The Rage

by Jaci J.

  Sitting on the steps of the trailer, I continue to work on my letter. It’s a letter I’ve been writing and re-writing for the last six months. It’s a letter I need to write, hoping that when I’m gone, it will get to the right hands.

  I’m finishing up a few lines when June, the only other person at the end of the park, waddles up to me and sits down. I shove my letter in my pocket.

  Miss June is my only friend. She’s the only person Ryan lets me talk to and it’s only because he owns her trailer and the land it sits on. He gave her money to help her convict son out of some trouble, so she will always be in his debt. She wouldn’t help me get out of here for fear he’d kill her family. I don’t blame her.

  Miss June is sweet. She takes care of me and helps me the best she can. She feeds me sometimes when she has it to spare, and cleans me up after Ryan has his fun with me. She’s good to me and that means everything to me. She’s a large, round woman with gray hair, glasses, and a dimpled smile.

  “Afternoon, Lacy.” Lacy, my new name. Every time I hear it, it makes me sick. I made the mistake of accidently correcting her one time. I quickly tried to cover my ass, but I think she caught on. June just patted my hand and said, “So, your name is Lacy. I’m June.” We’ve been friends ever since, but she sees the lies that I have to tell.

  “Afternoon, Miss June.” Taking the spot next to me, she smiles and tips her sun hat up. “How are you feelin’ today? That ginger ale helpin’ any?”

  “Yes, Miss June. I’m feeling pretty good.” Patting my hand, she squeezes it lightly.

  “And your wrist?” She knows. She’s close enough to hear everything and wise enough to see through this whole façade. There is no hiding it. I have no makeup to hide the bruises and cuts until he takes me to the strip club. Lighting there is for shit which keeps the men’s eyes where they should be and he still buys the tattoo cover up makeup. I have nothing but a small bag of clothes and the bare minimum. I have enough to get by with.

  “It’ll heal, just like everything else does.”

  “Is she asleep?” She asks softly. I nod in response and she grabs my hand. “Let me go get some ice for your wrist, honey. I made some lunch too, so I can feed you before you go to work.”

  ****

  Work. Now there’s a four letter word I loath. I work in a seedy, grimy, disgusting strip club at the edge of a small town, population five thousand and too many pit stained, smoke smelling truck drivers to count. I’ve never felt more degraded and used as I do when I come to work here, but this is my reality now, so I dance. I also pray for death.

  This is the price I have to pay for my time with Rampage. It just wasn’t meant to be for us. I can never get that time back, and I will never regret the time I did have, whether it was meant to be or not.

  Touching the pink “R” tattoo on my wrist, I take a deep breath and walk out onto the stage. Please God, let tonight be the night when I feel no more pain.

  19

  Phone Calls

  Rampage

  I’ve never in my life, not when I buried my mom, buried brothers, or almost lost Sis, ached so goddamn bad as I do when I think about Lala. I don’t sleep. I don’t eat. I don’t function like a normal fucking person anymore. There is nothing I could say to make someone understand it. It’s a pain like nothing I can even understand. It’s all fucking consuming, and it’s constant. It’s so fucking raw I’m not sure I can fucking live through it some days.

  I’m not sure what’s worse. The not knowing if she left or if she was forced. Nothing proved that she was taken, and I can’t help but think that her crying that day had something to do with her leaving me. The more time I had to think about it, I really began to wonder if she just left because I didn’t love her. I wonder if it was because I fucking lied to her about not loving her. Telling her I didn’t love her was the worst mistake of my life. The stupidest thing I’ve ever done. The one regret in life that I will always have. I’ll die regretting that I didn’t cop to it and tell her how the fuck I really felt about her.

  Then there is the possibility that Ryan finally got to her. That’s what everyone thinks. Fuck, they all swear it was him. Sometimes I see it, but the bigger, sicker, self-loathing part of me feels it was all my fault. If I had pulled my head out of my ass, I would have seen her for what she really was – the best fucking thing to ever happen to me. I would have told her every second of every motherfucking day that I loved her. She just wanted me to love her, and she never even pushed to hear the words, she just needed, in her heart, to know it. I should have told her how the fuck I really left.

