"A choice?
Sometimes the choice was kill or die."
- Traci Chee ~ The Speaker
- Two years ago -
Loud chatter echoes from within the house as I enter. The smell of roast and steak hits me right in the damn face. White ass family.
My hand, that's still bandaged from the incident, stays put on the doorknob. I should fucking leave.
I really want to fucking leave. But Emily asked me to stay.
And she deserves that much.
Rubbing a hand down my face, I walk towards the dining room where a few laughs echo. Disgusting.
"Ricky? You made it!" Emily stands from her seat, her eyes filled with gratitude and compassion. Both of which I'm foreign to.
"Just fucking great, mom. He had to come to thanksgiving too? Haven't you done fucking enough for this guy?"
I hold back my already bruised fist from knocking the fuck out of Landon, who sits opposite his father.
You don't disrespect Emily under her own damn roof.
Emily looks at my clenched hands before shaking her head. Her blonde hair is curled perfectly as her blue ass eyes look at me like I'm her son. She takes out a chair for me, her hands eagerly signaling for me to sit as she goes back to mixing a salad.
I take a seat, even though everything in my instinct tells me not to. Just one look at her smile towards me and I start thinking of my own mother, someone I've never met. Would she have been like Emily?
I hate it. I hate that they're so fucking perfect. They're even wearing matching clothes. Emily's dressed in a blue skirt that matches her husband's tie which also matches Landon's shirt.
Almost subconsciously, I look at my own clothes. Black gym shorts and a plain black shirt with gunpowder on it.
Always fucking happens. She doesn't even care that I'm getting filth on her pristine leather dining chairs. She's just fucking smiling at me.
Stop fucking smiling at me.
"I'm cap of the football team now, dad. Coach announced it earlier this morning."
I pick up a breadstick, much to Emily's dismay, who slides over a plate filled with her perfect fucking food.
My eyes betray me and meet my foster father's. He smirks at me making sure to keep the involuntary eye contact as he talks to his son.
"I'm proud of you, son. At least one of you is doing something impressive."
I'll fucking shoot you in the head if that's impressive.
Landon laughs before agreeing. A wrinkled hand sits on top of my clenched fist that's strangling the steak knife.
Emily smiles at me and I sigh. Just one fucking dinner and I can get back to my small ass apartment with whatever money Emily can send over.
One damn dinner.
"I'm proud of Ricky too. Did y'all know he's training with the cops next month? He might even make it into the FBI and he's just ninet-"
"We fucking get it, Mom. You love the bastard more than us. How about you just fucking go with him to which ever bridge he lives unde-"
His chair falls backward as I get up and grab him by the collar, my other hand tightening around his tie, wishing I could pull it and end this right here and right now.
"Show some damn respect, fucker."
I tighten my hold even more, disgusted at the way he treats his own mother.
"Leave my house right now, young man. You will not touch my son under my own damn roof!" Carl's voice booms, his southern accent apparent along with his smoker's cough.
I throw Landon backwards, putting the chair back in its place only because Emily likes them. Landon hits the wall and groans. As he fucking should.
"Shut up, old man. This ain't your damn house, anyways, bitch."
I walk out the house, slamming the door before leaning against the brickwall.
Way to fuck it up, Ricky.
Red spots appear on the white bandage I wrapped around my hands only an hour ago. I unwrap them, clenching my jaw at all the deep scars. I can't even bear to look at them. If only I hadn't-
My thoughts are cut off when the door opens. Emily rushes out and hits my shoulder with her weak hands that are scar-free. How the fuck do you even get rid of scars? Ugly as hell.
"You stupid, stupid boy! Look what you did to yourself.." She grumbles under her breath and she pushes me to sit on the porch before she takes out the first aid kit.
She continues grumbling as she finishes wrapping it before punching my side, eliciting a groan out of me.
Where she get all that power from.
"Stupid boy. One thanksgiving! That's all I asked for and-"
"I'm sorry." It hurts. It does. It hurts knowing that all I fucking do is ruin her perfect life. I don't think I deserve a mother. Or anyone remotely good.
Emily sighs before grabbing both my hands in hers. This is the closest thing to a mother I have and I'm already fucking it up.
"Ricky, will you try harder next time?"
"He fucking disrespected you. I'm not going to sit-"
"I would rather be disrespected than let you hurt yourself. And others." She mumbles the last part.
Emily puts a plastic bag on my lap before kissing my forehead.
My throat constricts when she hugs me.
Like a mother hugs her son.
