Freedom was taken for granted. It had been months since you left Meadow Isle Asylum, and you had been more than ecstatic to finally be out of that hell hole they called a haven and able to live an independent life. You weren't a woman who was content with being locked in a cage. In your early twenties, it had taken years of convincing and countless state-appointed lawyers to grant your release. No thanks to your brother; Mono seemed hell-bent on keeping you locked in the hospital for "your protection." He'd been granted legal guardianship after your parent's death, being thirteen when they died. He was only two and a half years your senior, but once he hit the ripe old age of eighteen, you were handed to him as if he had any clue what to do. You would have much rather been emancipated.
He had the paternal instincts of a piece of fruit. He opted to pay the institute to keep you in their care until he could find a suitable living situation. But time was running out, as your eighteenth birthday approached fast. Not that that mattered. He had convinced them that you weren't fit to be released two years after his abandonment. He'd claimed you had a dissociative identity disorder and were a danger to society.***
Naturally, this sent you into a rage which caused you to break the noses of two of the caretakers and crack the skull of the charge nurse in the West
Wing of the asylum. It wasn't the first time you had used excessive force, but it was the first time it was documented on an adult record. Mono had been counting on that, seeing as it had you put through a psychiatric evaluation that concluded you had a severe case of Bipolar disorder. They couldn't confirm the split personality claim; your asshole brother had obviously lied.
He never came back for you. It had been seven years since you last saw the bastard. He still sent postcards and letters on your birthday, but there was never a return address. After being freed from the asylum, letters would be found around your base of operations or left in your car. Car alarms didn't stop him; he knew how to disable them, hack a keyfob, hotwire, B&E, or whatever he needed to do to get the job done. The criminal element in your family was a bloodline trait. He was always apologetic in his notes and letters, telling you he was doing what was best for you and that he'd come for you soon. He just needed you to wait. It all sounded like one bullshit lie after another. Well, fuck that!
At one point in time, you had trusted Mono completely. You attributed it to the young mind of a little girl who wanted nothing more than to follow her big brother around like a lost duckling and grow up to be just like him. It took a few years after that for you to realize that Mono was no role model, but he was family, and you cared for him all the same. It wasn't until distrust began to brew after your parent's death and the lies were brought to the surface did you reject him firmly. He'd shattered your trust, and there was no getting it back. He kept the wool pulled over your eyes all your life, and he expected you to be okay with that?
You grew used to his absence over the last seven years. Family was just a word, but Mono wasn't family to you. No visits, no calls for over half a decade; Mono was dead to you.
You hoped that he was sent into a panic when you left the asylum without his consent. It served the bastard right for the seven years of bullshit you had to endure because of his carelessness. You were out now, finally getting the first taste of unfiltered liberation since birth, and you planned to milk it for all it was worth.
Unfortunately, you were robbed of the headstart that anyone your age already had. You were twenty-three, had no job experience, only a G.E.D. under your belt, no family to back you up, and not a single legally obtained dollar in your pocket. Despite the orphanage's insistence, you had dropped out of school at sixteen. Mono had abandoned you, your parents were dead, and high school seemed like a trivial waste of time. The employees and kids alike knew your family history - some sought you out to try and take advantage of your parents 'mob-like' connections - seeing as their murders were plastered all over the news. Whenever you returned 'home,' though, people tried to keep a football field length between you and them, fearing they may suffer the same fate as your parents if they got too close to you.
In your forced isolation from society, you chose to run rampant through the city at night. You were letting your teenage rebellion show, since everyone saw you as a criminal anyway. Graffiti, breaking into abandoned buildings, drugs, parties, stealing, there wasn't any crime you wouldn't try. After six months, the guidance counselors at the orphanage finally gave up the fight. They stopped trying to convince you to do anything. They suggested therapy, but you threw that back in their faces. You didn't need some overpaid suit trying to get you to reflect on why you were the way you were. You already knew.
Best not to dwell on the why and focus more on what you could make out of it all. You had an undocumented criminal background due to your age at the time and a tongue of silver. With a whole lot of time to practice, you had mastered the art of using words to get what you wanted from others. Manipulative should have been your middle name.
You knew the harsh truth now of your family, the one your parents fought hard to hide from their precious princess. You had grown up believing your family was average. You weren't rich, but you weren't poor. Your mother was a nurse, your father a college professor. They made an honest living and paid their taxes. Dad mowed the lawn every other week and did the dishes every night. Mom cooked dinner and helped you with your homework. You even had a family night on Thursdays. Their schedule was routine.