  Sometimes I lay in bed, surrounded by all her shit, and wonder if she’s even still alive. She could be anywhere, she could be with Ryan, doing god knows what to her. It’s sick and disturbing, but it’s the fucking reality of it. I even find myself praying that if she is in pain, that God take her so she won’t hurt anymore. I don’t know where she is and that kills me.

  For six months I pulled every string, called in every favor ever owed to me, and paid thousands of dollars and did some really bad shit to try to find her. I never gave up. I searched every lead, no matter where or how far it took me. I’ve bribed and lied to so many people that I’ve lost count. I hunted people down to get information. Did everything I could to find her.

  For six pathetic months, I spent every day and every night looking for her. I pushed everyone out of my life. My club, my brothers, my family, all to go find my heart. I finally got to a point where I decided that even if she didn’t want to come home with me, at least I would know she was alright. I would have been able to sleep, eat, and function again. Not live, but at least get by. All that shit would have been worth it to know that my heart and soul was still breathing, or resting peacefully.

  The not knowing is the worst. I’m fucking scared for her. I fucking worry about her. I think about her constantly. I miss her like fucking crazy. Everything in our home is exactly the way she left it. I haven’t moved a goddamn thing, hoping that someday she will walk back through that front door and give me my world back. I don’t know when the right time to give up is, or if I even want to. My self-righteous, good for nothing ego kept me from seeing that it was love I felt for her all along, not some casual fling that would run its course. I really broke my baby’s world apart, and now I can never fix it for her.

  ****

  “How the fuck ya feelin’ this mornin’, asshole?” Gin mumbles, planting his ass next to mine. How do I feel? I feel like hell. Even now, I fucking feel like death.

  “Just peachy.”

  “You’re a fuckin’ woman. Peachy?”

  “Yeah, I’m feelin’ fuckin’ peachy. Got an issue with my word?” If he’s trying to get a rise out of me, he’s shit out of luck.

  I’m not in the mood for this shit. I didn’t sleep again last night. I spent two hours trying to fuck Diamond into Lala. Guess what? That shit didn’t work. The bitch was still Diamond when I pulled out and chucked off the condom. If Lil hadn’t taught Red a lesson and got her ass out of here that day, I would be beating that bitch every day for starting this goddamn mess.

  I spent the rest of the night wishing I was home so I could have Lala all around me. So yeah, I’m feeling fucking peachy.

  “You know you got a phone call last night.” Stitch says, walking into the chapel. A phone call? Don’t remember anyone telling me about a phone call, but then again, I don’t remember a whole fuck of a lot from last night, either. Not remembering shit has become a regular thing. Lots of drugs and alcohol have become my addiction. They fill that void Lala left when she walked away.

  “Yeah? On my burner?”

  “Nah, the club phone.” My heart picks up speed. That motherfucking phone rings for three reasons – someone trying to sell ya something, some religious asshole trying to sell ya something, or the old ladies got something to say and they’re trying to sell ya something. To say that shit doesn’t get me fucking antsy would be a lie.

  “Got a name?” I hope
like fuck the name I’m dying to hear comes out of his mouth.

  I’ve spent the year on pins and fucking needles. At first I was antsy and crazy every time someone called or even when a car pulled up to the gates. These past few months, that shit has dulled to an empty ache. I still think about her constantly. I still question and wonder every goddamn thing that happened, but I numb it the best way I know how – drugs, alcohol, and pussy.

  “So who the fuck was it?” I ask him. He just shrugs and looks like he could give a fuck. “Some dude. Sounded all professional and shit.” No one I would give a fuck about then.

  Brothers are sitting around the table talking and laughing. Church doesn’t have anything important today. It’s business as usual.

  “Yo, wanna make a run over to Idaho with me?” Arms asks. Do I wanna make a run? Fuck yeah, I do. I’ll do any fucking thing to get me the fuck out of this club and away from everything Lala.

