Vicious
Page 1
Copyright © 2020 by A. E. Murphy
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Vicious
A. E. Murphy
Contents
8 years old
26 years old
9 years old
26 years old
9 and a half.
26 years old
12 years old
26 years old
13 years old
26 years old
14 years old
26 years old
14 and a half
26 years old
14 years old
26 years old
14 years old
15 years old
26 years old
15 years old
26 years old
15 years old
26 years old
15 years old
16 years old
26 years old
16 years old
16 and a half
26 years old
17… it’s my birthday
2 weeks later, still 17
26 years old
17 years old
17 years old
26 years old
17 years old
26 years old
17 years old
26 years old
17 years old
26 years old
18 years old
26 years old
A few hours later…
Webber’s Office
Back Home
Faceless – Texas
Stupid O’clock
Approximately 3 days later
2 Weeks Later
Connie – 8 Years Old
Immy
Connie
Immy
Connie
Immy
Epilogue
HAVE YOU READ…
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also By The Author
To Kirsty-Anne Still, your cover inspired this book. Without your artistry, Kane Jessop would not exist. Thank you so much, for that and everything else.
8 years old
We’ve been raised to be kind to others, and always smile when using our manners. Because manners without a smile just ain’t genuine. I mean… isn’t genuine. I keep forgetting to talk proper. Mee-maw doesn’t like it when I don’t talk proper now that I’m becomin’ a little lady.
A little lady, which means I ain’t been raised to fight. So when the new boy from way over town pushes my brother off his bike and brings his foot back, stretching the hole in the knee of his ripped jeans, I don’t know what to do.
I just stand here and watch as he kicks my brother in the ribs three times, making him gasp and choke for air. I don’t know why he’s doing it. My brother done nothing to this boy and I’d know because I’m my brother’s best friend and we are always together. My brother doesn’t do anything to anyone, ever.
“Pussy,” the boy snarls and spits. His white, bubbly saliva hits my brother’s neck as he cries and hugs his ribs.
I stare, wide-eyed, like a rabbit in headlights. Unable to move.
I want to help my brother, my twin, but I can’t bring myself to even make a sound.
The boy pushes his long, unruly brown hair out of his face. It’s knotted and messy, but it still looks so silky and glossy, and it has strands of gold through it, like a sprinkle of sand on dirt.
“What you lookin’ at?” he snarls at me, lifting my brother’s bike from the ground and mounting it.
I’m mad, I feel mad like I have never felt. It’s burning inside of me. I can feel it twisting a knot in my chest, boiling the acid in my stomach, but I can’t do anything about it. Mee-maw will be upset if I tantrum in company. I’m too old and I’m a little lady.
But my brother… he’s hurt. I should hurt this boy too.
“My bike,” Matthew, my brother rasps.
“Tell your mom to sell her plastic tits and get you another one,” the boy retorts, grinning as he twists the rubber handle, making his palm white. Is he pretending to ride a motorbike? I notice his nails and pull a disgusted face. He’s a nail biter. Such a nasty habit. Mee-maw hits me on the hand with a stick if I even think about putting my fingers near my mouth.
“I’m telling!” I say, finally able to speak again, but it’s weak and high-pitched, making me sound pathetic.
“You tell anyone about me, Imogen Hardy and I’ll tell your grandpa you showed me your panties.”
My jaw hits the floor and my eyes fill with scorching tears.
He laughs at my reaction and bikes away, pedaling my brother’s bike like he has been riding it for years, not seconds. We watch him go down the dirt road, dust kicking up from the back wheel in a cloud of evil behind him.
“How does he know your name, Immy?” my brother asks as I help him up.
“I don’t know,” I reply, checking his ribs when he lifts his yellow character shirt. There’s an ugly purple swelling on his side. “Let’s get you home.”
“Don’t tell Mee-maw.”
“She’s gonna wonder where your bike got to.”
“We’ll let her think it was stolen outta the shed.”
“But—”
“No, Immy. Don’t tell. Okay?”
Frowning, I nod. Too young to understand why my brother won’t tell somebody who can do something about Kane and what he did. It seems so unfair.
“It’s guy code, we don’t tattle and you shouldn’t either.”
“How are you my age but so much smarter than me?” I ask, pouting. “And braver.”
He shakes his head and rubs his side. I can see how much it hurts with every step. “I’m not brave, Immy.”
To me he’s the bravest boy in the entire world.
