“Whatever,” he says, standing up and slapping the back of my neck. “What-f*cking-ever.”

DECEMBER 24TH, 2010

“THE FEAR OF DEATH FOLLOWS THE FEAR OF LIFE. A MAN WHO LIVES FULLY IS PREPARED TO DIE AT ANY TIME” (MARK TWAIN)

Christmas Eve I get word that Mamá’s dead. One of the counselors calls me into his office and sits me down. He delivers the news in a hurry, eager to go home to his own functioning family, but uses the furrowed forehead expression, the one that’s supposed to show compassion.

Is he sad for me? I don’t know.

Who the f*ck cares?

I’m twenty-two and completely orphaned.

I killed my dad and now my Mamá’s gone, too. Hit by a plowed bus on her way back from sending me stamps. Lotta’ rain. Lotta’ fog. Bus driver was working overtime to make sure his kids would have presents under their Christmas tree. Got tired. Lost control.

Anyway, you know the rest.

The counselor asks me if I’d like to see a priest. Cry a little. Pray a lot. Pray. Hah! Pray to who? No one ever listens to me upstairs. My prayers fall on deaf ears no matter where they land. Heaven, hell, or the very earth I live upon.

Fisting my hair from its base, I answer with a headshake.

I spend the night in my bed, staring at the ceiling.

Unblinking.

Uncrying.

Unable to join everyone downstairs for the Christmas Eve charade.

And I’m all alone.

I drag my shades down and roll my lower lip between my fingers as I stare through the rear window.

Yeah, it’s definitely them.

Stella merges into the highway as I try to lose the 1970 Ford Econoline van. White, rusty and fitting for these *s. I spot it a couple of cars behind me. The faces staring back at me through my rear mirror are unfamiliar, but recognizable all the same.

I can spot an Aryan Brother from miles away, having been in prison for so long. Two big pink men. Fat, tatted and simple looking.

I can’t lead them to my house. Gotta’ get rid of them somewhere along the way.

Fuck, I thought Godfrey said he was on top of this shit.

Speeding onto the I-5, I duck my head low so that the back of my skull is covered by the cushioned seat. Cursing under my breath, I’m throwing glances to assess how many other cars I can bypass without raising suspicion. My pulse is wild, hammering against my ears, making my blood roar in my veins. Shaky, damp fingers choke my steering wheel. I push the gas pedal until my foot hits the floor. The van’s following close behind. Now it’s only one car away. It’s ten p.m., too late for traffic, and the highway is deserted, other than a few random cars crawling along their journey to their point of destination.

Shit.

My eyes dart from the road back to the van, and a big guy with a tattoo on his cheek pulls his torso out of the passenger seat’s window. Then I see it. A rifle. A f*cking rifle.

Double shit.

He levels the rifle with me, one eye squeezed shut, the other focused on my head. I gulp hard and take a sharp turn to the right, switching lanes. If I don’t take the next right exit, I’m dead.

Godfrey, you lying scumbag. Did you let them loose, or did you never have any power over them in the first place?

That’s a question I’ll have to deal with if I get out of this alive.

I veer onto an exit ramp and speed with everything I’ve got. Stella starts shaking to the point where everything clatters. Reluctantly, the old van switches lanes to follow me into a winding road crawling into green-grass covered hills of nothingness.

Triple shit.

I couldn’t have given them a better place to shoot me. All I’ve got left is to push my f*cking forehead into their barrel at this point.

The van manages to bump into my rear and my vehicle coughs forward. I try to speed up unsuccessfully. It’s done. The Tacoma has reached its limit. Another bump follows, this time harder. My ass disconnects from my seat, my body jumps upwards. Third bump, and this time Stella’s thrown a few feet forward. I need to stop this chase before they roll me over and shoot me down.

So I change tactics.

I take a left turn out of nowhere, rolling into a carved hill, and reverse back so my car faces theirs, hidden by a blizzard of dust and gravel.

Let’s. Play. Fucking. Chicken.

These men want to kill me, but me? I’m actually going to let them. They may not yield, but I won’t, either. It’s easy to gamble your life away when you’ve got nothing to live for.

Playtime, motherf*ckers.

Revving up my engine, I push the gas pedal so hard the muscles in my foot pull, my truck galloping in their direction. All I see is red. All I feel is the taste of their blood on the tip of my tongue.

Faster.

Quicker.

Nearer.

Closer.

The driver finally swerves to the right, and the van crashes against a thick bush. Black smoke scuttles from its engine.

The van’s old age caught up with it. They’re done. Their vehicle’s f*cked.

It’s time to ruin and reign.

I fling my door open and stagger out of Stella, hurrying to my trunk and pulling out a wooden broom. That’s the only weapon I have. A f*cking broom. But it’s long and I break it in two against my knee, so now it has two sharp edges, too.

Pacing to the van, I pull out the guy who’d sat in the passenger’s seat, the one with the rifle, and toss his heavy weapon behind my back, far away from his reach.