Your mother's brown hair, highlighted with raven black strands, was always pulled up into a messy bun. She wore her brightly colored scrubs and most comfortable sneakers every day. Her face was lightly covered with natural looking make-up that accentuated her green eyes. She'd grab her premade coffee as she darted off early in the morning, leaving for a twelve-hour shift. Your dad always wore the same things - dress shirts, brown slacks, and ties. His black hair was slicked back after a morning shower. He usually left shortly after mom, preferring to get to work early to prepare for the day's lesson. His brown eyes were hidden behind black framed glasses. He carried a messenger bag with textbooks over his shoulder, gave you a warm side hug, and shuffled out the door with his coffee.
You were blissfully ignorant. Your childhood was relatively happy; but everyone has bad times. You had a lazy stoner brother who was protective when it mattered, not that you'd ever noticed. His presence was sporadic at best, and your parents said it was normal for him to disappear for a few days and that you shouldn't worry. Mono was fifteen; perhaps the stupid shit he did was part of his rebellious phase, too. Everything had been calm up until you hit puberty. You were starting to enter your fuck-the-world phase as a teenager does, so you weren't concerned about your brother's problems. You were only interested in boys and going to gender-mixed parties, so your big brother was the last thing on your mind.
Their Pleasantville facade shattered the night you woke in a cold sweat. A piercing scream filled your room and rattled you awake. Your eyes flashed open and you warily searched the darkness of your suddenly too silent room. Nothing, it was just a nightmare. Your bedside clock read '3:33 AM'. You remembered the grogginess, how heavy your eyelids hung, sleep clinging to your bones and the corners of your eyes. The dryness in your mouth made you leave the comfort of your bed. Swinging your feet from the heat of your blankets, you padded to the kitchen for a glass of water. Nightmares weren't normal for you, and when you had them, you forgot them as soon as you awoke the next day. All you could recall from this one was the pained screams of a strange man. You were a sound sleeper, rarely waking in the night. Even with a nightmare, you'd sleep through the entire dream once your body entered R.E.M. sleep.
There was a certain confidence in privacy in the middle of the night. In that, no one expected the growing pixie to wander the halls at this hour. Just as you didn't expect anyone else to be awake either. You dragged your feet across the hardwood as you trailed off the second floor. Muffled groans and hissed cries made you stop mid-step, the hair on the back of your neck standing up. The light in the kitchen was already on. Did mom have to wake up early for a shift? Those noises--!! As a whimper pierced the air, you sprinted to the kitchen. You had to help her! She could have slipped with a knife in her hand or fallen from a chair; she needed help.
You feel so foolish now for ever thinking your parents were capable of being victims.
But it was your father who had the knife, and he hadn't slipped. No, he was carving away at someone's torso. He growled as he demanded answers from a bound and gagged man sitting limp in your seat in your kitchen. Dad lifted a bloody hand to brush his hair from his face, smearing crimson across his forehead. You didn't even recognize him, the man who had kissed your cheek goodnight only six hours ago. The yellow light above him reflected off of his nearly black eyes. He was still wearing his work clothes.
Ducking back, you clung to the wall of the archway. Keeping yourself hidden in the shadows, you peered into the madness. Your mother held an iron rod over the gas burner on the stove. She'd cooked a family meal there just hours ago. She waited for it to glow a molten red before turning to face the two men behind her. You couldn't see much from where you were, so you had no idea who this stranger was, but you feared for him. Each foot was tied to a chair leg, each hand to either side of the chair's back. Your mother put a hand on your father's shoulder, and he shoved a hand towel into the man's mouth. With wide eyes, you watched as your mother shoved the rod into a space in the back of the chair and pressed the iron against his skin. Your mom was branding a human being!
You stayed long enough to listen to the man's muffled screams silence when he'd finally passed out from the pain. Then you wordlessly crept back up to your room.
They never found out you'd seen them. That moment had changed you, changed how you saw your family. It wasn't until many months later, after their death - a homicide - that your brother sat you down and tried to continue the charade. He took your hand in his as he spun a web of white lies to explain what happened to them. "It was a freak car accident." He'd claimed. The tone in which he spoke was wrong, or maybe you'd stopped believing anything anyone said to you.