26 years old
It has been a while since I saw the plumes of dust this dry road is kicking up behind me. I remember being a teen and holding onto the back of cars while on a skateboard and getting mouthfuls of this vile dirt. I broke my leg in two places being that stupid, thinking I was one of the guys, neglecting my family to fight for his affections.
The one with the vicious tongue.
The one I used to love to hate… and now I just hate and I don’t like it at all. There’s nothing good about the hatred I feel for this man. It doesn’t bring me pleasure, or pain, or any kind of emotion, not even rage. My default setting for him is hatred and it’ll remain that way forever.
I pass the semi-busy looking shops on New Hope Road, while thinking it should be false hope road. Or false hope hole in the fucking ground. This place has the default setting of despair in my heart. What once was my incredible childhood, quickly became the setting for all bad things that ever happened to me.
I see people look my way, a kid points at my car. It’s flashy, it was ridiculously expensive, and it wasn’t made for these dusty-ass roads. It’s going to need a clean before I make it to the end of the street and I only got it cleaned on my way into town this morning. An excuse to delay the inevitable.
My phone starts to ring, it’s Webber. I don’t answer. I don’t want to talk right now; it’s better he thinks I’m already there even though I’m not.
I’m late.
I’m never late but I almost didn’t come despite the fact I have to. I can’t not be here. I need to be here.
I need to say goodbye.
The parking lot is full of vehicles, cars packed side by side on a gravel surface. An ominous shadow from the church and its steeple point to the only remaining space. I don’t use it. I park on the grassy
verge beside the church, getting as close to it as possible. I’ll likely get a ticket if the town’s only traffic warden isn’t inside saying his goodbyes.
I climb out of my car, pointed heels crunching on the uneven cobblestones that lead up to the church doors which are closed. Looks like I’ll have to make an entrance.
9 years old
Kane joined our school six months ago and even though all he does is cause trouble; nobody is kicking him out. Grandpa said it’s because his daddy gots ties with the district and Kane gets a free pass. I don’t know what that means exactly but I don’t think it’s a good thing.
He’s the worst boy I have ever had the displeasure to meet in my entire life. Displeasure is a new word I learned right before Kane stuck a pencil down the back of my dress last period. He’s always doing stuff like that.
He pushed me over last week during recess too. I hurt my butt and grazed the palms of my hands. He thought it was funny that my new dress was ripped.
“Show me your panties,” he said when I dusted myself off. Why anybody would want to see my yellow and pink polka dot panties is so weird. And also gross. Mee-maw always said never show nobody your privates, especially not boys or men. She said boys gots the devil inside of them and a girl’s privates makes that devil hungry.
I don’t know why he does these things to me; I don’t know what I ever did to him to make him so cruel. He always does it to my brother too but only when he’s with me, so now even Matthew doesn’t speak to me in school.
“You’re so ugly you make my eyes want to roll to a different planet,” he hisses in my ear after yanking my braid and pulling my head back so hard I almost tip backwards.
I don’t respond, I just scowl at my desk, wishing I was strong enough to hurt him back, to pull his stupid hair and say mean things. Mee-maw says if I ignore him, he’ll stop, but it has been six months of ignoring him and he hasn’t stopped. He never stops.
“Are you okay?” my closest friend, Poppy-Rose who I’ve known since kindergarten asks on a whisper when I snap a pencil with both of my hands.
“No.”
“He’s only doing it because he likes you,” she says, repeating what my mee-maw told me when I asked her why he’s so mean.
“Then he needs to unlike me,” I huff, screwing my work into a ball and scowling at it.
It’s a stupid thought that displeases me because if he likes me why does he hurt me and my brother? And everyone else too, but he seems to really love hurting me, and the teachers never do anything about it.
The last time I tattled on him he threw my backpack into the school swimming pool and pushed my brother in after it. Luckily my brother can swim, Grandpa taught him last summer. I had to learn to crochet with Mee-maw and I absolutely hated it. I wanted to learn to swim, it’s so unfair.
“Are you going to tell Mr. Beecham?” Poppy whispers, leaning in as close as she can.
I shake my head and turn to a clean page.
“You can’t let him do that though.”
“I know,” I growl and shift away. “Leave me alone.”
26 years old
The door isn’t locked when I give it a hard shove while smiling at the upside-down cross still etched into its surface, a reminder of the days I thought I was something tough and fierce. I was nothing but a poser, throwing my weight around everywhere it didn’t matter. Something I paid for dearly.
The door groans as it opens into the lobby where three glass double doors line each of the surrounding walls.
I see people look through the glass from their seats, their bodies twisting as they try their darndest to figure out who is here.
Too late to turn back now.
