Wrong Side of Heaven

by Riley, Gia

  Three

  Winnie

  Tess never came home this morning after work. Chances are, she’s passed out in another trailer, but I wouldn’t know where to start the search. She’s slept with most of the guys who live here, and she owes a couple of people a lot of money. Maybe the time came for her to pay her dues, and someone wanted to cash in on the promises she’d made them. Judging from how screwed up she’s been lately, it’d take a long time for her to work off the debt.

  Without her here, it’s quiet—so quiet, I can’t drown out the sound of the water gushing from the fire hydrant down the street. Every kid in the park is out there, splashing and squealing. All it does is remind me of time I spent with Dad—how he would take me to the moonlight swims at the community pool on humid summer nights.

  But I shouldn’t complain; half of those kids have it worse than I do. I don’t have a mother, but at least I had a dad who cared if I was clothed and fed, whether I made it to school on time, or how much homework I had. Maybe he wasn’t around as much as he should have been, but he was always there when it mattered, when I needed him, and he made our time together count.

  Tess knows she robbed me of that, and her guilt turned her into a raging alcoholic and an even worse addict than she already had been. In a matter of hours after Dad’s death, her drug use shifted from fun to survival.

  She started living high to high, blackout to blackout. It’s the only way she knows how to cope because, like me, when she’s awake, the demons come back, screaming louder than the time before. Life’s a constant reminder of what we’ve lost.

  I have good days and bad days. Days when I’m tired of feeling and living, sandwiched between a decent couple of hours where the world doesn’t seem all that bad. But it is, and as soon as I’m reminded the pain isn’t going anywhere, I do the only thing that makes me feel better. I cut.

  There was so much blood. More than I’d imagined there’d be, but I hadn’t really thought about it when I grabbed the razor from the package. All I had known was that I had to be quick.

  Trey was in the living room, talking with Tess. She was worked up about the eviction notice taped to the front door, screaming and crying about how Dad had left her with nothing.

  I had seen the drugs come and go. I knew about the drinking since I was a little girl.

  My parents had had me young, and you could say Dad and I had grown up together. We’d trusted each other, and I believed he had it under control. That, no matter how much he drank or how many pills he swallowed, he’d wake up in the morning and still be my dad. But he couldn’t have known that what was in that syringe would kill him. The syringe Tess had bought and given to him.

  I’d thought losing Dad would be as bad as it could get, but I was wrong. Nothing was ever going to get better for me. On top of losing someone I loved, Tess and I were homeless, facing the streets with what little we could carry on our backs.

  I’d cut too deep that day. Fear. Betrayal. Loss. They’d all come after me at once until I couldn’t breathe. And there was only one way to stop the shouting and force oxygen back into my lungs.

  What I needed was love—someone to show me that my existence wasn’t a burden and that I was worthy. What I didn’t need was another blade between my fingers. But blades were easier to find than affection, and I’d ended up on the bathroom floor again with my only friend. I just prayed I could stop before I was too broken to be fixed.

  I’d made the cuts fast, and once I got the bleeding on my thigh to slow down, I doused my skin with alcohol and screamed into a balled up towel. After a couple of seconds, I couldn’t tell which hurt more—my body or my heart.

  And, as I peeled my tired body off the tiled floor, I ducked and hid in the back of my bedroom closet. I wasn’t sure how much time we had before we had to be out of the apartment, but I was sure that I didn’t want to go.

  Trey searched the place, yelling my name over and over until he found me, hidden in the corner. “Jesus, Winn. You’re shaking. Come out from there,” he said. His voice was laced with compassion and concern, like Dad’s would have been had he been the one to find me.

  But, if Dad were alive, I wouldn’t still be cutting.

  I wanted Trey to hug me and never let go, but I stayed in a ball and blinked away the tears, afraid of what he’d say or do once he saw the bandages. The cuts were still so fresh, they were bleeding.

  “I’m sorry,” I whispered.

  “Why are you sorry?” he asked as he knelt in front of me.

  Every time I closed my eyes, all I would see was my father’s lifeless body and that damn needle dangling from his arm.

  “What was in it?” I asked him.

  I never found out, and for some reason, it mattered to me. I wasn’t sure why; it wouldn’t change anything. But I needed to know before we left this apartment for good.

  “In what, Winn?” He was the only one who called me that, and his voice was so soft, so kind, even though he had knuckles covered with tattoos and scars on his face from fighting. No amount of battles could have prepared him for my next question.

  “The syringe.”

  “It doesn’t matter, sweetheart,” he said.

  I wished that were true, but it wasn’t.

  When he held out his hand, I took it. I trusted Trey more than Tess, and I knew that, no matter what, he’d look out for me when she couldn’t be bothered.

  As I stood up, he glanced at the blood-soaked bandages sticking out from underneath my skirt. I thought he knew what I’d done, but he didn’t yell at me.

  Trey had demons of his own. Ones he never talked about, yet we all knew they existed. Scars and ink often came with a price, and Trey’s told more stories than a library full of books.

