Page 3 of Banshee's Lament

I wakeup covered in sweat, my heart pounding. The same fucking nightmare that’s plagued me ever since the day Ryleigh was kidnapped dissipates as soon as my eyes open.

“Fuck,” I groan out. If only I could remember the rest of that day, but it was hidden from me. The counselor I saw right after that day said that sometimes, traumatic memories were buried so deep in order to protect the person, but Iwantedto remember. No, Ineededto remember, if only to assuage the guilt I’d lived with all these years.

Even though Ryleigh was now back under our roof, and she didn’t bear me any ill-will, I still felt guilty as fuck that she was taken while I was watching her.

It doesn’t matter that by the time my dad and RiffRaff burst through the doors and found me, it was evident I had fought as hard as my ten-year old self was capable of doing. It doesn’t matter that the club and the allies they had searched everywhere for her until the day those pictures arrived. It doesn’t matter that I spent a week in the hospital recovering from the injuries I sustained.

Realizing I’ll get no more sleep, I roll out of my bed then quickly strip the sweat-soaked sheets off, tossing them in the corner with the rest of the laundry that needs to be done. Walking naked into my bathroom, I turn the water on in the shower and stare at my reflection while I wait for it to heat.

“Fuck, you look exhausted,” I murmur to myself. “Pull your shit together, Ban, before you go off the deep end.”

Stepping inside the shower stall, I allow the hot water to pound down around my shoulders in an attempt to loosen the tense muscles at the base of my neck. Doing a series of stretches helps some and soon, I’m able to actually shower and rinse. A quick shave later, I brush my teeth then stride out of the bathroom with the clothes hamper and clean sheets. Once my bed is remade, I gather all the dirty laundry scattered around my room, and shove it into the already overflowing basket and put it by the door, before dressing in a pair of sweats and a T-shirt. Slipping on some socks, I take my laundry and head into the clubhouse’s laundry room.

“Thank fuck,” I mutter, seeing all the washing machines are empty. I fucking hate doing laundry, and most of the time, will let one of the girls do it, but lately, as out of sorts as I’ve been, I haven’t let anyone in my room and unfortunately, it shows.

With three machines now doing their thing, I walk into the kitchen to grab some coffee. It’s still early as hell so no one’s up, but I know the pot is fresh because that’s one of the things we make the prospects do. They take turns getting up every two hours during the night since coffee is one of our lifelines, so to speak. Grabbing a large coffee mug that’s more for travel than around here, I take my time getting it just right, before I gather cleaning supplies and head back to my room.

“Mom would be so pissed at me,” I murmur once I’m back inside looking around. Placing the cleaning supplies on my dresser, I tackle the floor first, sweeping all the trash into a pile before gathering it up and tossing it into the black garbage bag I brought in with me. Satisfied that a quick mop will get it back to its normally pristine condition, I move into the bathroom, squirting cleaner into the toilet and spraying down the shower, making a mental list of the shit I need a prospect to grab for me to replace the empty bottles of shampoo and body wash I’m currently tossing. After cleaning the grimy mirror, I scrub down the toilet, then the tub, throwing the used sponges and paper towels in the trash before I bag it up to put in the larger black bag still sitting in the middle of my room.

With my bathroom now gleaming, I quickly dust my furniture, toss my loose change into the giant water bottle I use to collect it, sort through the bills and get them into my wallet, then take everything back down so I can grab a bucket and mop.

“What the fuck are you doing up so damn early?” Brick’s deep, sleep-filled voice nearly scares the shit out of me, and I glare at him, while narrowly avoiding dropping the stuff I’m carrying.

“Cleaning my room,” I retort. “What does it look like?”

“At three in the fucking morning?” he bellows before guiltily looking around. “What’s going on, Ban?” His voice is now quieter, yet filled with concern.

I ignore his question and continue toward the kitchen where I put everything away then toss the full trash bag into the large barrel by the back door. One of the prospects will take care of it later. Seeing the bucket and mop, I also snag the cleaning stuff I’ll need to wash my floor and head back to my bedroom, Brick still on my heels.

Once inside my room again, after stopping long enough to swap my clothes from the washers to the dryers, I turn to him and cross my arms over my chest. He’s glaring at me, but right now, I don’t have it in me to spar with my best friend and club president.

“I wasn’t being loud,” I finally say when he continues to stare at me without saying a word. “Not like I’m the only one awake,” I point out, raising my brow at him.

“Ryleigh wanted some ice cream,” he admits, smirking. “Fucking cravings are going to be the death of me.”

I snicker, because he mayactlike he’s put out, but I know him, and he’d drive two states over to get her what she wanted if that’s where it was located. “You’re taking good care of her, Brick. But how did you know I was even up?” I ask.

“Saw you coming out of the kitchen with your arms full. Not sure how the fuck you didn’t see me.”

Snorting, I don’t respond. He’s not a small man by any means and it’s definitely an indicator as to how in my head I was if I missed him.

“You’re not sleeping again, Banshee.”

“No shit, Sherlock,” I jeer.

“Want to talk about why?” he quietly asks, concern written all over his face.

Sighing, I look down, guilt swamping me once again. While Ryleigh was thankfully not sexually assaulted, she endured things nobody should ever go through, and if it wasn’t for brothers from the Ankeny chapter reaching out, she would’ve died that night, alone in a ditch covered with snow.

“That fucking dream is back,” I finally admit.

“Still don’t remember anything?” he questions. When they started, we were still kids and would wrack our brains trying to figure everything out. Since that was long before cameras were a thing, no one was able to determine what exactly happened. My injuries were extensive; broken arm, shattered jaw, fractured leg. Not to mention the bruises and gashes from the beating I took. I was told I fought back; they found defensive marks on me, as well as hair and skin under my nails.

The end result was the same; she was snatched out ofmyarms onmywatch. That one pivotal moment changed my life forever. My parents were never the same and they died still holding out hope that they’d find her body so we could bring her home to bury her.

“Not a fucking thing,” I grind out, my jaw clenched. I was lucky that night when I arrived at the hospital. There was apparently a huge conference of some kind, and several specialists were on site and able to perform the surgeries I needed to put me back together.

I still have pins, plates, and screws all these years later. The chuckle that escapes is bitter sounding as I say, “Shoulda given me the road name Humpty Dumpty.”

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