"You're my son, Ricky. I took you in because I want to be there for you. You have someone, Ricky. I know I'm not even close to the mom you w-"
I feel a wetness on my shoulder as she sniffles and my heart feels like- I don't even fucking know.
As she softly cries, for me, on my shoulder, I do the one thing I've always dreamt of doing. Maybe I didn't dream of doing so on a suburban porch that's surrounded by white picket fences and even whiter people, but it's something every kid needs. Especially from someone who cares just enough.
I hug my mother.
She cries harder when she feels my hands come around her. I pat her back, unsure of how this fucking works. I hope someone teaches me how to hug because this shit is too damn awkward right now.
I hate to admit it but I feel safe. Even safer than I feel with the guns in my car.
Suddenly, the sniffles quiet down and the body in my embrace feels lighter. I pull back, not understanding what's happening and my eyes go wide as she fades away. The hand clutching my own is no longer there but the smile lingers.
Eventually, my hands reach out to the motherly smile which fades away too. My fingers come in contact with empty space and I'm left alone on the now rusty porch, not feeling anything.
She's gone.
Fuck.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
Not again.
I reach out for the bottle of water on the side table and curse when I forget that I'm at a hotel and not in my own bed, with my own girl in my arms.
Fuck. I haven't dreamt about her ever since Mayella.
Mayella.
My hand grabs my phone as I put on an extra hoodie. Why is it so damn cold in here?
Right, she's not here.
I furrow my eyebrows when the last text I sent her reads 'Seen.'
The fuck?
Without wasting another second, I dial Fatima's number, cursing when I almost throw the small fat penguin off the hotel bed. Mayella would have a fit if she found him 'wounded'.
Fatima picks up, a shuffling sound in the background.
"Boss. What's up? And yes, she ate her damn sandwich." I let out a breath of relief, my heart going back to it's normal rate.
"So she's with you, then?" I ask, my throat dry from the worry as I tuck the fat penguin into the sheets.
I saw her putting it in my bag. She talks to herself when she tries to be sneaky. Crazy girl.
"Yeah, we decided to go to the mall. She's helping me shop but she keeps going to the damn aquarium to poke the fish through the glass. Her phone's broken though, want me to get her to call you?"
I lay back on the bed, thinking of an ecstatic Mayella trying to poke the 'fishies'.
"No. It's fine. Call me when she gets home. Safe."
I make a mental note to get her a new phone as soon as possible. Hopefully one without any goddamn smiling yellow faces.
"Got it, boss. Congratulations, by the way. I didn't know you were 'Baby cake' material."
Of course she fucking told her.
"Fuck off."
"Please don't fire me! Byeee! Maya, you cannot put your hand in the damn tank-"
The call ends and I sigh, wishing she was here. A morning without her is pure shit. I don't have anything to fucking hug and I feel miserable.
Get a grip, pussy.
I'm worried as fuck right now but I want her to enjoy. She rarely goes out without me and she deserves to have at least that.
God knows I'm not the best person to be around. Before I can think any more, I get up and head to the washroom to take a shower.
A sense of déjà vu comes through me and I'm instantly reminded by Mayella, once again.
There's an indescribable anger I always feel when I think about the marks on her skin. Her skin, which should be fucking stainless just like her heart but is instead marked with painful remains of wounds. Wounds that I would gladly endure just so she wouldn't have.
I know it's her mother. Anyone would.
The first thing I noticed was the cocaine on the table. And then it was the empty bottles of vodka under the couch. After, it was how Mayella avoided the topic of her mother, choosing to talk about her much happier childhood instead.
Her father had died five years ago. My heart fucking shattered when I read her file after the second time I met her. Suicide, it said. Soon after, her mother was practically a ghost.
Seeing the marks everyday made me want to punch a fucking wall.
How the fuck can you hurt your own child, let alone Mayella?
I was raised better than to hurt women but on God, do I want to put that woman behind bars.
Mayella would never forgive me.
My men haven't found her yet but when they do, she's going exactly where she belongs. A mental institute.
Mayella might not forgive me for that either. I just hope they don't find her when it's too late. But if it means her not getting hurt, then I'd risk it. I'd risk us for a future that's painless for her.
Her mother's a complete crackhead. She's been in and out of drug infested houses for over two years now. It would've been easier to find her if I just told Mayella. But I can't. I can't tell her the truth so she could leave.
That would hurt like a bitch.
It would kill me.
So I'm fucking lying instead. I don't want her to leave me. Never. But it's not my choice.
My phone buzzes as I put on a hoodie, definitely not because it smells like her.