I don’t even feel slightly nervous or sorry about interrupting. Truthfully, I don’t care at all.
Pushing open the door on the right, my heels click when I step into the packed room full of my prior community.
I spy my mother at the front, weepy eyed with a tissue against her nose, I spy my old neighbors and shop keepers, and the man who delivered the paper to our house everyday until his grandson took over. I see the grandson too.
All the people from my past are sitting in this room.
Somebody fetch this girl a bomb.
I raise my chin as the dead silence is cut through with sharp whispers. Some ask who I am, some ask if it’s really me, I hear them say I look different, I hear them insult my tardiness, I hear others defend me because I must be distraught.
When I finally reach the front, I make it a point to sit far away from my mother. I don’t acknowledge Father David or even apologize for interrupting. It looks like he’s quite far into the service anyway.
He doesn’t acknowledge me either, nor does that bitch’s closest friend who used to bake the shittiest cookies I ever tried. I broke my tooth on those fucking things when I was around seven. She’s sitting to my left, weeping, as my mother keeps leaning forward to try and catch a glimpse of me or make eye contact at the very least over the five people between us.
I probably should have sat at the back but I wanted to make a statement. I wanted them to see me with my head held high.
“Where were we?” Father David calls and the whispers slowly float away.
I listen to him drone on and on about how Jesus calls to the old bitch and how heaven has a new angel and a ton of other phony BS that I just loathe to sit here and listen to.
“Would anybody like to say a few words to honor such a beloved member of our church and community?”
Of course the shit baker to my left stands and click clacks her way to the pedestal.
I try not to vomit as she gives a teary rendition of my grandmother’s life with lies and over inflated compliments, and overexaggerated confessions of love and loyalty.
My mom goes next, sobbing like she ever gave a fuck about the old lady to begin with. Two-faced hooker just wants what’s in my gran’s will.
My fingers twitch as I get restless.
This is BS, I can’t do this.
I stand, cutting my mother off and slide out of the bench as best as I can what with so many legs blocking my way.
“Where are you going, Imogen?” Father David asks softly, pretending to be a kind herder of his sheep. “Stay, your grandmother would want you to say goodbye.”
“My grandmother wouldn’t want me to say shit,” I retort and half the room gasps.
“Hasn’t lost her terrible manners I see,” somebody hisses but I pay them no mind.
“Let’s watch our language in this house of God.”
I roll my eyes. “That’s exactly why I’m leaving.”
“I know it’s painful, being back here, being with all of us after all you’ve been through and lost—”
Before I say something I’ll probably never regret but know I shouldn’t say, I turn on my heel and head towards the double glass doors.
“Imogen,” Father David calls. “Say your goodbyes, it’s the only chance you’ll ever get.”
I stop, rage bubbling under the surface, hands clenching, face burning. “If you’re sure.”
“I am.” His smile is soft and understanding, as though he understands anything when he understands absolutely nothing. “Come. Speak of your love for your grandmother before it’s too late.”
With a graceful spin I march back towards the front and my mother steps down, unable to look me in the eye. I climb up the few steps and address my adoring fans.
“You asked for this,” I say to the man with a sardonic smile and his falls as the error of his ways sinks in through his thick, leathery skin. “What shall I say?” This question is posed more to myself than anyone else.
“Be nice,” my mother mouths at me but I give her the bird and a small chorus of outrage fills the silence.
“Look at that.” I wave a hand at my mother and address the “adoring” crowd. “Ain’t my ma such a chip off the old block. Telling me to be nice. Whatever could you mean, Ma? What good reason could I possibly have to not be nice?�
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Father David steps towards me, no longer looking victorious at having turned my decision. “Perhaps we should—”
I raise a hand to cut him off. “I was three when Mom abandoned me to a woman she despised, a woman who abused her as she was growing up… can you imagine it? Being so messed up by a person and then handing over your babies to her to also be messed up.” I’m not wording this well but I’m angry and emotional and they asked for this.
“Mee-maw,” I continue bitterly, “such a bright beacon of hope in the community, right? She raised everybody’s kids. She made cakes and smiled and hosted events. She was prim and proper and wore perfectly ironed clothing and never showed even an ankle. She taught us all right from wrong such as who to play with, who not to play with, who was trash and who wasn’t… and the best thing she ever taught me.” My sarcasm is as evident as my ire. “Something she always said to me…” I scan the room, looking for no face in particular, relieved when I don’t find the face I’ll always deny I ever looked for. “If you don’t got anything nice to say, don’t say anything at all. But I never did listen to the old shrew.”