by Forgy, M. N.
“Oops,” he sneers, stepping from the sunlight. Without the rays blinding me, I can really see him now. He has dark unruly hair curling around his ears, tanned Indian skin, and the meanest eyes I’ve ever seen.
“Why did you do that?” I rub my sore fingers. “Who are you?”
“I’m Veer Walsh, and haven’t you heard? You’re to be my wife.” He growls, his voice low as if he’s starting to become a man.
I frown. “That’s not true. I’m nobody’s.” I stand, angry. I don’t know who this boy is, but he’s about to get a piece of my mind.
He whips his hand out, clutching my wrist with a cold touch.
“Oh, it’s true. You’re going to be my first kiss, my first lover, and have my babies while I go and make all the money. Just like my daddy!”
I resist, trying to pull from his clutches. He’s vile, and has a mouth made of sewage.
He chuckles before grasping me harshly by the cheeks with his free hand, causing my lips to pucker.
“How about I get a taste of the bride to be.” His eyes close, and his lips come near. My stomach clenches into a tight knot, my heart slamming in my chest as his lips come closer and closer. I slam my knee into his balls just before he makes contact. He cries out, dropping to his knees on my bright colored sun I colored, and I run toward the house.
Jerking the sliding glass door open, I sprint inside the cool air-conditioned rooms.
“Mom! Mom!” My dress whirls around me as I search the mansion for my mother and father. Finally, I find them in the study along with two other adults. They all stand as I enter.
“There’s this boy out there, and he says I’m going to marry him. I don’t want to marry him.” My eyes water.
Mom looks at the floor like she often does when she’s not thrilled with what’s going on around her. Dad chuckles, unbuttoning his jacket.
“Yes, Simone. Veer and you are to marry when you come of age—”
“But I don’t love him.” I enjoy reading and watching TV, and everyone always marries when they are so deeply in love they feel sick. Veer makes me feel a different kind of sickness.
“You will love him,” the man standing across from my dad states. He must be Veer’s father.
Dad strides to me and takes a knee. Clasping my sore hand in his while he looks me in the eyes.
“The Walsh family has agreed to work with Daddy if our blood become one. You, my dear, are going to be the end of an era of spilled innocence,” Dad explains, and my blood suddenly runs cold.
I snatch my hand from his, this joke not funny at all.
“Starting tomorrow you will shadow me, so when the families become one, you’ll know what to do as your place as a wife.”
I shake my head, not okay with this in the slightest. I’m too young, this is too fast. I should be making friends, getting into trouble, not getting engaged and getting a job.
“No!” I snap, my eyes stinging with the urge to cry. I want to say so much more, but the only word that seems to escape the clutch in my throat is, no.
“I think that’s enough for one day.” Mother steps in between me and father, her soft hand on my shoulder.
I look up to her, my eyes filling with unshed tears.
“I don’t want to marry anyone.” I whimper, begging my mom to interfere with what’s happening.
“Come, child, let’s get you cleaned up.” Mother ushers me out of the room, and my eyes meet Veer’s before leaving. He blows me a silent kiss, the devil dancing in his eyes. The way he looks at me, makes me feel, is dangerous and dark. I’ve never felt like this before. I want to stab him.
Once inside my room, mother drawls me a bath while I stand at the window watching my dad escort our guests from the front door. The Walshs have been our sworn enemy since before I was born. My grandmother has told me many stories before she passed last year from cancer. Our battles go back decades, innocent blood spilled over land.
I know why Dad wants me to marry Veer, he’ll have more business if he has more land to do business on. I don’t know what Daddy does for a job, Grandma would never say, but I’m about to find out. But what about what I want? I can’t see myself ever loving a person as evil as Veer.
Mother unzips my dress as I watch Veer and his family leave in their limo. We don’t say a word to each other as she helps me into the hot suds spilling over the rim of the bathtub, my body enveloping with warm water.
“Simone, sometimes the things you want to feel, come when you’re not feeling it at all.”
I glare at her, her pep talk not helping or making sense.
Grabbing a dollop of bubbles, I blow them across the bath, angry at everything.
“Love is a magical thing. You never know, Veer may be your someone. Fall in love with his soul, before you even have the chance to make contact. That’s when you know if he’s truly the one,” she winks playfully. Oh, I made contact all right, with my knee right in his crotch.
“I’ll never marry that monster. I’d rather stick a fork in his head.” I scoff.
“Simone Ray!” Mother scorns. But I don’t apologize, and I don’t feel guilty.
I don’t feel guilty for wanting to be so violent to another kid. That thought scares me, it’s unlike me. I want to be friends with everyone, I’m nice. At least I think I am.
Sighing, I sink into the warm water. My eyes closing and ears filling with water to wash out the lame words coming from my mother’s lips.
I know in my soul that Veer is not for me, and I will tear this house down brick by brick before I ever say ‘I do’ to that butthead. I’d like to think I’d marry someone shy but edgy. He’d be smart, but just as street-smart so I know he’d protect our family if he needed to.
