by Forgy, M. N.
Chapter 8
Raven
Sitting on the small metal-framed bed, I curl my knees to my chest for warmth. The familiar voice of Alessandra causing goose bumps to rise along my olive skin. The knot in my stomach makes me want to puke, I haven’t seen Alessandra since I attacked her. She is one of the Outlaws ol’ ladies, but she was my enemy first. Forcing myself to move, I grab the shirt Machete gave me and pull it over my head. The smell of him on my skin I can’t help but tuck my nose in the collar and inhale it.
It soothes my racing heart.
I am scared of Cross, but deep inside my black heart, I’m terrified of Alessandra too. After all, she was the one Cross put me up to fight when we were kids. She always kicked my ass.
The door slowly opens and dark eyes of Alessandra meet mine. I curl my fists and turn my head, memories of her punching me, pulling my hair and biting at me like a fucking animal locked in my memory as she can’t remember a fucking thing.
“Raven?” she says my name softly, and I grit my teeth. Why is she here, what could she possibly want? When I kidnapped her to seek my revenge I ended up letting her go. I saw myself in that cage and couldn’t keep the cycle of Cross going. It doesn’t mean I’ve forgotten everything she’s done to me though. I’ve lost time down here, but it could only have been a week or so since I took her. She still has marks on her skin from our fight. Black eyes, busted lips.
Her flip-flops slap along the hard concrete as she makes her way to me.
“That’s far enough,” I clip, and she stops with round eyes.
“I got you some clothes; a hot dog too. I know you liked that Coney place on the Strip.” she slides a backpack onto my bed. The smell of meat and coleslaw fills the room. My stomach growls, and I snatch the bag.
Opening the backpack. There’s a white shirt, some shorts, and a pair of gray panties, the tag still on them. Ripping the tag off the underwear I shimmy them on and then the black cotton shorts along with it.
“I wasn’t sure if they would fit, but I figured you might need some clothes,” she shrugs. Settling back down on the bed, I don’t reply.
“Why did you let me go?” she blurts out, finally cutting through the bullshit.
Curling my knees back to my chest I look at her over my kneecaps. That is why she came here? To know that?
“Because,” I mutter, playing with my fingertips. “I saw myself,” I say so softly I barely hear myself.
Alessandra’s eyes fill with tears as her head falls, the truth too much I suppose.
“I saw a lot of myself in you, and I wasn’t me in a long time.” Emotion fills my voice, my own eyes threatening to burn.
“I wanted normal, I wanted what you had but I was too fucked up to have that chance. When Cross came for me about a year and a half ago… I was scared and all I knew was I hated you. I wanted revenge, I wanted peace in my fucking head!” I point to my head where the memories and voices taunt me to this day.
“Didn’t you have a family or anything after we were rescued?” she asks with a sympathetic voice. “Didn’t they help you through the PTSD?”
“Foster care is hardly a family,” I state as a tear falls down my face. There was no love, no care, only two fucked up adults looking for an easy check. I found my parents on my own, but when I saw how happy they were, I went back to where I belong. Nowhere; hell.
“I know you said you were scared of me, but I was terrified of you. All of us were. The way they called you the Raven and talked about you like you were some demon. It made me try twice as hard because I never thought I had a chance against you.”
I close my eyes, thinking about how they called me Raven, how the handlers teased me. How they made me what I am. Sometimes I think what I’m really afraid of … is me.
“Tap. Tap. Tap.” The handler would slam a metal rod against each cage as they made their way to me, and I would freeze where I sat in the dirt.
“I said, ‘tis some visitor tapping at my chamber door!” the handler would yell, his voice echoing through the tunnels. I rocked, my eyes filling with tears. My chest burning as I tried to breathe.
“Nevermore,” I whispered. Knowing what they wanted to hear or I would be covered in darkness.
“Raven?” Alessandra calls for my attention.
I shake my head of the flashback, goose bumps rising up my spine from the horrid memories.
She touches my arm and I tremble, gently pulling my arm away.