  Not that on the road I won’t think about her, but at least I won’t be around the visible evidence of the best part of my sad fucking life. Her clothes won’t be in my closest. Her blanket won’t be on my bed when I get in it every night. The old ladies won’t be there bringing her up and giving me those sad fucking looks. I hate those fucking pity stares more than anything. Her Tahoe won’t be sitting out in front of the club. All the shit I can’t stand, but can’t bring myself to get rid of, won’t be there to taunt me. For a few short days, I can get a reprieve from her.

  “Fuck yes.”

  I pack a small bag and gas up my bike. I’m ready to get the fuck outta here and on the open road. I could give a fuck less where or why we’re going, just as long as I’m going. I need this shit. Fuck, do I need it.

  As I walk toward the front door, I hear the clubs phone ringing. A second later, I hear Tags yell out, “Yo Rampage, phone.

  “Who is it?” Pulling the phone away from his face, he says, “Some dude named Mike Stevenson.” Doesn’t ring a bell.

  “Take a message. If he can’t leave one, then he can fuck off.”

  ****

  Two days away was not long enough. Shit was just a taste of what I loved before I had Lala in my life. I forget how much I love the road. Lala came into my life and I couldn’t see past her. She didn’t hold me back, I just chose not to see past her. I found something I loved more than the road. It helped to get the fuck out of here, though. Got out of the club and got shit handled. It was a win/win.

  Back at the club, shit is exactly the same. I’m without Lala and life goes on for me like I only imagined her.

  “Rampage! Ya got another call.” Fucking Christ. It never ends.

  “Who the fuck is it this time?”

  I watch Tiny put the phone back to his ear and ask the question. He listens for a minute and pulls the phone away from his ear, “Some bitch says it’s time sensitive.”

  Fuck it. Might as well answer it. Maybe they’ll stop calling once I do.

  “Yeah?”

  “Is this someone by the name of Rampage?” An older woman’s voice comes through the phone. It’s not a voice I recognize.

  “Yep.”

  “My name is Lisa McDonald. I’m a Patient Care Coordinator and Representative at East Houston Regional Medical Center.”

  The fuck? A medical center? In Houston? I don’t know anyone down South.

  “I’m representing a patient here at our center. The patient came to us in critical condition, and we are having a very difficult time identifying them. The patient was found with a number and a name that led me to you.”

  The word patient echoes in my head every time she says it, playing on repeat. It sounds so goddamn ominous

  “Okay.” Is all I can say. What the fuck else do I say? I can’t help this bitch.

  “I was hoping you would know the patient. Do you have any idea who the patient may be?” she asks softly.

  I don’t know why, but my whole fucking body goes rigid and starts to shake. There is no way it could be her, but I feel it. Please God, don’t let it be the person I know in my heart that it is.

  “What does the patient look like?” I spit out.

  “I cannot breach patient confidentiality.”

  “So what? You want me to come all the way from Washington State to Houston to I.D. a person I may or may not know? You gotta give me more, lady. Is it a woman? Eye color, tattoos…Anything?”

  “We are unable to open the patient’s eyes due to severe facial damage and swelling.” My stomach knots and rolls at the idea. My hands grow sweaty and I damn near drop the fucking phone. Fuck. “The patient is female and she has blond, almost gold color hair.”

  I knew. I fucking knew it. My vision blurs after that. I drop the phone and throw up. Critical condition, severe facial damage and swelling, on my fucking angel’s face? Critical? Patient? I couldn’t hear anything after that.

  Lil takes the phone and she doesn’t last much longer than I did. Tank takes over after that, getting directions and as much information as he could. Cali packed my bag and Peaches got us on a plane. I made it from Washington to Houston barely intact, but once I made it into that hospital, there would be no telling what the fuck state I would be in.

  ****

  Tank and Lil speak with some bitch at the front desk. She shifts us to some other bitch, who then shifts us to some Visitor Supervisor bitch.

  “As you are not family or related by marriage, it is usually against hospital policy to let you see a patient, but as this is a special case, we will make an exception.”