That is the man that is going to rescue me from stupid Veer. The little hope that burns in my belly tells me so.
Mac
Ten Years Old
Sitting in my room, my butt on the stained carpet, charred pockets from cigarettes falling, I try and concentrate on what the YouTuber is telling me about firewalls, but my parents fighting in the other room is becoming distracting. Shutting the laptop that I stole from school I lean my head back on my bedframe and look up at the ceiling fan that holds just one dusty blade.
“It wasn’t my fault she caught me for the rent!” my step-mom shouts. She’s skinny, and always wearing flannel shirts with jeans way too big for her. I don’t know what Dad sees in her.
“You should have made up a fucking lie, how are we going to eat!” Dad responds before a loud crash vibrates the floor.
I don’t flinch, or jerk from the sudden racket. I’m used to it, he’s probably hitting her again.
Closing my eyes, I stand up and flick the light switch off that is missing a faceplate. Being careful of the wires curling out from the wall because if I touch them, they will zap you.
Crawling onto my thin mattress, I pull the blankets that are spilling cotton out from the many holes over my head and think about firewalls and binary code. How cool would it be to write messages to a friend that lived across the street from me? We could hold up codes, while the other tried to decipher it late at night. At lunchtime, we could speak in our own language nobody would understand. On the weekends we could binge watch Star Wars and play Mario until our eyes bled.
That will never happen though, because no kid is like me. I live inside a computer and to be honest I feel like one. Living life on like it’s on reply, day after day.
Turning over on my side the shouting and banging of my parents lull me to sleep, the images of Princess Peach picking me up and driving me away from this shit hole.
* * *
The next day I hop off the school bus and pull my hood over my head. It was the same old crappy day at school. I sat alone and got made fun of because I drew a storm trooper on the back of my hoodie. My parents couldn’t afford the one I wanted at the store, so I made do.
I hold my backpack strap close to my chest with my only prized passion inside my bag. The stolen
laptop. I’ve always wanted one, and when I asked my dad, he laughed. So I got one the only way I knew how.
Stealing it. I’ve had it for several months, and nobody has found out yet.
Passing trailer after trailer, I get closer to my house. I notice yellow tape wrapped around the yard and a black shiny car parked out front with a woman standing beside it. Dark curly hair is shoved into a hair tie, and she’s wearing a blue suit. She works for the division of family services. I’ve seen their kind at least five times. Now what did Dad do?
I pull my hood down and frown at her as I close the gap between us.
“Are you Rhett?” Her thick brows raise, paperwork in her hands.
“Yeah,” I mutter under my breath. I wonder what house I’ll be going to this time. The old lady with ten cats, or the man who drinks his breakfast from a fifth.
“I’m with the division of family services, there’s been an accident—”
“What kind of accident?” I cut her off, my anger dissipating to worry. Taking a step to the left I look at the front door of my house, it’s all busted up like someone kicked it in. My throat suddenly dries, and my heart beats faster.
The lady steps closer, and I take a step back. She tenses, her cheekbones tensing with my reaction.
“Just tell me what happened!”
Her nice shoes scoff to a stop, and she sighs, irritated.
“Your father murdered your mother and has been arrested until further notice.” She interlocks her fingers and purses her lips. Her eyes showing no sign of emotion with the news she just vomited at my feet.
My mouth parts but I snap it shut, I almost cared for a second. “She wasn’t my mother,” I respond. “My mother died giving birth to me.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.” She tilts her head to the side, there might even be a bit of sympathy in her eyes. Everyone seems to feel sorry for me when I tell them that. ‘The boy that killed his mother’” It doesn’t get more tragic than that, does it?
I look at the damp ground from the recent rain, the smell of wet dirt heavy in the air. My father was an asshole, he never accepted me as his after my real father died. I didn’t play football or bully the kids next door either, so I was a pussy.
He would drink until he couldn’t stand, said it helped him sleep at night. He was right in a way, he’d slump into walls, yelling about shit that didn’t make sense, slap me and my step-mother around, and then pass out on the couch almost every day.
Seems he started drinking early today, and my step-mother said the wrong thing.
Her eyes close for a moment before opening up and looking anywhere but at me.
“Look, kid, I got a decent family lined up for you—”
I turn around and start walking, cutting her off mid-sentence. I’m not going to a foster family. Not again. They don’t care about anything but a check, and it would be my father all over again.
I’m better off by myself.
“Rhett!”
I ignore her and continue walking. I don’t know where I’ll go, or where I’ll stay, but anything is better than here or there.
“Rhett, get back here!” I hear her heels click along the ground, and it makes my heart pick up its pace, urging me to sprint as fast as I can away from the lady and the blood riddled trailer.
Two Weeks Later
A heavy wind blusters through the buildings, my face already chapped from the sun today, I can’t take much more. I grab some cardboard soiled in something sour and wedge myself between to garbage cans behind a casino.
