Chapter Two
Once, in the final year of high school, I had attended a single session of a self-defense class. The petite blonde who had introduced herself as Shirley, who in my opinion was too small to be a self-defense instructor, but was actually really good in her profession, had stated towards the end of the class how in case of a kidnapping, you should consider all the circumstances. More likely than not, using your voice and fighting back was a good choice. But sometimes keeping calm, observing, and not taking action until the time was right was the better option.
I replayed that forty-five-minute instruction class over and over in my head as I looked outside from the black tinted glass of the huge SUV. One guy was driving the vehicle, while the other sat next to me in the backseat, firm and impassive and glaring at the passenger seat in front of him.
I took a moment to observe him, the car shaking slightly as it went on its path. Large bulging muscles covered in tattoos, dark jeans and dark jacket, bunched at the elbows. Moving my eyes upward, I observed how his neck was also tattoo covered in what I could make out to be a dragon, leading to his brooding face. Lips pressed tight, eyes harsh, a carpet of dark brown hair covered his head. He appeared to be in his late thirties.
I shook my head in disgust. These men just took me and have no remorse. From the looks of things, this is something they did quite frequently.
Lucky, or not so lucky for me, I suppose. I didn't have to wonder why and where my two bulky chauffeurs were taking me.
In the past few days, I had managed to pry some more information from my father the alcoholic, may it be one sentence or one word. 'Lottery', he had said, 'Las Vegas Lottery.' The next day, sprawled on his permanent destination of the couch, he had whispered, 'Casino Lottery.'
Last night, just before blacking out, he had given the final piece of the information. 'Price ... you.'
There was no lottery.
It was a loan.
And I was the collateral.
My heartbeat escalated, thinking of what my future held for me. Simple death seemed too good to be true. I was going to be brutally punished due to my inhumane father. Of course.
Sweat started to break out on my forehead. How can I escape this hellhole my father had so lovingly dropped me in?
I might be strong. I might be experienced. I might have suffered again and again, and developed a rather impenetrable shield around my being, a shield which let out no emotion, let out no panic. A shield which could never break, for myself or my mother.
For when life came crumbling down, and it did very often, all we had left was this shield. When my father would hurl his empty bottle at my mother, just because his meal was not warm enough, and I would have to clean her blood coated skin, I wouldn't break down, because of this shield. When my mother would come home, with blisters on her feet and tears in her eyes because life was just hard, I would be the strong one, because of this shield.
I was unbreakable because of this shield.
I kept all levels of emotion to myself, because of this shield.
My life was a continuous episode of wake up, work, take care of my mother. I would try to take care of her and ignore my intoxicated father as best as I could. I could only eat once a day because I could do without a meal but my mother and father couldn't. I would then sleep and repeat the process all over again. And I could this, because of the presence of my indestructible shield.
I was seven when my father aimed his anger at me. It had just started at that time, his intoxication and rage. My mother had undertaken the startling bout of screams and hurled objects. That day, my father had seen me huddled by the corner of the living room entrance. He had stopped shouting at mom and dragged me from my hiding spot.
As long as I cried, he had screamed. Insults after insult. My mother tried her best to stop him, to get me away from him, but she was just shoved off, her frame shaking with the tears covering her face. I could never forget that face, I would do anything for her not to have to suffer like she had that day.
So, when my tears had run out, and my father saw his words bear no weight on me anymore, he had stopped. That day I realized my father was sadistic. He craved pain, felt like he needed to cause it. Maybe he thought by causing others pain, his would lessen.
That day I had grown up. That day my shield had developed. From that day on, I had strived to keep my broken family in one piece.
So, like I had been doing since the young age of flowers and toys, when the panic started to gain momentum within me, I imagined my mother's face. Her dark hair messed, her wide blue eyes coated in tears, cheeks red and glistening from shed wetness. Anyone who saw her at that moment would've felt pity.
I remembered that face whenever I felt weak, remembered whose happiness I was striving for, and walked away from all things making me weak in life.
And sat in the backseat of a car which smelled vaguely of smoke, I did just that.
xxxxx
The drive had taken about three and a half hours from Riverside to Las Vegas. I knew, not because I had ever been there, but because people from the town often shifted to the big city.
Three and a half hours, one guy drove, the other stared.
I thought.
I thought about how messed up my life was.
I thought about how I was intending to cope with my future.
I thought about how I had managed in the past.
Because, judging from the attitudes of people around me in this car, I was currently safe. I sensed it. What the future held might be troublesome, but these three and a half hours, I could make as much amends with my past as I wanted.
My mother. My poor mother. She used to be such a talented, exceptional woman. One of the best nurses in Riverside. Tall, beautiful blue eyes, charming smile. She had seen the peak of what's called a good life.
Now she spent her days slaving away at her job and at her house.
I had said goodbye to her last night. When my father had gone down along with the alcohol contents in the household, I had tiptoed to the single room we shared, and informed her of what I knew so far.
She had sat and listened peacefully, like she already knew. Maybe she did. The fake idea of the lottery. How he, again, had used me to get out of his problems. How I would have to sacrifice my livelihood, in all forms perhaps, because of him.
My mother had held me in her arms, and repeatedly said how it would be alright. How bad times never lasted. How our lives would take a turn.
How could I possibly believe her?
But I let her hold me, her words mixed with her tears. If believing that our lives would fix itself out of nowhere brought her peace, so be it.
When the door had been knocked on this seventh day, and I had opened it to two pillars of muscles, in their throaty voices asking for Rosaline Flemming. I glanced back at my mom, who was looking at me through the living room doorway, let out the tiniest of smiles, for her sake, and simply stepped out.
It was conceivable that I was seeing my mother for the last time. Maybe after I had left, my father wouldn't feel the need to shout at her at all, even though his episodes had simmered down to one or two per month at max, and it remained verbal, at most. Perhaps it was better that I was going. Maybe it was possible that I could take some of the bad luck of the house with me.
Hey, I was only human. I too can hope for something good.
I settled more in the backseat and leaned towards the glass window. At least no one would miss me here after I die. I'm sure my employer at the local clothing store didn't care if I disappeared or not. He would save on the minimum wage he paid me.
All my friends from school had moved out of town for either work or college. So no problem with my disappearance there.
And I'm sure my father, who had turned his life into a sad sitcom script the day he was fired from his job when I was seven, would never miss me. He would be too busy, looking at his college degree hanging crooked on the living room wall, and drinking away the ache in his heart from the job he lost twelve years ago.
God, he was such a loser.
Once, when I was thirteen and one of his episodes had just ended, I had asked mom why we couldn't just get rid of him. Or maybe move away from here. I was desperate for an escape in those adolescent days.
My mother, with her skilled hands and knowing eyes, had chuckled and said, 'I'd much rather keep an eye on him and try to keep him out of trouble, then leave him unattended and have no choice but to fix it.'
I, to the present, never understood her logic.
No friends, no money, no hobbies, no joy, a broken family. What was my life?
Maybe it was a good thing I was going to die soon. Finally, I would be free from this endless cycle.