  The bitch is only agreeing after Lil started balling and Tank threatened to burn the place to the ground.

  “It is important that we I.D. this patient to make sure she is receiving the best care possible. Who would like to I.D. her?”

  I felt like we were going to the morgue to identify her body, like the patient is already dead and they need a positive I.D. before we start making funeral arrangements. The thought makes me sick. I’m not sure if I can do this. Looking over at me, both Lil and Tank wait for me to speak up.

  “I’ll do it if you don’t want to,” Lil offers. Fuck. I really want to let her, but I can’t. I have to see her.

  ****

  Each step feels like a fucking lifetime. My feet are heavy and weighted. The elevator is slow and the paperwork is daunting. The questions are menial and exhausting. Walking through each hallway, past every room, the anxiety eats away at me. I can’t get there soon enough, yet I dread actually getting there. I feel like I’m on death row, taking my final walk to my fucking execution. For the first time in my life, I’m scared out of my fucking mind. I am scared shitless. I’m not sure that I can take those last steps that will bring me into that room.

  The hallway has two uniformed officers standing against the wall. Standing beside them is a nurse and a woman with a clipboard, waiting for me. They all watch me as I walk up.

  “Rampage?” The clipboard lady asks. I just nod. I’m not sure what to say.

  “I’m Mrs. McDonald. I have a few questions to ask you, but first, I’ll need you to see the patient.” Again I nod. The clipboard takes a deep breath and gives me a grim smile and motions to a set of chairs at the end of the hall.

  “Sit with me for a moment?”

  I sit and stare. I sign a few forms. Now I’m listening numbly.

  “As you may have gathered, the patient,” I stop her. I can’t fucking handle the word patient anymore. It sounds like death and sickness to me.

  “Lailah.” I correct her.

  Cocking her head, she says, “Excuse me?”

  “Her name is Lailah.”

  “I apologize. We don’t know for sure that it’s her. Until you see her, we just don’t know.”

  But I do. I know.

  “Well, when you go in there, I want you to be prepared. I want you to understand that the patient has endured some very serious injuries and was very malnourished when brought to us. She doesn’t look well, and you may not be able to even identify her due to such injuries.
In fact, she may not look alive. I have seen quite a few horrendous cases of abuse, but this patient…Her face is distorted and has been damaged greatly, so please prepare yourself for that. At any time it gets too hard for you, leave the room. For anyone, seeing someone like this could cause emotional trauma, especially if it is a loved one.

  I’ll never forget the number on the door, 303.

  The room is warm and quiet. It looks like your average hospital room; dull, sterile, and clean. The faint smell of blood and disinfectant permeates the air and I hear the soft hum of machines… a lot of machines. My hand shakes as I push the door closed behind me. I make my way to the curtain that shields her. Taking a deep breath, I pull back the curtain and I drop to my knees.

  She doesn’t look like my Lala, but I would know my goddamn angel anywhere, no matter what physical state she’s in. My heart fucking breaks and I just wanna throw up. Her face is twice the size it should be. It’s swollen black and blue with angry red cuts everywhere. Her lips are swollen and busted, one eye completely covered in gauze and medical tape. There is even gauze wrapped all around her head. With her arm wrapped in a cast, it seems like at least sixty percent of her body is covered in medical tape and gauze.

  Various tubes and needles are stuck in what little skin isn’t completely damaged. The only thing that looks like my Lala is her hair. It’s long smooth and blonde.

  I get up off my knees and take a step toward her bed. I feel fucking sick. My entire body is shaking and I can’t control it. My heart hurts. It physically fucking hurts. Each breath is painful. I’ve never been more scared in my life. I’ve never been more broken. Reaching out, I take one of the very few parts of her body that isn’t damaged – her wrist. Turning it over carefully,I find that little pink cursive “R“ on her wrist. It’s my Lala.

  I break the fuck down. I can’t hold it back and I don’t want to. I haven’t cried since I buried my mom, and even those tears weren’t many. I didn’t cry for me, those tears were for the sad life my mom lived, and they were happy tears because she was finally free.