Page 6 of Scarred Sacrifice
I grab my cell and water and take a seat, waiting for the next class. Two messages from Eden are displayed on my screen.
E: Was this you?
I click the link and read a social media post about how this out of control, PMS-ing woman attacked a man for no reason. The anonymous post continues to say how I am a bra-burning, man-hating bitch that just needs to get laid. I grin, but then I see there are comments.
AlanB52: Sounds like she needs putting in her place. I wouldn’t stand for this.
Jerry64: I really don’t understand the women these days. They make out that women have been mistreated. Oh, it must be so hard cooking and cleaning. We provide for them. They wouldn’t last two minutes working like we do.
Bev49: Whoever wrote this post, it’s obvious why she crushed your nuts. #nutcracker
AlanB53: @Bev49 I bet you think you’re funny, when clearly, you’re just a bitter old hag.
Bev49: @AlanB52 I’m hilarious, but not quite as funny as this post. #smallpeensyndrome #smalldicks
I snort a laugh before reading Eden’s other message.
E: Please tell me you weren’t wearing your cut.
M: Okay, I wasn’t wearing my cut.
I hit send, knowing she will be rolling her eyes. We made an agreement not to wear anything showing our club’s logo to prevent any repercussions.
E: We need to keep things quiet, especially while we are close to getting Sparks.
I huff, hating that she’s right. It was fine for the right people to know who we were, but we definitely don’t need Sparks knowing.
M: Sorry, he was just a real asshole.
E: There will always be assholes. Just try and contain the urge to kick their ass.
M: Fine. I will try, but I make no promises.
I put my phone back in my bag as the next class files in.
I arrive backat the Sanctuary, but before heading inside, I walk around the back towards the large oak tree that stands in the centre. I take a seat, leaning my back against it. “Hey, Mom,” I sigh.
We had planted the oak, along with my mom’s ashes. Every day I stop by before going inside. I just sit and tell her about my day, or sometimes I just sit in silence.
“So, I crushed this dude’s nuts with my boot today,” I tell her with a smile on my lips. My smile slips as that familiar pang ofhurt swarms my chest. I rub my hand over my heart, trying to ease it. “I still miss you every day. I thought it was supposed to get easier. Every night when I close my eyes, I still see you, and I still see the night you died. I’m trying to be strong, fuck, I’m trying. But I’m angry. I’m so fucking angry. Why should people like the asshole today get to live and you had to die?” I rasp, anger and grief clawing its way up my throat. Ten years may have passed, but it still felt as raw as it did the day I found her. I keep busy, keeping my mind distracted. Bernie often tells me I never grieved properly. What’s the correct way? I pour all my grief, all my rage and pain into fighting men like the man that killed my mother. If that’s not grieving correctly, then I don’t want to do it the right way. My way, the world gets justice, and my way helps others like my mom.
“Mor,” Bernie calls as she approaches, her gaze soft as she sees me sitting at the base of the tree. I look up at her. “You know, I come out here and talk to her every day, too,” she states as she takes a seat on the bench to the side of the tree.
“I know.” I nod.
Bernie sighs. “I update her about you every day.”
I look at her. “I speak to her every day. She knows how I’m doing,” I state.
Bernie shakes her head. “I tell her how you’re really doing. Your mom was my best friend, and there wasn’t anything we didn’t talk about. Like how you fuck all through the night until you pass out asleep because you can’t just fall asleep.”
“You been listening through my door getting your kicks, Bernie?” I tease.
She scrunches up her face. “God, no. I used to change your diapers, but I ain’t deaf, nor am I blind. I remember catching you after your mom passed, making out with that boy from college in the back of his car.” She tuts.
“He was hot,” I state.
“You were fourteen, and he was eighteen!” she exclaims.
