“Rachel—”
“Don’t Rachel me,” she clips, aiming the gun in the middle of his forehead. “The abuse ends today.” She turns her head, closes her eyes, and pulls the trigger one last time.
Seven bullets for seven years.
She tosses the gun aside and somehow manages to find the strength to stand. She runs to me, barely able to breathe. She unties my wrists from the bed posts and gently pulls up my pants.
I groan in relief. My arms tingle back to life, and a fresh ooze of blood flows out of my shoulder. I can’t flip to my back. Everything hurts. “Mom?” I rasp, and she lays down on her side next to me, her small blue eyes swimming with regret.
She kisses my forehead and pushes my sweaty hair out of my face. “I’m so sorry. My baby, oh, my sweet boy.” Mom wraps her hand around the back of my neck and buries my face in her shoulder. “I’m so sorry. It’s over. He will never hurt you again.” She leans back and stares at the significance of my injuries. “God, we need to get you to a doctor.”
A fresh wave of fear has me trembling. “No, no doctors, Mom, please. No more doctors.” And like the weak boy I am, I let all of the pain break free. “I can’t. No more, please, no more.”
“Shh, sweetie, shh.” She holds me close. “Not all doctors are bad, but I can call in a favor. I know people who can take care of this.” She’s careful as she touches me. “Did he… Did he… Oh god! He did, didn’t he?” She sits up and presses a hand against her stomach. “He touched you. I can’t believe I didn’t trust my instincts. I’ll never forgive myself.”
“Mom, he didn’t.” My teeth chatter as I reach for her, shock taking over my frail body. Every move is like another cut against my skin. “It’s okay. I never wanted you to know.” I swallow, licking the salt off my lips. “He said he’d hurt you if you ever found out.”
She stands from the bed and reaches into her back pocket, and then kneels on the ground to stare at me. “You better not ever do that again. You don’t protect me. I protect you. You hear me? Do you understand?” A soft kiss lands on my sweaty forehead. I close my eyes, and for the first time in years I feel safe.
“I’m so tired,” I answer.
“Rest, baby. I’m calling friends to come help us. I’ve represented them in court a few times.”
“Sounds illegal,” I try to joke, but the sad attempt to laugh has my wounds stretching.
Mom runs her fingers through my hair as she places the phone against her ear, and it nearly has me falling into unconsciousness. The longer my back goes without being treated, the more the fire slithering across it comes to life.
“It is, but I’m a criminal defense attorney. A lot of what I do isn’t legal. Plus, you’re my son. I’d call the Devil himself if I could,” she reassures and sits on the edge of the bed. “Rusty, I’m calling in that favor. I need you to come to my house. Bring your doctor please. My son has been hurt, and I have a body for you to take care of. She glances down at her wrist to look at her watch. “Thirty minutes?” she cuts her eyes to me. “We can make it. Please, just hurry, Rusty. Thank you.” That’s all that’s said as she hangs up the phone and tosses it on the floor next to my father’s dead body.
“Just hang on, sweetie. Help is coming, okay?”
Her words drift further away as my eyes grow heavy. I try to stay awake as long as I can, but it’s so difficult not to lose consciousness. I’m not sure how long I lay there, but I feel the vibrations of a stampede entering the house. That’s how heavy they are.
A low whistle fills the room. “Damn, Rachel, what the fuck happened?”
“This bastard has been abusing my son. I caught him. I killed him. I need the body taken care of. My son needs medical care as well. Please, I’ll forever be in the Demon’s Fury Philadelphia Chapter’s debt.”
“Sugar, we’re in your debt after what you did for Gambler. Doc! Come tend to the kid. Relax, Rachel, we got it from here.” An older guy with a long silver beard and a bald head yells for someone named Doc. I don’t know if it’s the blurriness in my vision or my mind making things up, but the way this biker guy is looking at my mom makes me uneasy.
The bed dips beside me, and I manage to turn my head to get a look at the guy who’s going to clean me up. He has a shaved head, tattoos up and down his arms. He has a ring through his nose, and his lip pierced. “You,” I gasp, “don’t look like a doctor.” My eyes fall to his black leather vest that says ‘Doc’ on the left side.
He smirks, but his eyes remain soft as he takes in my injuries. “I get that a lot,” he says. “Looks like your old man did a number on ya, kid.”
“He always did.”
“I’m going to knock you out so I can deal with all of these. I feel like you’ve been in enough pain, don’t you?”
“Sounds nice,” I slur then wince when I remember my ass. “I don’t trust doctors, but if my mom trusts you, I do. There are wounds on my ass too.”
I expect him to laugh, but his jaw is tight in anger, and he nods. “I gathered from the blood on your shorts. I assumed it was…”
“Almost. Mom came in and saved the day.”
Doc inserts a needle in my arm, and my eyes grow heavier and heavier. “She’s good at that. Your ma is a badass. Relax, kid, you’re in good hands.”
“Rachel, come here. We need to talk.” The gravel voice has me glancing up where a tall man is putting his arm around my mom’s shoulders.
The man, Rusty if I remember correctly, opens my dad’s briefcase. My mom turns her chin over her shoulder, staring at me with concern.
“What the hell is that, Rusty?” my mom tries to whisper, but she’s never been good at lowering her voice when she’s mad. “What the fuck is that?”
“It’s a cut—”
“—I know what a goddamn cut is, Rusty. Why is it in my husband’s briefcase?”
The medicine Doc gave me starts to hit and everything around me blurs, goes into focus, and then blurs again.
“Your husband worked for the Ruthless Kings Atlantic City Chapter; it seems.”
“That worthless piece of shit,” my mom sneers and reaches for the gun Rusty has holstered on his hip, but he stops her by grabbing her shoulders.
“He’s already dead, Rachel.”
“Like I give a damn, Rusty. I want to kill him a hundred times,” she starts to cry and Rusty pulls her into a hug, rubbing his hands up and down her back.
What? My dad? Working for a biker club? I must be dreaming already. This medicine is strong and working wonders.
Mom presses her finger against Rusty’s chest after she pulls away and sniffles. “You better—”
“Mom?” I slur and reach out my hand for her to take.
She spins around quickly, drops to her knees, and takes my hand in hers. “Everything is okay, rest, baby. We are good. I’m going to take care of everything.” She presses a kiss against my forehead, and I can’t fight the medicine for much longer.
I’m not sure if I believe in good anymore.
I think the only aspects that exist are wrong. Not right, not good, not bad, but… wrong. And it’s how people choose how wrong they want to be. There isn’t a good path or a path less traveled. When people say that, it’s a way to cover up the selfishness that controls them.