“Memories?” she whispers as if she gets them and can relate to my pain. Pushing the tears away, I look the other way. “You know this is all Cross’s fault and you’re protecting the very man that did this to you. To us?” she points to herself. Clenching my eyes shut, I swallow the lump of emotion stuck in my throat. Everything always narrows down to Cross.
“Get out,” I seethe, pointing to the door. Needing space.
“Do what?” she sasses.
“I said get out!” I scream, coming up off the bed.
“You kidnapped me and were going to hurt my family! You think I’m just going to turn my back on that?” She gets in my face. Having her this close reminds me of when we were kids, her eyes have never changed. Brave, and strong. The animal in me rattles its cage, wanting a do-over of our previous fights.
“Why not? I forgave everything you did and let you free, do you remember that?” I tilt my head to the side.
“God, you’re fucked up,” she whispers to herself.
Pulling my fist back, I slam it in her eye and she responds by wrapping her arm around my neck. Just like old times, our bodies slam into survival mode. She thinks she’s so different, but watching her snap into violence… I think not.
“You’re not any better than me!” I scream. Kicking her out from under her legs she falls to her ass.
Arms wrap around my middle and I’m jerked away from Alessandra, the familiar smell of Machete against my back calms me, and Felix has his hand gently around Alessandra’s neck putting her in a catatonic state. A common thing the handlers did to submit us when we were kids. Seems I’m not the only one with PTSD issues.
“If you didn’t get the fancy family and fucking expensive doctors to help you forget… you’d be right here with me, Alessandra.” I point at her, reminding her how good she has it. Makes it easy to pass judgment.
Zeek casually stands by the doorway with his arms crossed observing Alessandra and me like zoo animals fighting in a cage. He seems amused and it pisses me off. I’m not an animal!
“You might as well kill me because I’m not giving you Cross. I’m going to kill that mother fucker,” I bite out each word, my eyes falling on Zeek.
“Raven!” Machete scolds, but I ignore him.
Zeek pushes his toned body off the doorframe and steps further into the room. Lifting his chin, he looks at me with strong eyes. My own filled with tears and breathing labored I try to stay strong.
He smirks. “Huh, you are breaking her…” He thumbs a tear off my cheek and my face goes stoic with his observation.
Did Machete break me?
I wipe at the tears, ones I hadn’t shed in such a long time I didn’t even know I was capable of the emotion.
“Everyone out!” Machete barks, pointing to the door. Zeek eyeballs me, his nostrils flaring, but he eventually walks out with Felix and Alessandra in tow.
Seeing Alessandra all over again reminded me of the things I’ve done in my life and how I didn’t do myself any favors going back to Cross. I was scared though and hurting. I thought taking down Alessandra and her loved ones would make my pain vanish, but it wasn’t until I saw her in that cage that I realized my rage was directed at the wrong person. They may have broken my wings, but they forgot this bitch has claws.
My legs begin to tremble and I fall to the floor, Machete’s arms still hugging me hard.
“You can’t break what’s already broken, Machete,” I cry. Feeling like a broken mirror that has been tried to be placed back together with cheap glue. There are pieces missing,
my imaged marred and imperfect. There is no hope for me to be right again. I was made to be bad and that is all I’m capable of. Fucking everything up and being alone with the shadows of my sins.
“Watch me,” he whispers into the back of my neck, holding me tight like he is going to solve everything. Yet he’s the one keeping me captive…
* * *
Lying on my cot with the light on, the door to my cell is slightly open. It allows a cool draft to waft in here, and tones of Machete swirl in the air. It isn’t so scary in the dark when the door is open. I shift in my sweaty spot, the shirt of Machete’s sticks to my sweaty skin, and the shorts Alessandra got me thrown about somewhere as it’s too fucking hot down here to wear them. The sound of a bat in the vents chirps keeping me awake. I love bats, there is something about them that fascinates me. It probably has something to do with when I was a child and would see them flying about in the night. They were free; as I wasn’t.
