Sixty Nine
Ayden
I woke up feeling awful. My head was throbbing with intense pain every time I blinked. Looking around, I saw dozens of used syringes and blackened spoons.
Sitting up, I noticed I was all alone. I could hardly remember the events of the past few days.
I heard a crash in the other room. It sounded like glass shattering.
“Who’s there?”
Sinister poked his head into my bedroom. “It’s me, Donovan.”
“What was that noise?”
“I dropped a fucking glass.”
Nodding, my hand reached for my phone. It was 7:45. Good, I had time. Ash wasn’t supposed to be over until 9:30. We were going to discuss our plan to find Amelia, the woman who might be our half-sister.
After showering, I dressed quickly. I threw the blackened spoons into a bag and shoved them under my bed. I capped the used syringes and placed them into a red plastic Sharps container which I kept in my closet behind my locked safe. I didn’t need Sasha or anyone else finding it.
Running my hands through my dark hair, I walked down the stairs into the kitchen.
Sinister was sitting at the kitchen table drinking coffee. A huge bottle of Advil was on the table in front of him. “Here you go. Coffee and Advil breakfast of users.” He laughed.
Taking a mug out of the cabinet, I poured myself a steaming cup.
Looking across the table at Sinister, I wished I could get him to leave. I regretted asking him to live with me. It had been a few months and he was starting to drag me down the same dark path I’d been on years ago before going to prison.
But how could I ask him to leave? Like me, he’d been through hell as a kid. I would venture to say his childhood had been even worse than mine. I remembered when he first became my cellmate in prison.
Unlike most guys who stay quiet about their past, he seemed eager to share his with me….
Sinister
I cringed inwardly as the metal of the jail door clanked behind me. So this was it.
I recalled the judge’s face as he handed my sentence down.
“Twenty-five to life….”
Shit, I couldn’t do twenty-five years, let alone life. I’d done time before, but that was for petty theft and minor possession charges.
But this was different.
My original charge was first degree murder and armed criminal action, but my attorney (a public defender) had gotten the charges reduced to second degree murder.
Some fucking attorney. Hell, with the Brotherhood behind me I’d have gotten a top notch defense attorney, but since I’d been blacklisted for fucking up the job and exposing them to the authorities I was on my own.
So the attorney convinced me to plead guilty to a lesser charge and here I was back behind bars.
Doing time. Hell, normally I could do time standing on my fucking head. Being in the joint was nothing for me. It was like coming home.
But twenty-five years?
I’d lived half my life behind bars if you counted all the years I spent in various juvenile facilities, jails, and prisons. Growing up the way I did, prison felt like a fucking vacation.
As I laid back on green plastic cot, I could still hear my father screaming at me.
“Bryan! I fucking told you to clean out the damn garage!” The heavy door to the garage slammed as I cringed beneath the covers. I’d forgotten to finish my chores that day and the old man was pissed.
“Please, Henry, don’t wake him up. He mowed the yard like you asked, trimmed the hedges, painted the fence, and took out the trash! He was exhausted. I told him he could get to the garage tomorrow.” The timid voice of my mother echoed throughout the house. I could almost see her pleading with her eyes holding her hands up as she cowered before him bracing herself for yet another beating.
He hadn’t hit her yet today. Wow, he might have even gone a whole twenty-four hours without slapping her. It was a first for them.
Then, I heard the sound of a hard hand slapping soft flesh.
And just like that, he broke his own record.
“Woman, don’t you fucking talk back to me! You know better! I don’t know who the hell you think you are. Bryan is my son and he will do what I say. Don’t you fucking interfere again!”
Holding my body stiff, I braced for the sound of him stomping up the stairs. Instead, I heard the sound of glass shattering.
“There, bitch, how do you like that?”
I heard my mother scream as more glass shattered.
“Stop it, please, Henry! I won’t talk back again, I promise. Just please stop!”
Another scream was followed by more breaking glass. Finally, I couldn’t take it anymore and I jumped out of my bed and ran down the stairs.
“Stop it, Dad!”
They both spun around to face me. My mother was lying on the floor holding her hands above her head as my father, drunk as ever, stood over her with a plate in his hand.
“Boy, what the fuck are you doing down here?” My father demanded.
“Bryan, please go back to bed.” My mother pleaded with me. Her hair was a tangled mess with trickles of blood dripping down the sides of her head. Her once blonde hair was red from the blood.
“Dad, stop it!” I moved towards him. I was only thirteen years old and scrawny as hell. My father stood an impressive six foot six and all muscle.
And he was drunk.
“You gonna do something about it, boy?” He dropped the plate to the ground. It smashed sending glass shattering across the floor.
Balling up my small fists, I stood my ground.
Mustering up all my courage, I found my voice.
“Maybe I am.”
