Page 8 of Massacre
As I listened to him, I felt a sense of kinship and belonging, as if the threads of our lives were woven from the same fabric. His words resonated with my quest for meaning and served to remind me that every journey, no matter how solitary, was enriched by the lives we encountered along the way.
The night wore on, and the diner slowly emptied, leaving me with a sense of peace and contentment. I bid farewell to the man and the kind waitress, promising myself to return someday. Stepping back outside, the cool night air embraced me, and I felt a surge of gratitude for the simple moments that had unfolded in this little town.
Back on my motorcycle, I rode through the quiet streets of Diamond Creek, the town’s lights gradually fading into the distance as I ventured further into the night. The road stretched out before me, a symbol of endless possibilities and the promise of new adventures.
Nebraska had already given me so much—solace, connection, and a renewed sense of purpose. With each mile, I felt myself shedding the unnecessary burdens of life, embracing the simplicity and beauty of the journey. The stars above seemedto guide me, their luminous presence a constant reminder that I was never truly alone.
With the wind in my hair and the open plains before me, I rode on, confident that the true essence of freedom and peace lay within the journey itself. However, the second I saw her stumble out of the fields, I fucking knew my Norman Rockwell dream of peace and tranquility was just that.
A fucking dream.
My pulse quickened as I brought my motorcycle to a halt on the dimly lit road. She moved erratically. Her figure was barely distinguishable in the pale moonlight. Dust and field debris clung to her clothes, and her wild, frantic eyes reflected something far removed from the peace I had just embraced.
I approached cautiously, my boots crunching against the gravel.
“Miss, are you alright?” I asked, though the question felt inadequate in the face of her silent terror.
Her lips trembled, but no words came. Instead, she grabbed my arm, her grip like iron as she looked up at me and whispered, “Help me,” before she collapsed in my arms.
Holding her tightly, I stood there with her limp body in my arms as the headlight of my bike cast a shadow of light across her face and a distant memory flickered in my mind.
The damp seeped into my bones, a cold mirroring the chill that had settled in my heart. The single, bare bulb hung precariously from the ceiling and cast long, distorted shadows that danced with the dust motes swirling in the air. She was a bruised landscape, a canvas of violence painted in shades of purple and black. Each mark told a story like a silent scream etched into her skin. Yet, her eyes... her eyes were a different story altogether. They weren’t the vacant pools I’d expected, the reflective surface of shattered hope. They were flint, hardenedand unforgiving, a defiance burning fiercely against the backdrop of her battered body.
I leaned against the wall, the rough plaster scratching against my back, a minor discomfort compared to the emotional turmoil churning within me. The air hung heavy with unspoken words. What could I say to her? Nothing significant she’d want to hear. I knew she didn’t trust me. She would never trust any man ever again.
Not after what they did to her.
I was the enemy because I wore the same cut.
I was from the same club.
“Yo, Massacre?” I heard Shamrock calling for me. “Where are you, brother?”
“Over here.”
Stepping inside the door, she flinched as Shamrock appeared, cautiously saying, “Uh, Reaper found Remi. She’s hurt real bad, brother. Healer is working on her now. The rest of us are still clearing this place and then were gonna meet up at the local hospital. You need any help?”
“No,” I said, never taking my eyes off her. “This lovely lady and I are just gonna sit here for a while. Do me a favor and let Reaper and Ghost know.”
“Sure, brother,” Sham said, slowly backing away from the door. The second he was gone, I watched as she let out a breath. I observed her posture, a subtle shift in her weight, a barely perceptible adjustment of her arm. It wasn’t a flinch, not exactly. More a quiet recalibration, a constant, unconscious assessment of her surroundings. An animal instinct, a survival mechanism honed to razor sharpness by the crucible of her suffering. She didn’t look at me directly, but her peripheral vision, I was certain, accounted for every inch of the room. She was a coiled spring, ready to unleash a hidden strength I suspected I’d only glimpse if we were truly threatened. Theirony wasn’t lost on me. She had endured physical brutality, yet her strength, her unwavering resolve, felt like an invisible shield generated by her silent defiance. She stared intensely at me, her gaze never wavering.
“Sorry about that.” I smirked. “I’m Massacre.”
“You’re one of them,” she accused.
I didn’t know how to tell her. Yes, we were, but not really. The Louisiana Chapter of the Golden Skulls were not my brothers. Yes, we wore the same cuts, but they were not Golden.
“Massacre,” she repeated, her voice a harsh whisper, as if the very act of speaking caused her pain. “Massacre of the Golden Skulls. You’re all the same. You wear your colors with pride, a badge of honor for the pain you inflict.” Her eyes, those fierce orbs, held mine captive, daring me to deny her accusation. I wanted to explain, to tell her about my club, the real Golden Skulls, and how different we were, but the words stuck in my throat, a bitter pill I couldn’t swallow.
How could I make her understand we were the antithesis of their violence?
“I know what you’re thinking,” I said, my voice low and steady, hoping to match the strength in her gaze. “But we’re not like them. The Louisiana Chapter has stained our name, but we’re here to set things right. To bring justice.” I took a cautious step forward, my hands raised in a gesture of peace. “I’m here to help you.”
Her body tensed, a coiled spring ready to snap, and for a moment, I thought she might launch herself at me. But then, slowly, the tension drained from her frame, and she sagged like a broken doll.
“Justice?” she whispered, her voice laced with bitterness. “There’s no such thing. Not for the likes of me.”
I knelt down, lowering myself to her level, careful to keep my movements slow and deliberate. “I won’t pretend tounderstand what you’ve been through,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper. “But I can promise you this—I’m not here to hurt you. I’m here to put an end to it. To all of them.”
