Page 59 of Roots of the Wicked

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chase

Jax turned and placed a sweet kiss on my lips before she sat up. I lifted and placed her pillow so that it would cushion her back. I sat up also, cushioning my back to the headboard. She reached over and turned on the lamp before adjusting to sit next to me. An awkward silence lingered between us as we sat, staring straight ahead. Silence stretched between us as I sensed her inner turmoil stirring.

“You were right Chase. You should know more about my history, and why I’m afraid to talk about it. I trust you Chase.”

She went quiet again, but the emphases she had place on the word trust wasn’t missed.

“The first time I overheard my mother say she never wanted kids I was five.” Her voice trembled with a vulnerability she rarely showed.

“The first time I overheard her tell one of her girlfriends she wanted the abortion, my father talked her out of getting, I was seven. The first time she wished I was never born, I was eight. It became pretty clear, even in my young mind, my mother didn’t want me. She was a party girl, born to a wealthy family, the Ramos’ who disowned her when she became pregnant with me at eighteen.

Her words soaked into me as I sat tensed with anticipation, and a touch of fear for where the story might go.

“The plan was for her to finish college, and then marry one of the wealthy suitors her family would pick out for her. Instead, my mother had chosen my father. At the time, I think she may have loved him, but he was poor, a part-time college student who had decided to go into the police academy.”

Based on the glare set adrift in her eyes and the tension that crinkled the corners, she was struggling to sort through the tough memories.

“I think her pregnancy became the turning point. My father had always wanted me and made every effort to show me he loved me. He worked hard because that was the type of man he was. Most of my young life he worked two jobs, one as a cop, the other as a security guard, to make sure we had everything we needed. But my mother, having been raised spoiled and entitled, wanted what her friends had. Designer clothes, fancy cars, and social status. Looking back at it, I believed she was pathologically obsessed with having money and status.

“She used me several times, attempting to wiggle her way back into her family’s life. Dressing me up and flaunting me in front of them, like a prized show pony. But, like her, they didn’t want anything to do with me. She often left me and my father, sometimes weeks at a time. He had to hire a nanny to take care of me whenever she did because he had no immediate family. She would eventually return, and my father would take her back every time.”

Jax absently scratched her head, her stare cast against the wall as she sorted through what was likely a mountain of emotions and recollections. I watched her like a hawk, studying her every move and gesture as her face transformed from stressed to impassive.

“My mother had grown into this wicked woman, filled with hate and resentment. She yearned for the life she believed me and my father, had stripped away from her. She didn’t have a maternal bone in her body. There was no help with homework, hugs at night, or bedtime stories. All the love and care I ever received came from my father. Unfortunately, his law enforcement career meant long and demanding hours that kept him away and was also our only source of income.”

“In addition to the hate and resentment my mother aimed at me and my father, she was also a cheat. I suspected my father knew about it for a while, and finally grew tired of it, so they decided to divorce. My mother had never wanted me, so I believed her threat to take my father to court for custody was out of spite. She knew that separating me and my father would hurt us both.”

Her head fell back, her concentrated gaze aimed at the ceiling. I was reluctant to disturb her, but the deeper she dug into the memories, the more her body started to knot with tension.

“I was the happiest on the days, or weekends I spent with my father. The only time I felt loved was when I was with him. He would sit and talk with me like I was a little adult, asking about my week and all that I had done while we were apart. He would take me out to the movies, the park, game rooms, everything a kid looked forward to that my mother never bothered with.

“When my mother wasn’t leaving me alone in the house to sneak off with her friends, she was belittling me about everything from my darker complexion, to my quiet nature, to my being ugly because I looked like my father. She hated everything about me. She didn’t want me, but she didn’t want my father to have me more. She drilled it in my head that love didn’t exist, promised it was as made up as the tooth fairy.”

When her breaths started to quicken and the weight of her past appeared to push down on her, I ensured she knew I was there by pressing the right side of my body to the left of hers.

“My mother never gave up the quest to live the life she believed she deserved. Instead of working a normal job, she opted for one that would provide her fast money. She hooked up with a seedy producer that helped her launch her own porn site. The money made her happy for a while, as she could afford the material possessions she sought, and showed off to her entitled friends.”

I ran into her mother’s type in my circle, often.

“It wasn’t drugs or alcohol, but my mother’s greed, and her need to fit into a certain social status that became her obsession. She was willing to do anything and hurt anybody to get what she wanted. When she figured out she could make more money by introducing a featured guest on her show, she looked to me.”

“No.” I choked out, the word barely audible. I prayed her mother wasn’t crazy enough to do what I think Jax was clearly implying. Jax never wrung her hands, so when she started, I sat my hand atop hers, feeling the light tremble in them.

“Here. Take my hand.” My tight grip didn’t ease the anxiety that had a tight hold on her.

“She did a weekly mother-daughter show, where she made me…p-p-perform…”

Her trembling top lip was pinched into the bottom, as she struggled with how to release the memory. I eased closer, unwilling to let her relive the horror of her past without knowing that I was there for her.

She had been molested by her mother on film and forced to perform sexual acts, all while knowing she was being watched by a sick audience. People who didn’t see abuse. Ones who used a child’s torture for sexual gratification. Only a monster from the deepest pits of hell was capable of such horror.

“She would beat me, if I didn’t do what she wanted me to do. She didn’t care if the acts hurt, didn’t care if I screamed, yelled, or begged. My pain and torture was a part of the show.”

She choked down a series of sniffles, as she swiped at her flowing tears. The story had my nerves so torn apart, I started to suffocate on the grief I felt for her, my stomach queasy and clenching.

“Each time I disobeyed, didn’t perform to her standards, or protested the things she did to me, she made the one threat I was most afraid of. She promised she would pack me up and take me back to Venezuela where I would never see my father again. He’d always been all I ever loved because he’d been the one in my life to make me feel important and wanted. The one who had shown me I was worthy of being loved. My relationship with my father meant more to me than anything, and she knew it. I was too naïve to know that she was using my relationship with him to keep me in line. I didn’t tell anyone about my abuse, especially not my father.”

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