Everything felt like a lie, wrapped up in pretty packaging. Every Scrabble game, every Disney movie marathon, every road trip. You shattered those tainted memories, taking up the jagged pieces to hold at your defense. You wouldn't sit back and accept it anymore. The image of Mono's darling, innocent little sister had no hope of returning. You let it harden you. Your parents, Mono's abandonment, all of it. You'd learn to navigate this world alone, for it was only yourself you could trust.
||
"Did you sell those five kilos during the southeast deal?" Tapping your heeled foot against the garage floor, you impatiently waited for the correct answer. You raised a hand, idly examining the tiny bit of dirt collected under your fingernails. This was a useless conversation, and it was time for a trip to the salon. "I was only able to sell three..." Wrong answer. Damien shamefully hung his head, holding his hands clasped in front of himself, bowing for forgiveness. He was visibly shaking. You felt only disgust at his pitiful stature, not compassion.
"Well, can't be helped." You sighed in exasperation as you pushed away from the wall. With a flick, you tossed the cigarette between your lips onto the floor. Your three-inch black heels crushed the burning cherry as you stalked toward your intern. Damien's failures outranked his successes, so was he even worth declaring that? Lackey? Lil' bitch?
"Really?" His adolescent voice rang out, his wary blue eyes filling instantly with hope. It was short-lived as the brunt of a four inch thick lead pipe came in contact with his cheekbone. You could hear the bone fracture just before his knees buckled and he hit the ground. "No, not really." You hissed as his body landed with a thud. Rolling onto his side, he spat blood and a couple of teeth onto the concrete.
"I don't recruit failures, Damien." You began to circle his body, letting the pipe drag menacingly against the floor; metal ringing on rock echoed loudly in the otherwise quiet garage. You noticed specks of blood on the tool, glistening in the light from the naked overhead bulb that swung in the air and cast shadows along the dingy walls.
"I'm sorry, Ma'am!!" He cried as his hands tried desperately to nurse his shattered cheekbone, muffling his apology. He was two years your junior, but that earned him no favor. There was no place in your newfound business for people who couldn't do their fucking jobs.
"If you're going to waste my time, then there is no purpose for you being here." You shook the rod, making it bang against the ground next to his head; he flinched. "If I send you out with five kilos, you are to sell five fucking kilos!" Alright, you did have a bit of an anger problem, as many doctors had told you. Raising the pipe, you brought it down onto his thigh, the sweet sound of iron meeting bone filling the space, followed by a blood-curdling scream that made your ears ring.
"If you want a job done, best to do it yourself." Your sweet, melancholy voice growled. Your shoes clicked against the pavement as you headed for the door, tossing the dented metal to the hulking man guarding the entrance. He caught it without hesitation, unphased by what he had witnessed. It was just another Thursday night to him. You grabbed the door handle and twisted it. "Get this sack of shit out of my sight." You ordered the doorman before stepping out the door and leaving him to it.
Tucking a strand of your short, electric blue hair behind your ear, you let it shut behind you. Long legs clad in tight jeans strolled towards your 1925 Rolls Royce Platinum, shining with its glossy black paint. Your dark purple nails curled into the sterling silver handle and pulled the door open, where the most beautiful red leather seats greeted you. Slipping into the car, your tight black skirt rode up a few inches higher. Adjusting your jacket, you settled in your seat and stared ahead at the building.
Right on time, you heard two faint pops from the garage you had just left, muffled by a silencer. You checked your lipstick in the mirror, no acknowledgment for the 150 pound loss your group had just been relieved of. Just another Thursday.
Maybe you'll be useful now, Damien. You pulled your car keys out of your black leather jacket that flared open to reveal your plain grey t-shirt sprinkled with a few drops of blood. Serving as an example. There's no such thing as failure if you work for me.
Turning the key in the ignition, the car roared to life and hummed beautifully. You were so good at your craft that you'd snagged this beauty from the weapon's deal last week after the exchange turned sour. Your team had left with the money, drugs, and a car, while the other four left in body bags.
Pulling out of the unnecessarily large driveway of the abandoned house you were currently occupying, you tossed the car into drive. Slamming your foot on the gas, you headed to fix Damien's fuck up.
***This is NOT a depiction of facts. These are emotions of how the MC views it. People with D.I.D. are valuable people with fascinating minds. <3 Please do not look to this book for direct examples regarding this disorder, as the story is intended to make you feel as the MC would, thus experiencing how she may perceive the world around her.