He guffawed loudly as if that were the funniest thing he’d ever heard. His huge beer belly jiggled as he laughed. My mother scrambled to her feet. She pulled her tattered pink bathrobe around her body.
“Henry, he didn’t mean it. He’s just a boy.” My mother moved towards me.
With a mighty shove, he sent her flying back into the wall. She landed with a thud and slid to the floor.
That did it. With all my strength, I hurled myself at him. I caught him off guard and he stumbled backwards.
For a brief second, I felt powerful. My dad must’ve weighed at least 250 pounds and I only weighed half of that, but I was able to knock him down.
Almost.
My father balled up his ham sized fist. Seeing what was coming, I tried to duck, but he caught me on the side of my head sending me reeling. Pain exploded throughout my body. My head was ringing. I could scarcely hear. At first, I thought he’d knocked me deaf. I felt tears welling up in the corners of my eyes, but I refused to give him the satisfaction of seeing me cry.
He reached down to pull me up by the back of my neck. “You got something to say to me, boy?”
As he lifted me to my feet, I cradled my throbbing head. I looked at my mother lying still on the floor. “Yeah, I do.”
“What’s that?”
Shaking all over, my voice emerged as a whisper. “Fuck you.”
His bloodshot eyes flared at me. “What was that?” Spittle flew from his mouth hitting me in the face. His breath reeked of alcohol. My heart pounded in my chest. I had no idea what I was thinking.
“Fuck you!” I screamed as loud as I could.
My mother sat up and stared at me. Her blue eyes were filled with fright. “Henry, no!” she cried as my father lifted me off the ground by my shoulders. For a moment, we were nose to nose. I felt like I was facing a roaring lion, as his fury at me was palpable.
But I met his eyes squarely. I didn’t flinch.
Suddenly, he head butted me as hard as he could. The audible cracking of my skull reverberated throughout the room. He dropped me onto the floor.
I heard my mother scream.
Then everything went black.
My eyes fluttered open. Immediately, I felt intense pain pounding between my eyes. I tried to sit up, but couldn’t. The pain was excruciating. I looked to the side of me and saw that it was dark outside. I wondered how long I’d been out.
The door swung open and there stood my mother. Her eyes were red and swollen from crying. Dried blood was crusted on the side of her head turning her dingy blonde hair red.
“Mom, what’s wrong with me?” My words squeaked out. I hardly recognized my own voice.
“Your father,” she whispered looking down. Those two words explained it all.
“Why can’t I lift my head?” Tears began to well up in my eyes from the pain.
“You can.” My mother walked over to me and pulled me up.
I rubbed my throbbing head. There was a huge lump on my forehead that ached when I touched it.
“It’s a slight concussion. You’ll be okay.” She brushed my head lightly before brushing her lips against my forehead.
“Is he still here?”
She shook her head slightly. “No, baby, he’s gone for the night. He stumbled out to his truck and drove off.”
I nodded leaning back on my bed.
“Just get some rest you’ll be better soon.”
The house was strangely quiet as I opened the door. None of the usual sounds were present. There was no dishwasher running, no washer going, no TV blaring.
It was completely silent.
The silence frightened me. I swallowed hard and stepped into the house. I listened for signs of my parents fighting.
Nothing.
“Mom?” I called out.
The lights were on in the kitchen, so I assumed she was in there. I knew my father wasn’t likely home, as I didn’t see any empty beer bottles on the coffee table.
Checking the kitchen, I noticed several dozen empty bottles of beer littering the kitchen table. There were piles of crushed cigarettes in a stained ashtray. The stench of cigarette smoke still lingered in the air.
He’d been here.
The kitchen faucet dripped onto the pile of crusted dishes leftover from breakfast in the sink. My mother was a clean freak. She never left dishes piled up like that. It was her ritual: after every single meal, she would fill the dishwasher and run it for a cycle. It didn’t matter if it was one bowl or a cup she would place them in the dishwasher and run it.
But the dishes sat in the sink as a glaring warning sign that something was wrong.
My mouth went dry. I dropped my backpack on the floor.
Maybe she was upstairs. Dad probably had come home after I left for school and he and Mom fought. She was still upset over what he’d done to me last week. He likely smacked her a few times and she hid upstairs.
That’s what happened.
Or that’s what I told myself to walk up the stairs.
All I heard was the sound of my own footsteps echoing throughout the house.
“Mom!” I kept calling her name as I made my way up the stairs.
As I got to the top of the stairs, I stared down the hallway to my mother’s bedroom door.
The closed door at the end of the hallway loomed large in front of me.
My heart thudded as I willed my feet to move towards her room. “Mom!” I yelled as loud as I could.
Still nothing.
Something was horribly wrong. I knew she would hear me even if she were sleeping. Maybe Dad had knocked her unconscious. If so, she needed me.
