Page 172 of You Might Be Bad for Me

I look back at Miss Tamra, still trying to keep up with my mother, even though her grip tightens so hard it’s going to bruise. My blood runs cold and a scream is caught in my throat at the sight of Tamra leaning against the back wall, her left hand on the sofa. Blood coats her hair where a bullet wound mars her skull and it leaks down to her cheek, dripping onto her collarbone. I blink and suddenly she’s standing there, yelling at my mother that she’s an ungrateful bitch.

The chill doesn’t go away, the sight from just before still stealing my breath and sanity.

The hand around my arm twists, burning my skin where my mother is touching me. It hurts. Mom, it hurts! I scream out, but the words don’t come. I’m no longer there. It’s dark and the bruising hold changes to something else, feeling like the kiss of a spider climbing up my arm in the darkness. I try to jump back, but I’m trapped, with nowhere to go and I can’t see a damn thing.

She’s here. My heart races and dread ignites inside of me, but I can’t run. I can’t see her. I can only hear her so close to me.

“No one ever helped me,” she tells me. “They’re going to pay for that.”

* * *

It felt soreal last night, the sensation of my mother being so close to me.

An uncontrollable shudder runs through me as I slowly walk down the stairs. My heart won’t stop racing and I can’t clear my throat. I feel like I’m suffocating.

It was only a dream.

It’s only a dream.

My chest tightens and the fear rips through me anew as I swear I hear something upstairs, something in the bedroom.

“Knock it off,” I grit between my teeth.

The floor behind me creaks, loud and heavy. It almost sounds like someone’s walking down behind me quickly and not hiding their weight, making me scream and I nearly fall down the last four steps. My back pressed against the wall and my chest frantically rising and falling, I stare behind me. No one’s there. No one’s here.

“It’s only a dream,” I remind myself and ignore the flow of ice that rolls over my body and how every hair on my body stands on end as I remember my mother’s words.They’re going to pay for that.

I’m not crazy, but I feel like I am. Crossing my arms over my chest, I feel my blunt nails dig in and remind myself that I’m alive.

The night after my mom died, I had the same type of dreams. The ones where she felt so real, following me even when I woke up.

“Please, go away,” I beg her as I fall to the floor, sitting on the steps and wishing the wave of coldness that keeps coming over me would go away. Go away forever.

I told you, I hear my mother’s voice, but I know it’s just a memory.

She’s not real. This isn’t real.

The dead don’t stay away for long. And they’ll pay. Every single one of them will pay.

SEBASTIAN

It’s been three years since Romano gave me this job. The knife slams down on the cutting board as the thought hits me. I grab the carved meat and put it in the tub with the rest of the chunks.

I’m the butcher of a shop that rides the line of his territory. When Romano hired me to work here at Paul’s Butcher Shop, I thought it meant something different. I thought it meant he was hiring me to be a part of his crew.

Now I know better; he just wanted to watch me. Train me, or maybe mentor me if he ever needed someone like me. The line of customers coming in for their packages distracts me and I glance up for a moment. Eddie, Paul’s son, rings them up one by one. I stay in the back with a few other guys, processing all the orders and occasionally we have to stay here later, after closing hours.

Like when Romano has a special order.

Picking up the butcher knife, I slam it down with my teeth gritting together. This isn’t his turf, but I’m not ready to start a war or gather an army against him. There’s no one here to recruit, just the addicts who camp out behind the line of the highway that separates his area from Crescent Hills.

Most of the meat here is shipped off to God knows where. This place sees plenty of money come in and go out, but the numbers don’t actually add up. We’re just doing his bidding.

Still, I cut the fucking carcass up like I’m told, and stay on the right side of a would-be enemy while I have to.

I vaguely wonder how long that’ll be. And when the time comes, which side I’ll be on.

The bells hanging over the front door bells, two cheap bells that ding and then ding again as the door is open and closed quickly.

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