Shit.
And now I’m triggering my own PTSD.
Mom, please. Please don’t lock me in the bathroom with a tub full of bleach. Please don’t hit me when I sneeze too loud or cough too hard. Please don’t laugh at me when I throw up on the rug in front of all of Neil’s awful friends. Please, please, please.
Be a mom.
Only … she isn’t. She never really was. Because being a mother isn’t just about pushing a human out of your vagina. It’s a state of fucking mind. It’s about caring for someone more than you care for yourself. Aaron is a better mother to his sister and cousin than Pamela ever was to me.
She gets on top of me, and I won’t lie: it hurts. She straddles me, one hand gripping my hair and yanking so hard that white fire explodes behind my eyelids. I guess I learned how to fight from watching her. I suppose we are similar in some ways, me and Pamela.
As I’m lying there underneath her, aching and hurting and bleeding, I realize that she was probably a victim of the system, too. My father was nearly fifteen years her senior. He was married. He got her pregnant at sixteen. As fond as my memories of him are, wasn’t he in the wrong?
The thing is: once you cross that line from victim to perpetrator, there is no absolution. You should know how much the atrocities you suffered hurt. How dare you perpetuate that cycle. How dare you.
But I let Pam beat my ass while my boys wait, gnashing teeth and foaming at the mouth.
From the corner of my eye, I can see them. Shit, I can feel them. Seeing me on the ground like this, beneath number seven on my list, must just kill them. If I were one of the boys right now, I’d probably defy my queen’s order and come out swinging.
Victor is standing there like a statue, stone-still, his control absolute. It’s what I see in his eyes that terrifies me, all the awful, awful things he’d do to Pam if given the chance. Aaron has his left hand balled into a fist, leaning against the doorjamb like he can’t bear to stand up. Hael is pacing, raking his fingers through his bloodred hair, while Callum crouches on the walk just in front of Aaron.
It’s Oscar, stoic, immovable Oscar, who looks like he might actually come for my mother. The only thing that stops him as he starts forward is a swift look from Victor, one that demands perfect obedience.
“Pamela Pence!” a voice calls out, and then my mother is being hauled off of me. She’s screaming at me, but I can’t hear a word she’s saying. I think I’ve learned over the years how to filter out her toxicity. I roll over in the grass and push myself up to my knees.
That’s how I’m going to win this war.
Cramping from a miscarriage and shaking from old hurts and raw anger.
I glance back to see Sara Young, Detective Constantine, and the uniformed officers from the squad car across the street.
Bingo, bitch.
“Are you okay?” Sara asks as Oscar moves over to stand beside her, his face so pinched you’d think he just swallowed a fucking lemon. Police Girl is crouched down next to me, one hand on my shoulder, but her eyes are on the blood between my legs. “We need to get you to a hospital.”
“The GMP did this to me,” I whisper back at her, and I don’t have to fake the way my voice quavers. I’m furious. At Pamela. At Ophelia. At this gang war. At the entire world. Justice is never meted out the way it should. I don’t believe in karma or otherworldly punishments. Only I can carve out my pound of flesh. “They took the choice away from me.”
Because that’s what I believe in: choice. My body, my choice. And they fucking took that from me. I shove up to my feet and stumble into Oscar. He catches me easily, and then holds me much closer and much tighter than I expected.
“It’s just a bad period, she’ll be fine,” Oscar says smoothly as I close my eyes and lean into him. “What are you going to do with Pamela?”
“Well, first off, I’m going to add assault and battery to her list of charges.” Sara pauses, and I glance over to find her expression bewildered. I’ve managed to confuse her. Again. She has no idea what to think of me.
See, look, my boys didn’t react to that violence. They are stable. They don’t hurt people just for hurting me.
“She killed Neil, didn’t she?” I ask, my voice grim as I try to stand up. Oscar won’t let me go, however. Instead, he keeps me clutched in his inked arms like I’ll drown if he doesn’t keep me afloat.
“I can’t speak on an open case,” Sara says, but there’s a strange lilt to her voice that tells me all that I need to know. “Bernadette, I’d like to speak with you again. I’m afraid you’re not safe here. The Grand Murder Party isn’t another high school gang to trade insults with. They’ve wiped out their entire crew here in Springfield.”
My eyes widen slightly. Don’t have to fake that one. Well, shit, that helps explain the shooting. Kill Stacey and her girls for the robbery. Get rid of the rest of the Charter Crew so there’s nobody left to squeal. Destroy Havoc.
Only … I once described Havoc as a five-headed hydra. You cannot destroy something that is legendary.
“We’re going to move to a safe house,” I tell her, pushing away from Oscar and then throwing my arms around the detective. It’s a risky move. The cops in South Prescott have been known to shoot you for less. But I go for it and then whisper in her ear. “I’ll send you the address; I’m afraid, Sara.”
I let go of her and sniffle, cringing as I look down and realize how much I’m bleeding. I need to get inside, clean up, empty my cup. This is annoying to me already.
“You need to see a doctor, Bernadette,” Sara stresses, flicking her eyes to Oscar and then past him, toward the house. All of the boys are waiting outside—even Callum. As soon as she sees him, Sara’s face tightens. “I see you’ve found Mr. Park.”
“They tried to kill him,” I tell her, and this time, I don’t have to glance back at Vic or Oscar to figure out what I’m supposed to be saying. I’m queen here. I live and breathe south Prescott. Havoc is mine. I know what I’m doing. “He ran and hid. One guy had a garrote.”
Sara’s nostrils flare as she notices the scabbed-over gash on Cal’s neck.
“That would be Russ Bauer,” she says, and I’m not sure why she’s telling me this or if she’s even supposed to say as much. “He’s an enforcer for the Grand Murder Party. Bernadette, if they’re sending him after you then you really are in danger. You should be in protective custody.”
“We handle our own in the southside, police girl,” Oscar says, his tone dismissive and cold. “Why don’t you do your job, and we’ll do ours?”
“Which is what? Playing at being gangbangers? I don’t think you understand what you’re up against,” Sara says, her cool façade cracking around the edges. She’s wearing black pants and a very familiar looking blue jacket. Bet ya it says FBI in yellow on the back.
“Did you see the carnage at Prescott High?” I ask, shaking my head. “It’s not a crime to defend ourselves which we will do if pushed.”
Sara just stares at me like I’m a puzzle she’s desperate to put together. She wants to understand me, but she can’t. We’re from different worlds. Doesn’t mean we have to be enemies. We want the same thing: for the bad guys to be punished.