Page 26 of Biker Boo
just know… you were worth every scream I never let out.
I wake up inside it before I even realize I’m dreaming.
Fifteen again.Knees on the cold chapel floor.Hands behind my head like a convict.
The Reverend’s voice booms over me, deeper than thunder.“You filthy little bastard.”
His shadow stretches across the altar, swallowing me whole.In the flicker of candlelight, his eyes look like pits.“Looking at her like that?You think I don’t see you?You think the Lord don’t see you?”
I try to speak, but his hand is already in my hair, jerking my head back until my eyes water.
“She’s mine to give,” he hisses.“My daughter will go with Hudson like she’s supposed to.Not with you.Not with damaged goods.”
My stomach turns.He yanks harder, voice rising.
“You know what you are?Nothing.Trash.Son of a homeless crackhead whore.You don’t even know your daddy’s name.Should be thanking God every day I pulled you out of the gutter.”He slams me forward so my forehead hits the wood.My vision blurs with stars.
I can smell the snakes before he brings them out, the musk, the dry hiss, the rattle of scales in a bucket.
“You want to sin with my daughter?”he snarls.“Handle temptation.”
He tips the bucket over, and a copperhead slides toward me, tongue flicking.My heart slams against my ribs.I don’t move.
“Pick it up,” he orders.
My hands shake as I reach out.The snake coils, striking fast.Its fangs catch the soft flesh of my wrist.Fire erupts under my skin.
I drop it and scream.
“No hospital,” the Reverend says calmly, like we’re talking about taking out the trash.“You’ll sit with it.You’ll pray.You’ll let the Lord decide if you’re worthy of living.”
I crawl back against the pew, clutching my arm, breath coming in ragged gasps.The poison burns up my veins.My teeth chatter.Nobody comes.
Except her.
Later… minutes?hours?A soft hand touches my forehead.A woman’s voice, low and sweet, whispering words I don’t recognize.She presses something cool to my wrist, slips pills under my tongue.
“Don’t tell,” she murmurs.“Just breathe.”
Mama Crowley.
But that’s impossible.I’ve never met her.Only heard she’s been dead for years.
When I wake, the bite is swollen, angry, but I’m alive.The Reverend doesn’t speak of it again.The men of Pearly Gates say it was the Lord’s will.But I know it wasn’t prayer that saved me.
It was her.
And she keeps coming back.In dreams like this one, she sits at the edge of my bed, hair like smoke, eyes soft but urgent.
“Watch over Becki,” she whispers.“Don’t let him break her.”
I don’t know if she’s a ghost or if I’m just as sick in the head as the Reverend said.But every time she appears, it feels like a promise I can’t shake.
Even now, even waking, the burn of that snakebite lingers in my wrist, and her voice lingers in my skull.Watch her.Protect her.Keep her safe, even if it means staying in the dark.
I wake up soaked in sweat, fist clenched, the echo of the Reverend’s words still ringing.Damaged goods.Not fit for his daughter.
And Mama Crowley’s voice, Becki’s mother’s voice, still whispers like a prayer I’ll never stop hearing.
