Page 103 of Riot's Thorn
She crumples to the floor, removing her high heel with shaky hands. “You shot me.”
“I’m aware,” I say, unsure why she thinks I wouldn’t know that. “I was the one who pulled the trigger. Remember?”
“Obviously, you moron.”
Suddenly, a vision of Mom sobbing on the ground, much like this bitch right now, flashes through my head. I was ten and in my “bug phase” at the time. When I liked something, I tended to hyper-focus, so I read every book the library had on bugs and collected as many different species as I could find.
Dad had come home a week prior after being dumped by a woman who got tired of paying for him to sit at home, drink beer, and watch TV all day. Mom took him back like she always did. I couldn’t understand why, but when he was around, her sadness went away. She went to work and doted on him like he was a king.
Being ten years old, I wanted nothing more than to share my new interest with him, and each time I learned a new fact, I’d run and tell him. I didn’t realize all I was doing was annoying him. One day, I hounded him to come see my bug collection until he finally caved. I was so proud of it; I had at least thirty different species of beetles, spiders, ants, and more.
I loved bugs; they were my friends, so I kept them in a box on my bed. I left the lid off while I went to get Dad, and all the bugs had gotten free and were crawling all over my bed. Dad freaked out, even though I told him it was okay and that I’d find them all. He didn’t believe me, and that night, he went to the bar, where he found a woman without kids to move in with.
“Your dad left because he doesn’t want a moron for a kid. Why couldn’t you just be normal for once?”
“I hate you! I wish I aborted you like your dad wanted.”
“You don’t have friends because you’re weird and no one likes the weird kid.”
Her verbal lashings lasted for days until she kicked me out of the house. That time, I spent two days with my rats before she allowed me back in. It was so confusing because the second I came back home, she acted like it was my fault I left.
“Why don’t you love me? What kind of kid doesn’t love their momma?”
“I’m so alone! What’s so wrong with me that even my own boy doesn’t want me?”
“You’re just like him, aren’t you? Leaving me when I need you the most!”
She refused to listen when I told her I did love her and I didn’t want to leave her. It was as if the only words she could hear were the ones in her head. I didn’t understand, but I set aside the anger I felt and moved on. This happened so many times, the anger I pushed away grew and grew until there was nowhere for it to go.
“Fuck you!” I shout.
Even though I’m standing above the woman with a gun in my hand, she speaks to me as if I’m the scum on the bottom of her shoe. “I don’t know where Parker is. I dressed her up and sent her away with Bart. He doesn’t tell me where he goes, and I don’t ask.”
I hear the words, but in my head, she’s Mom, making me feel worthless. “You didn’t think I’d amount to anything, but look at me now. I have my own place and a family who loves me. And a girl. She’s beautiful and smart.”
“What?” Mom’s eyes narrow on me, and her lip curls.
“You heard me. You thought the best I’d ever do is the cement factory, but being part of the club means people respect me. They even fear me.”
“You’re even more fucked up than I thought.” Mom slows her words. “Snap out of it, you freak. I’m not who you think I am.”
“What’d you find out?” Rigger asks, stepping up to my side. Seeing him pulls me from my memories and reminds me where I am.
“She doesn’t know where Parker is. She said she dressed her up, and she thinks she left with Bart,” I say.
“Dressed her up?” he asks the woman. “How?”
“My husband likes little girls, so he had me put her in clothes that would make him think he was fucking someone younger than her actual age,” she yells, as if she’s been bottling up the emotion for a long time.
“That’s fucking sick,” Lucky says.
I put a bullet in the center of her forehead, making all the guys yell out in surprise.
“Stop fucking doing that!” Rigger bites out.
“No. Now, let’s get this place cleaned up. Bart will have to come home sometime, and we’ll be waiting.”
“Damn it. I hate cleaning up blood, especially on marble. Do you have any idea how much the grout just sucks that shit up?” Mustang whines.