  He was good at masking the pain though, so much better than I was. That was why he looked away and never said another word about the blood. I almost wished he had because, now, I harbored a secret that wasn’t entirely my own. If it were anyone other than Trey who knew, I wouldn’t have been able to live with myself. But Trey was safe. He’d always been safe.

  That night, I slept at his house. We had the same routine for an entire week, and when I woke up the last morning in his apartment, Trey told me he had to take me home.

  Home. What a joke.

  Without Dad, I was on my own, and both Trey and I knew it. He handed me a wad of cash and told me to hide it from Tess, and then he left. Rumor had it, he had to skip town. It could be for any number of reasons. Trey was involved in so many illegal dealings, it was a wonder he was still alive.

  But he cared, and he was all I had.

  I left the comfort of the city and joined Tess in Carillon, never imagining those eight miles could make such a difference in my peace of mind, but they did. I became scared of my own shadow, and the silence was constantly strangling me. There was nobody to talk to, not a single person who could understand what I was going through.

  With her habit sucking her dry, the trailer park was all Tess could afford. She didn’t even need a car or bus fare anymore. We were within walking distance to The Whip.

  Life sucked. And I spent every single day praying Trey would come back and take me with him to wherever he’d run off to. Every time I heard a familiar-sounding engine pass, I would run to the window, hoping it was him. It wasn’t. Trey became a memory, yet he was my only reminder that somebody cared, that I was worth more than the money he’d shoved in my hand.

  It’s hard to believe it’s been a little over a year since I saw Trey. I was barely sixteen years old the last time I heard his raspy voice. He always sounded like he’d smoked too many cigarettes and then drunk a ton of whiskey. He wasn’t a big drinker though; it was just the way his voice was—soothing, comforting, constant.

  God, why did he have to leave?

  Four

  Winnie

  I’d do anything for some fresh air, to run through the hydrant water one last time. But all I can do is press my cheek against the windowpane and pretend I can feel th
e cool droplets on my skin. I’d even settle for sitting on the porch. It’s too risky in the dark though. There wouldn’t be enough time to get away if someone came by. I wouldn’t see them round the corner until it was too late to run.

  All that’s left for me to do before bed is take a shower, and just as I stand up from my window seat, I hear the rumble of the motorcycle return. It’s the same bike as last time, and he’s still covered from head to toe in leather with a shielded black helmet covering his face.

  He’s still as much of a mystery as he was the first time I saw him.

  A few minutes later, a truck pulls up behind the bike. The driver’s wearing jeans and a white T-shirt. Another guy hops out of the passenger side, but it’s too dark to make out either of their faces. Either the three men chose to move at night because it’s cooler or they want as little attention on themselves as possible. Everyone in Carillon seems to be running or hiding from a ghost.

  They work fast though, and before long, they’ve unloaded a couch, kitchen table, and a bunch of boxes. It doesn’t seem like enough stuff to belong to an entire family, but I have so little, you’d never even know I lived here.

  If I were a good neighbor, I’d warn them to stay away from Tess before she had a chance to introduce herself. But I could hold a Caution sign above her head, and men would still be drawn to her short skirts, long, dark hair, and deep-blue eyes.

  Even when she’s wasted, she’s a deadly combination of looks and charm. Judging from the motorcycle, she’ll be all over the new neighbor the second she sees him. It isn’t fair really; he’ll never see her coming until he’s wasted and she’s digging in his pockets, milking him for every cent he can give her. And he will. They always do. He’ll hand the cash over with a smile as she licks her lips, a promise of what she’ll do to him later.

  “Winnie, where the fuck are ya?” Tess yells as she slams the back door. The door only she’s allowed to use because it leads into her bedroom—a convenient way for her to get her drugs inside without ever being seen.

  Considering it’s only midnight, I have no idea why she’s here and not at work. Something must have happened, and I’m almost too afraid to find out what it is this time, especially if she’s here, looking for me.

  There’s no use in hiding though. This late at night, I’m always home. Nothing’s open, except for The Whip, and I’m not old enough to get inside. Every other place I’d go is too far to walk to.

  Without knocking, she flings open the door to my bedroom. “You and those fucking bells. It’s not Christmas.”

  I want to tell her those bells are there because of her. That the only way I can stay safe is to set a trap in case I fall asleep. But I know better. If I told her that guys came into my room, she’d call me a liar—not before she called me a slut.

  “What’s going on, Tess?” With the way she’s staring through me, my pulse is hammering in my ears because I don’t know what to expect. For a minute, I worry she’s about to kick me out.

  But then her mood shifts from pissed off to needy when she says, “Give me money. Where’s your stash?”

  She opens the dresser and slams each drawer shut when she finds it empty. The only things inside are a couple of old quilts that nobody uses. I keep them in case the roof starts dripping when it rains.

  Her hands are shaking, and little beads of sweat are building at her hairline. Flushed face and all, she stares around the room, plotting her next move.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask her. Not because I care, but because she’s freaking me out.

  If we’re getting evicted again, I need to know. This time, I’ll need more than five minutes to gather my stuff. But she doesn’t answer me. She lifts my blankets and shoves her hand between the box spring and the mattress. Too weak to lift it on her own, she only gets as far as her elbow before she stops rooting around for cash.

  “You don’t have shit, do you?” she asks.