Grabbing my keys and wallet, I walk out of the three-star hotel. I'll never understand why people spend so fucking much on a hotel just for a night or two. Yeah, I've got a million in my bank but I'm not a damn idiot.
Once I reach the location, I send a quick text to Dan, my group's supervisor who overlooks cases from the government. I wouldn't have left my happiness back home if it wasn't important.
The office door opens as I scoff at a disgruntled Dan who's in his sleepwear and is downing a beer. At eleven in the morning.
"Ricky." He acknowledges, letting out a burp. Mayella can burp louder.
"Get in before the sunlight enters my humble abode."
This man, who's living in a trailer about seventy miles away from the government headquarters, is my supervisor.
I nod in reply, scrunching my nose when I see a burger left open on one of his many desks.
"Mmm.." He takes a seat on a black leather couch as I lean against a desk, picking up the confidential file that reads my next target's name.
"You look.....different." I lift a brow, rubbing together my hands that feel drier than usual.
"How fucking so, Dan?" He runs a hand through his mess of gray hair, untying the belt on his sleeping robe before taking out a gun from a holster perched up in his pajama wear.
"I'm not sure how to word it....it's a foreign word, really. Some thing that sounds a lot like sappy but...oh, yes. Happy! Now, who's the girl and why do you smell like strawberries? You know I can't stand them."
"You allergic?" I sniff the hoodie, fighting back the urge to smile. Strawberries.
"No, I just don't like fruits." Dan coughs, and then burps before handing me another file.
"Novak Ibramivoc. Thirty Four. I need it done by," Dan pauses, the pale man now looking at me with a confused expression.
"What day is it?"
"Saturday." He nods understandingly, as if he's just remembered what the days in a week are.
"Ah yes.. Saturday." He scratches his hairless chin, "Monday then."
I nod.
"Done. What's the catch?" I ask, hoping he didn't call me all the way here, far away from her, to just give me a damn file.
"We need him alive." I immediately shake my head, my hand raising to throw the file back at him.
"I kill. That's it." He should know this by now.
Dan nods before sighing.
"I know, Ricky. But you're our best shot. And we can't miss. We need him barely alive, but not dead. Orders from above."
For fuck's sake. "Fine. Are we done here?"
"Rick." I halt in my steps, my hand backing away from the rusty doorknob of the trailer's door.
"It's just a few more months. Then you're free." I don't turn back, knowing exactly what he means.
The day I leave this behind. For good.
"Oh and, tell whatever girl who's got you wrapped around her finger that I said hi!"
I flip him off before leaving the trailer in the middle of nowhere.
My head aches as I get in the driver's seat. The red mark that says 'confidential' now too overbearing to look at.
My throat dries and I reach towards my phone, feeling the need to see her somehow.
I never wanted this. Who the fuck wants to kill for a living?
I had no other choice. It was either that or jail. It was either scarring myself with each target or simply rotting away in a cell at the age of barely nineteen.
I had no choice.
I had no choice. I look down my hands and instinctively clench them.
Deep breaths, Ricky.
"I-I don't want to fucking go, Emily. I don't- I don't want to kill. Please, don't make me kill." I plead as she wraps her arms around me.
My breathing gets shallow before she rubs circles around my back.
"Deep breaths, Ricky. C'mon, son. Deep breaths." I clench my eyes, hanging onto her for dear life.
The body in my arms is shaking, even more than I am.
The sobs die down and so does the motherly warmth as I clutch the gun in my hands.
The body in my arms fade away and I swallow a choked scream, my eyes frantically searching for my only family.
The frail body in my arms fades away. And so does my mother.
"Fuck. Fuck!" I run a hand down my face, hating how the memories always fucking catch me off guard.
Mayella. Think Mayella.
The tension in my shoulder immediately loosens, the air pushing itself back into my throat. I sigh, calming myself down with the thoughts of seeing her soon.
Almost as if my prayers are immediately answered, my phone buzzes.
"Fatima?"
Except they aren't. My prayers aren't answered when my heart stops beating, the previous constriction in my throat amplified.
"Ri-Ricky. It's Mayella." She stutters. Fatima never stutters.
"What the fuck do you mean it's Mayella? What the fuck happened to her?" She doesn't answer but I know exactly what she means.
I lean back against the headrest, my hold tightening on the phone.
"Stay on the fucking phone, I'm on my way."
"Ricky it's a two hour flight. You won't make it in tim-"
"I said I'm on my fucking way."
Deep breaths, Ricky.
Deep breaths.