boys—those sick, twisted, disgusting, perverted assholes—think they can sweep into my life and drag me through the carnage of hell. What they don’t yet realize, is that I was born there and I know exactly how to not only survive, but to fucking rise.
When I pull up to Patricia’s trailer, all of the lights are out and the street is empty. She’s either not home or dead asleep, and I’m not in the mood to let her sleep. I get out of the car, slamming the door behind me and clicking the button on the keyring to lock it. I bet Abel is flipping his shit right now. After all, I had stolen his precious car. Yet, I can’t find it in me to give a shit. All of the fucks I had to give are suddenly gone. I’m all out. Try again tomorrow, assholes.
I walk up the concrete steps and yank open the cracked screen door. The door, of course, is unlocked. Dumb bitch, I think, pushing it open and stepping into the dark interior.
“Hey!” I bark out, my hand sliding along the wall for the light switch. My fingers hit it and the yellow bulbs in the ancient ceiling fan flare to life, casting the rest of the room in a hazy filtered light. My feet freeze. My breath leaves my chest in a rush.
What the fuck? I can’t reconcile what I’m seeing in front of me.
There’s blood everywhere. Something wet squishes under my sandals. I look down and realize that it’s not just the futon and coffee table, but the carpet is fucking drenched in it. In some places on the green fuzzy surface of the floor, blood has dried into a crusty brown, but not where I’m standing. No, instead, I’m in a pool of it. The liquid squeezes out of every fiber of the fabric beneath my feet as I press down and stumble to the side.
“Patricia?” I call out her name, but there’s no response. “Mom!” There’s no body. No evidence of anything else amiss save for all of the blood. If some of it’s fresh and some of it’s old, does that mean it’s hers or not? Everything else looks exactly as it had the day I left—glass coffee table covered in old, empty liquor bottles, an overfull ashtray, and the white coating of cocaine dust. The entire room smells of rust and something else. I wrinkle my nose and cover my face with my palm. It smells like something’s not burning, but has been previously and was only recently put out.
“I can’t believe it.” I’m so focused on the scene before me, confusion swimming through my mind, evaporating all of the anger I’d just been feeling, that it takes a moment for me to realize that the words spoken are not my own, but in fact the words of an intruder. And by the time I do, it’s too late.
I half turn towards the voice, recognizing the deep, craggy sound just as a needle presses against my upper arm and fire shoots into my skin. Jerking away from the device, I punch out, slamming the man holding the syringe. Roger.
“The fuck—” My words cut off as the whole room tilts. He shakes the hit off and looks at me with a grin before stepping further into the trailer and closing the door—the door that I’d stupidly left open—behind him.
“Didn’t know what to think ‘bout that fancy ‘Stang in the yard, but I’m glad to know it’s you, li’l runt,” he says.
I stumble back, my chest hurting. My legs feel like they weigh hundreds of pounds. “What the fuck’s … what did you do?” I mumble, my words slurring.
He takes a step towards me, his big belly jiggling and he grins—his yellow stained teeth appearing even dirtier in this light. “Oh that?” he asks. I move back and fall, my spine slamming into the floor, halfway between the living room carpet and over the crease onto the vinyl tile of the kitchen. “That ain’t nothin’ fer you to worry yer pretty li’l head about, runt,” he says. “‘S just something to make you a bit more agreeable. I came prepared this time.”
“This time?” His words are hard to follow. My head hurts. The room spins, blurring as the light flickers in and out. Then I realize, it’s not the light flickering—I’m blinking, trying to get a handle on my senses, but whatever was in that syringe … the syringe! My eyes shoot to where it’s fallen on the floor, but it looks eons away. Too far beyond my reach. Drugs. He shot me up with drugs. Heroin? Something else? What is it?
Rough fingers grab at the back of my head, yanking on my hair as Roger grins down at me. “Couldn’t have you fight’n back like ya did my boys,” he says. His boys … the guys Patricia had tried to sell me to. They were his guys.
With one hand on the back of my head, Roger's free hand reaches down to the zipper of his pants and lowers it. I jerk back. Holy fuck. No. Not this. "Damn," he says, "that mouth of yers, girl. Been dreamin' bout it for years."
His zipper is down and the button is undone and out flops his dick. Short and thin, it's a pathetic excuse for equipment. Whatever he shot into my system makes every movement I make seem slower and weaker. Like my body weighs ten times its normal amount. It's a struggle to rear back, but I manage it. Casting a scowling glare so full of disgust, I can taste the emotion on my tongue, I look up at him.
I bare my teeth at him. "You try to put that thing in my mouth," I hiss. "And I swear I'll bite it off, Roger."
He scrapes his fingernails against my scalp, locking onto my hair once more before shaking it in my face. "You do that," he growls, "and I'll punch out all yer fuckin' teeth, bitch, and face fuck you."
I laugh, my head sinking back on my shoulders. "Try it," I warn him, forcing myself to enunciate past the throbbing in my head and body. My throat feels like it's on fire as the words come up. Shivers skate down my spine and I blink hard. Fuck, this isn't good. My stomach cramps. I’m gonna puke. But it’s been hours since I ate, so even if I do all that will come up is bile. I hadn’t once stopped except to get gas using the cash I’d found alongside the gun in Abel’s glovebox. The gun. I wish I’d brought it in with me now.
Roger looks down at me with a frown and suddenly, his hand is gone. "Maybe you need another dose, eh?"
What? I think dumbly. He turns and leaves me where I am, striding back to where he dropped the syringe and then—as if I'm watching a character in a movie—he withdraws a small glass vile from the back pocket of his sagging jeans. My eyes follow the movement of his hands as he sticks the needle into the top and withdraws more of the murky liquid.
No. Nonononono. NO! Then it hits me. This is really happening. I'm really well and truly fucked. What have I done?
"Don't worry 'bout nothin', li’l runt," Roger coos as he comes nearer. I slide back, my hand shooting out from beneath me and my head cracking into the tiled floor. Stars dance in front of my vision as the needle presses back into my arm and more fire coats my throat as I let out a scream—except it only echoes in my head. Loud. Too loud. And then silent. As if my eardrums have ruptured. The sound in the room cuts in and out just like the light as a second wave of the drugs hitting my veins overcomes me. Nausea curls in my stomach—a stomach that I turn over on as I try to get away.
My breath saws in and out of my chest as I scramble to find something to hold onto. My fingers lock around the table’s leg and I grip it, using my hold to pull myself towards it. I can’t let this happen. But my body remains where it is. I’m not fucking moving. My arms and legs are limp, useless. And my grip? It isn’t even tight. I hardly feel the wood beneath my palm. In fact, I hardly feel anything. Not the cold of the vinyl floor against my cheek. Not the heat of his hands as they grab my hips and drag them upward. It feels as though there’s a wave of water surrounding me and I’m only brushing against things rather than touching them. I’m floating.