  “No.” I have money in the floor, but she’ll never find it unless she crawls underneath the bed and presses on one specific floorboard. “You know I don’t have any money.”

  She starts blinking so fast, I’m not sure she even sees me. Watery tears spill down her cheeks, smudging her eye makeup and making her mascara run. “Then, I need you to go work for me. Ronnie’s working the door; he’ll let you inside.”

  “What? Tess, I’m only seventeen. I can’t serve alcohol.”

  I’m smart enough to know serving isn’t the only thing I’d be expected to do tonight. I’ve overheard conversations about the special clients she serves in the back room—with her body and her mouth.

  “You’re going, Winnie. I’ve supported your ass long enough. It’s time you help out around here.” She pulls her skintight black dress over her head and drops it on the bed. “Wear that. Your tits are big enough; you’ll make a shit-ton of tips. I might even let you keep half.”

  None of her words are slurred, like when she’s drunk. Her pupils aren’t the size of saucers, and she doesn’t reek of smoke. Nothing about the way she looks is normal, yet this is one of the most honest versions of Tess I’ve ever seen—because I think she’s actually sober.

  The shakes. The sweating. The crying. All withdrawal.

  “You couldn’t score any coke before your shift, so now, I have to get you the money, right?”

  I’m the same height as her, but she’s in my face so fast, and she has her hands wrapped around my throat before I see them coming. “Listen, you little bitch, this is my house. And you’ll do what I say. I need you to go to work for me, so fucking shut your mouth and do it.”

  When the staring contest ends, my shoulders sag in defeat, and she can tell I’m about to give in. What other choice do I have if I want to keep a roof over my head?

  “What if I get caught?”

  Releasing me, she says, “You’re resourceful. Don’t get caught.”

  “I’ve never had a job, Tess. And I don’t know the first thing about bars or clubs.”

  Wearing nothing but a thong, she rolls her eyes and points at the dress. “Everyone at The Whip knows who you are. They’re the only family you’ve got, so I suggest you do whatever you’re told to do tonight.”

  “I have a mother and a father.”

  “Don’t you dare bring up your father, Winnie!” she screams.

  “I’m sorry,” I tell her.

  I’m not trying to make her cry, and that’s what she does whenever his name’s mentioned. To her, he can’t exist. Not even in memory. When we buried his body, that was the end.

  “And your precious mother didn’t want you. You’re lucky I even kept you.”

  Lucky. That’s one way to look at it. Maybe we’d have some kind of relationship if she got help and tried harder. But reality is too painful, and it’s easier to stay high and drunk than to try to make sense of the person she’s become.

  Nothing I say to her will make her change. The drugs are in control now.

  I know it was never my choice to make, but I still pretend like I have a say. “Fine,” I whisper. “I’ll go.”

  She watches as I slip the dress over my head and adjust the straps.

  “I don’t have any shoes to wear with this.” The only shoes I own are sneakers and flip-flops, nothing high and pointy like Tess wears to work.

  She kicks off her sky-high stilettos and says, “Put them on. And find some makeup.”

  The heels are two sizes too small, and my toes hang over the sole, but they look the part, so I keep them on.

  Tess takes care of the makeup, too, and by the time she’s finished with me, I look as cheap as I feel. One glance at my reflection, and I feel more shame than when Trey saw the bloody bandages on my thigh.

  I swore I would never be this girl. I promised that, no matter how desperate times got, I wouldn’t resort to The Whip. But this isn’t my desperation; it’s Tess’s. Maybe I look like a whore, but I’d rather die than become Tess.

  “Get out of here,” she says. “And don’t screw this u
p.”

  In as little as a half hour, she’s forced me to feel everything the razor numbs. If I had more time, I’d make one more trip to the bathroom, alone—just me and the blade. Because does it really matter that I’m solving Tess’s problems if I’m creating more of my own?

  Five

  Winnie

  From the outside, The Whip looks like any other dive bar in America. There’s nothing special about it, and it has the same feel as the trailer park—run-down and in need of a makeover. That’s not going to happen though because, judging by the line of motorcycles lined up out front and the crowd of people smoking near the entrance, The Whip is popular to one specific crowd—the lowlifes of Carillon who have very little and expect even less. As long as the alcohol is flowing and the girls are eager, they’ll show up, throwing away what little money they have left.

  I’ve walked by so many times, but I’ve never been inside. Not even when Tess called me, crying, from the back room, begging me to bring her something to take the edge off. I wasn’t about to become her runner. If she needed to get high, she’d have to take care of that on her own.

  I guess that makes me a hypocrite since I’m about to go against my word.

  Each step toward the entrance earns me another set of eyes. By the time my fingers are wrapped around the door handle, there’s a hand on my ass. I spin around so fast, he lets go but not before taking an eyeful of my cleavage with him.

  The skittish reaction I give only makes him laugh, and then he says, “Looks like we have some fresh meat, fellas.”

  My skin crawls, mostly because there’s a bar full of guys just like him, waiting to do their worst. And they won’t give up until they have me in the back room on my knees. But the back room isn’t a part of the deal, and I’d never sell my body, no matter how desperate I was for cash.