Holding my dead laptop close to my chest I squeeze my eyes shut for a quick rest. It can only be about midnight, here soon businesses will close up shop, throwing out food tourists didn’t buy, and I can get something to eat for the first time today.
My stomach clutches painfully, and I moan in pain from being so hungry.
My hair falls in my face, sticking to the sweat beading on my forehead. Reminding me I haven’t showered in a week, and my clothes are all torn up from hopping into dumpsters and trying to climb into buildings for coverage from the hot summer.
Living the streets is hard, fighting other bums is the worst part. I’m younger than most, and not as strong so I get stuff taken from me a lot and chased off the good corners.
Arms tight around my computer, I close my eyes to sleep until the moon is on the other side of the sky. It’s not just going to be a normal day tomorrow like it was when I lived with my dad and went to school, being homeless is unpredictable and an adventure every day.
* * *
The aluminum trash cans rattle, and I stir awake, my eyes widening as big as saucers. Is it another homeless man? A store owner sick of bums tearing into his trash?
A tall man with dark leather boots kicks one of the cans, the lights of Vegas splashing across my face.
“What the?” He bends down, dark black hair surrounding his face as his eyes meet mine.
I swallow and recoil against the grimy wall. He’s big and scary looking. Bending down to get a better look at me, he holds his hand out, his fingers tattooed and lined with shiny rings.
“Come here, boy.” His voice is so rough it sends shivers down my back. I don’t move.
He separates the cans, the cardboard that was hiding me blowing off into the wind. I’d run away if I thought I even had a chance at escaping this guy.
Slowly, I outstretch my hand, and he pulls me out from the bed I made of trash.
He brushes me off and looks down at me. Looking to the ground, I curl my toes in my torn sneakers.
“What’s your name?” He’s so tall he blocks the lights from the signs behind him. He also has on a sleeveless leather jacket with lots of patches on it, it’s cool and scary at the same time. An engine has me jump where I stand, and I notice dozens of motorcycles sitting behind the tall man.
I don’t answer him as I observe all the angry looking men around the bikes.
“You want to come into the club, get some food and sleep for the night?” he offers. “Has to be better than this,” he waves to the trash. My cheeks burn from the caked-on dirt, and my stomach growls at the mention of food. I nod, not caring how mean looking he is, or that I might end up cut up in little pieces if I go in his club. I need shelter for the night and having a night of sleep without the worry of someone taking my laptop is all I can think about.
“You can call me Mr. Deluca.” He grins wildly and places his hand on my back.
Inside the club, as he called it, there are men with tattoos and leather jackets standing all around. The smoke of cigarettes, and cigars rolls in a blanket of fog near the ceiling, and there are very pretty women who are barely wearing any clothes staring at me. I can’t take my eyes off them, I’ve never seen side boob the size of one of the girl’s.
“This is home to a lot of lost souls,” Mr. Deluca says. Slowly taking my eyes off the girls, I look up to him. He’s smiling down at me, nodding. I’m a lost soul, could this be home to me?
A woman takes her top off and shoves a man with a big belly face first in her bare chest. My jeans strain at the sight of her creamy tits. One of her boobs is bigger than my head.
“That’s Milks,” Mr. Deluca whispers in the back of my ear. I clear my throat and look away from the very sexy lady.
“Milks?” That’s a weird name.
“Yeah, think about it.” Mr. Deluca presses his finger to his temple, and I look back to the older lady. Maybe she has milk in her titties?
A boy my age crawls out from under a pool table in the middle of the smoky room, his dark hair matching Mr. Deluca’s. He has on a Kiss shirt with the sleeves ripped up and dark black jeans. He’s cool, he’s the kind that would beat me up in school.
“Hey Zeek, this is, uh…” He looks down at me, and I nervously tighten my arms around my laptop a little harder. “Mac.” Mr. Deluca and I look at each other as he nicknames me the brand of computer I’m holding. I don’t disagree, I like it. New name, new place, new possibilities. “Will you get him se
t up in one of the rooms?”
“Mac, this is Zeek, one of my sons. He will help you get settled in.” Mr. Deluca pats my head before strutting off in the direction of Milks.
Zeek looks me over, one eyebrow raised before he sighs and turns around.
“Follow me.” He waves me on. Clutching my dead computer, I follow him down a narrow hallway to a room. There are naked women pictures torn from magazines taped all over the walls, a big bed, and a ripped chair in the corner.
“You can shower in there,” he points to a door to the left. I glance at the door, and then back to him.
“Your name really Mac?” he asks, his left brow raised.
I don’t answer him.
“Do you always carry that laptop around?”
Looking at the floor, I decide not to tell him. I don’t know him and can’t tell him where I got it.
“Do you know how to talk?” He bends at the knee trying to catch my eyesight, like I can’t hear him or something.
“Look, my dad told me to be nice to special kids so—”
“I’m not retarded!” I snap, my face turning red.
Zeek holds his hands up and smirks.
“So, I see,” he chuckles.