My hand hesitated on the doorknob.
“Mom!” I called out one last time.
My stomach tightened as I turned the knob.
Pushing the door open, I closed my eyes briefly.
“Mom!” I yelled as I slowly opened my eyes.
Her bed was unmade. Again, that was unlike her. The bedsheets were knotted into a ball. The table lamp was knocked over. The glass from the light bulb was crushed onto the carpet.
Still, I didn’t see her.
Where was she?
A hard lump formed in my throat. My mouth went dry. Something very bad had happened.
I continued moving towards the other side of the bed. The window was open and the curtains blew in the breeze.
Maybe she was in the bathroom. I walked towards the bathroom and tripped over something.
I looked down in horror as I realized it was her foot.
Screams froze in my throat as I recoiled in terror noticing I was standing in a pool of blood.
Her blood.
My mother’s blood.
Immediately, I heaved violently puking onto the carpet. My vomit mixed with her blood.
Falling to my knees, I brought myself to look at her.
Her blue eyes were open looking up at nothing. She was wearing a blue bathrobe which was soaked in blood. Her chest was covered in several stab wounds. Her hands were curled inward as though she’d tried clutching something. At her side was a long kitchen knife the handle covered in blood.
Sobbing, I crawled over to her trying not to get the blood on me. I touched her cheek which was purple from the bruises he’d given her. She was cold to the touch.
From the way she was dressed, I’d imagined he’d come in as I had left for school. She generally placed the dishes in the dishwasher and then took a shower before work.
But she’d never made it that far.
He must’ve come in and started fighting with her. He was likely drunk before he’d even come home.
Then he started drinking at home, as they fought. He started hitting her and she ran upstairs.
Maybe she finally stood up to him telling her she was leaving with me.
Maybe he saw the determination in her eyes.
She was really going to do it this time.
But he wasn’t going to let her go.
Bringing my hand to her face, I closed her eyes. She didn’t want to see a world that had brought her such pain anymore.
Her full lips had turned blue. They were slightly agape as if she were trying to say something.
Closing my eyes, I could almost hear her voice.
“Bryan, my sweet baby Bryan, be a good boy. Momma loves you.”
Tears soaked my cheeks as I bent to kiss her.
“Goodbye, Momma,” I whispered.
The days after her death were a blur. I recalled stumbling out to the street and screaming. I think a neighbor found me and called the police.
Soon sirens filled the air and an ambulance came and hauled my mother’s body away. After that, I went to live with my cousins while they searched for my father.
The police questioned me thoroughly asking me about my father’s violent temper. I was quick to name him as the one who killed my mother.
“My God, Sinister, whatever happened to your dad?” I’d asked him.
He’d laughed. “That old fucker he got his. Apparently, after killing my mom he went off the rails. He ripped off a local bar to get money to get out of town. He knew the cops were coming for him. He made a huge mistake though ripping off that bar. It was owned by a guy with big Mafia connections. He put a hit out on my dad. They found him before the cops did.”
I had watched his eyes light up with pleasure as he had described what the guy did to his dad.
“After they got done with him, I bet he wished the cops would’ve got to him first. The guy who owned the bar killed my dad in an extremely gruesome way. I don’t want to go into details, but let’s just say it’s been twenty five years and they’re still finding pieces of him. The fucker deserved it after what he did to my mother. Living with my cousins didn’t last long. The trauma of seeing my mother dead hardened my heart. I had nothing left inside of me. The emptiness threatened to swallow me whole. So, I began acting out. I ran away, stole whatever I wanted, and discovering the tremendous relief drugs could give me. Soon, I ended up in trouble with the law. My first offense landed me in a juvenile detention center. I was only 13. A vicious cycle began with me committing crimes, getting thrown into detention center, getting out and going back inside. Like I said, I was used to doing time. When I finally was released from juvenile authorities, I didn’t know what to do. I found the Brotherhood. Or rather, the Brotherhood found me. Riding Harleys, dealing drugs, and running game was what I was about. Fucking hot girls along the way didn’t hurt. I thought the Brotherhood was the family I never had. I embraced them fully. Until they asked me to become their hitman.”
“Sinister, my brother is coming over soon. Do you think you could—?”
He waved his hand.“—leave? Of course. Wouldn’t want Mr. Rich Asshole to see an ex-con living here with you.”
I rolled my eyes. I wouldn’t even dignify that with an answer. Besides, I needed to go call Ash.
Hearing the roar of Sinister’s bike as he left, I waited for Ash. My veins ached as I felt the need for another fix. Trying my best to ignore it, I went outside to wait on the deck. I loved feeling the ocean breeze whipping my hair and the briny scent of the sea. I was anxious to begin our search for our half-sister. Who knew what other family secrets she may hold?