“Are you awake?” I whisper to Machete, making sure my voice isn’t too loud to wake him just in case.
“Yeah, whatever is making that noise is about to die in two fucking seconds,” he growls his voice exhausted. I hear him shift on the couch, tossing about.
“It’s a bat,” I inform him with a small smile.
“How do you know that?”
“When I was imprisoned as a child there was always a small bat flying around down in the tunnels, seeking shelter from the harsh sun above. I got so excited when it would fly next to my cage,” I tell him, remembering it like it was yesterday. I would stretch my fingers through the holes wanting to touch it, to be that bat so badly and to have the freedom to fly out of there and fly away.
“I had a bat fly into my dad’s garage once when I was a kid. Dad made me get it out using a tennis racket and a pillowcase. I ended up getting bit.” I cover my mouth to keep from laughing. “I remember my mom rushing me to the hospital scared I got rabies,” Machete continues the story.
“My dad was in the military and let’s just say he took his work home with him. When I got home from the hospital I got ordered two hundred pushups and to sleep in a tent that night,” he informs with an even tone, almost like he was telling another person’s story. I blink slowly, taking in his horrid story. Seems like we both had fucked up childhoods.
“A tent?” I ask.
“Yeah, it was a khaki colored tent that was held up with a pole in the middle. Something he got from Iraq and punished me to stay the night in whenever he saw fit. It was so cold at night, I remember shivering so hard my bones hurt,” he explains. I know that coldness he’s talking about. It hurts to move, but it hurts to sit still too.
“Where are your parents now?” I ask, curious. He’s opening up, so I want to take advantage.
“My dad is gone in the military somewhere, and my mom is in a hospital,” he clips, and I suck in a breath at the finality in his voice. “My dad wanted nothing to do with me after my wife took her life. He blamed me,” he tells me softly. “My dad really liked her, thought she was good for me. So when she killed herself he didn’t even need to know why, he knew I had something to do with it, but I think it was just an excuse to run from me. I remind him a lot of my mother who he grew to hate.” The space goes quiet, and I bite my inner lip in thought. Rumor has it Machete killed his wife’s lover and she slit her wrists in reaction. The police never had proof he was responsible for either so he was released of all charges. That’s what the Outlaws are good at. Having others clean their mess up.
When I was on the police force I was ordered to let ranking officers take care of any situation dealing with the Sin City Outlaws. I wasn’t stupid, I knew that was because they were in their pockets. It intrigued me though. They are smart and powerful. That is why they get the respect they do. That and the interesting stories that have no truth or doubt about them. Mysterious.
The sound of his feet against the floor, catching my attention. My breath hitching that he may come to me. Looking in the direction of the doorway I notice his hand on the light switch. I sit up on my elbows, fear in my chest. Is he going to lock me in the darkness again? Did I press him for too much personal information?
“Why are you laying on the floor again?” he asks, clearly annoyed. I shift on the cold concrete, pulling my knees to my chest. You can see a sweat print from where I was laying. It looks like one of those ink blobs you see when seeing a therapist or something.
“I just… I can’t sleep on the bed,” I whisper, looking anywhere but at him. I hate that I can’t be normal. Hell, even Machete can sleep on a bed I bet.
Stepping into the room he looks down at me with an intimidating look.
“What?” I snap with more force than intended.
“Get on the bed,” he demands, and I swallow hard. I haven’t slept on a bed since… I can’t remember when.
“Why?” I ask meekly.
“Do it,” he barks. With furrowed brows, I slowly move to the bed, and Machete sits down where I was laying. His back against the bed.
“What are you doing?”
“Proving to you that you are safe sleeping on a bed.” He looks over his shoulder. “The only boogie man in here is me, and I’ll sit right here until you fall asleep.” I twirl my hair unsure. It’s so high up, it makes me feel vulnerable just thinking about it. “I’m not asking,” he snaps, his voice not giving a fuck of my fear.
Slowly I climb onto the bed and shift on my back, my arms laying at my side as I stare up at the ceiling. It’s comfortable, but I don’t like being placed on a pedestal in the darkness. You might as well put me on a fucking platter for predators.
“I never had a bed when I was taken into Cross’s care. I was used to the floor, it’s what I’m comfortable with,” I confess. He turns, looking at me with smoldering eyes before looking away.
“What is your real name?” I ask so softly I barely hear myself, trying to make small talk to forget that I’m on a damn bed.
“Mace Ryder,” he informs dryly.
“Mace.” I let the name play on my tongue. It’s strong, sexy, and has a cuteness about it too.
“So why do they call you Machete?” I’ve heard many stories. My favorite is a man at McDonald’s took Machete’s fries and wouldn’t admit to it, so he cut the man’s fingers off and put them in a fry box for him to take to the hospital.
Every time I eat those fries I giggle to myself thinking about the guy taking his little red fry box to the hospital. Seems Machete has been in my head long before we met.
“When I found out my wife was cheating on me with some Hollywood fuck, I lost what was left of my mind. I was going to kill them both. I was at the hardware store eyeing machetes when Zeek found me.” He sighs heavily, that long breath extinguishing his pain. “He took me under his wing and I became a part of the family. It worked for a while, but it was said Liviana was seen at the club one night. I thought she wanted to get back together. I had hope.” He emphasized the word hope like it’s a curse, sour on his tongue. “I don’t know what my brothers saw but when I found Liviana she was with that fucking punk more in love than ever. It was like I lost her all over again and I couldn’t bear it. I went to their new house and killed him while she was out jogging. Next thing I knew, she killed herself with a letter saying ‘I gave everything to you.’”
“Was the letter to you?” I ask.
“I don’t know. She never gave me anything,” he grits through clenched teeth.
Nibbling my inner lip, I take in the savage story he bared, it’s heartbreaking but shows how big his heart is, the devotion. “I like my version of the story better,” I mumble to myself. The version of fingers for fries.
“Let me guess, the fry story?” he scoffs, and I can’t help but giggle. God, I love that story.
“Don’t tell me it’s not true, you don’t want to ruin my dreams,” I say seriously.
“Dreams are nothing but a future that doesn’t come true.”
“Amen,” I whisper.
“Is
your name really Raven?” he asks in return, the tone of his voice noting he’s done talking about himself.
“Yes, I don’t remember much, but I remember my dad or maybe it was my mother, called me Raven because of my black hair.” I shrug. “Seemed fitting the way Cross and the handlers made me feel like the Raven from hell,” I whisper referring to that damn poem. “I found my parents when I got older, but I never exposed myself to them. I wasn’t their little girl anymore. They had a big white house and flowers outside. Another small kid in a flower dress was running around. If I entered that house, I would bring a hurricane of darkness behind me. Wilting their perfect life,” I explain. “So, I stayed in foster care until I was of age.”
It wasn’t the best place to be, but I’d seen the worst place I could be so it was a step up in my eyes. I still remember when I was sent to one home for a weekend while my foster parents went on vacation. The man we were staying with tried to flirt with me in a way I was not comfortable with and I broke his nose with a spatula. I got in some deep trouble with my social worker for that one.
“At least I know I won’t be alone in Hell,” he mutters, and my head whips in his direction. The thought he wants me to keep him company in the throes of hell is the sweetest thing anyone has ever said to me.
“We could totally take over Hell.” I murmur proudly to myself.
Lilith and the Devil sitting in a throne…
He turns and clasps his large hand around my collarbone, hard eyes gluing me to where I lay.
“You’re nothing like Liviana. She was down to earth and gentle.”
I swallow the sudden lump in my throat, knowing there’s nothing gentle and cute about me and I’m totally okay with that.
Is he?
“You’re dark and twenty shades of insane,” his voice holds amusement as if he likes me the way I am and I hate the way it makes me light up inside. Leaning close I smell the vindication on his breath, the determination on his face.