3. Chapter Three

Chapter Three

Mackenzie

T he Khaos guys really did a great job of cleaning this place after what happened here with my brother, Jake. The rotten smell of sewage and flesh no longer clings to every surface, although I’d become immune to it by the time Aleko dragged me away.

Spence went back to his place soon after dropping Mom and me off and showing us where his Gran’s old gun is—by the front door—in case I ever need it. Steve was impatiently waiting for him, and I’m beginning to lose my faith that he’ll stay quiet about what we’ve done. About the way he helped me fake my death. The mortician is quickly making his way onto my shit list with the way he’s been making Spence feel lately, but my best friend asked me to stay out of it. So out of it I shall stay…for now.

It’s Friday morning, and we’ve been here for a whole day and night. Yesterday was spent attempting to dust one handed, with my crutch in the other, and ordering in some food supplies—which is much easier with Mom here, seeing as I’d rather not answer the door. Last night, I didn’t sleep a wink. For one, I was uncomfortable as fuck on the pull-out sofa bed, and two, trying to sleep without Aleko is like trying to breathe without oxygen.

Impossible.

I just hope he finds the note I left him before thinking the worst, like that I’ve been kidnapped again or some shit. There’s no chance in Hell that he’ll understand why I have to do this, but I’m beginning to think I don’t quite understand either.

Age and hormones are the excuses I’m giving myself, and I’m pretty convincing…to everyone around me.

“Would you like some pancakes, darlin’?” Mom’s in the small kitchen area, poised beside the stove with a pan in one hand and a spatula in the other. It makes me smile as I remember the time I threatened Aleko with a wooden spoon by mistake—the spoon was a mistake, not the threatening part.

“Please. I’ll put a pot of coffee on then wash and cut the strawberries.” Being in the kitchen again is something I enjoy, and this is a job I can do while sitting at the breakfast bar.

It’s fucked up, but I sometimes miss my old trailer with my shitty little kitchen, my makeshift garden of lethal plants, and the smell of freshly baked cookies after a twenty-four hour shift as an EMT with Spence.

Revenge is supposed to be sweet, but all it’s done so far is screw with my entire life and leave me in a shit hole. Jake would be happy. He’s still fucking with me, even from his shallow grave in the woods—or wherever the Sons’ clean-up crew took him.

This situation is new for me and my mom, and I think we both just need time to decompress and acclimatize to what’s going on. We make breakfast in comfortable silence before moving over to the small couch—that happened to be my bed last night— and settling in front of the TV in the main space. There isn’t any cable, but we have some basic channels and we manage to find an old show I remember Mom and Dad watching a lot of when I was a kid.

“This was one of your dad’s favorites. The reveal at the end was always the part he looked forward to the most.” Mom sighs, a light smile on her face that I haven’t seen in far too long. “I wrote to them, you know. To see if they’d come and fix up that old beater your dad had in the garage with his bikes. Never heard back from them, though. He always had more time for the motorcycles, but he was adamant he wouldn’t get rid of the car. That he’d finish it one day.” Mom’s smile fades and her eyes lose focus on the TV show. “The day after I mailed that letter is when it all fell apart. He came back into town, everyone discovered the truth of my lies, and ultimately, it’s my fault. It’s my f—it’s…my…fault.” Tears begin streaming down Mom’s face as she stutters out her words, like she’s reliving a terrible memory in real-time.

My heart aches for her, because if she’s talking about Dad’s death being her fault, then she’s held onto this for so long. It’s not surprising she fell apart and continues to do so. And the extra trauma on top of being locked away and abused for so long and I have nothing but respect for the fact she’s still living.

Scooching closer to Mom, I wrap my arms around her and pull her into me. She moves willingly, resting her head against my shoulder, where I feel small wet droplets from her tears.

“It’s not your fault, Mom. Dad had an accident on his motorcycle and there’s nothing you could have done to stop it.” But maybe I could’ve. If I had leaned in another direction, or held him differently, called for help sooner instead of being a scared little girl…then he could still be here.

I don’t say all that, though. Not to Mom. She doesn’t need my trauma on top of her own. That’d be too much of a mindfuck. I am curious about what lies were told, and why she thinks that has anything to do with an accident, but now definitely isn’t the time to question her.

After a few minutes, Mom’s breathing regulates and she sits up, using her hands to wipe at her eyes. Our pancakes are long forgotten on the coffee table in front of us and the show on TV is rolling the end credits.

“Sorry, darlin’. I don’t know what came over me. I think I’ll go upstairs and lie down for a while. I’m feelin’ kinda tired.” She leans across to kiss my cheek before standing.

“Please don’t be sorry, Mom. Yo—”

“Darlin’ girl, I love you. I’ll come down soon and we can make up a nice casserole.” She gives me a sad smile, picks up the plates, and takes them to the kitchen area before heading upstairs.

I swear, Mom still thinks there are many mouths to feed, but it’s just the two of us and I didn’t have it in me to tell her that a casserole may be a lot.

Curling my legs and feet beneath myself, I settle into the couch and scroll through the few channels we have. I can’t help sliding a hand across my stomach, wondering how big it’ll grow with the baby inside me.

Thinking about where exactly the baby came from is something else entirely. I've thought about getting an abortion, just taking a pill or having an operation or whatever I need to do to make myself not pregnant anymore. But as horrifying as the circumstances of my pregnancy are, I can’t and won’t do it, my heart won't let me. The baby inside me is a part of me, and that has to count for something.

I just hope Aleko understands.

The casserole was separated into several portions and is now in the freezer, ready for a rainy day. Mom’s words. She wasn’t herself the whole time and went back up to bed soon after we ate, leaving me to make my sofa-bed up again. I may just use the money I have saved to buy a new bed for down here, because doing that every night is not fun or conducive to a relaxing pregnancy. I’ll find a place to put it against a wall or something.

A loud banging startles me awake and I try not to scream, reaching for the closest thing I can find to use as a weapon. What if the Toxic Rebels that are left have found me and want their own revenge?

The remote control for the TV and my crutch will have to do. If I can quietly make my way upstairs to Mom, then we can hurry to the basement. There’s a lock on the inside that can keep out whoever is trying to break the door down. I can hear yelling, but it’s raining heavily outside too so I can’t make out any words.

Oh God, I’m not ready to die today.

My heart is thundering in my chest as I make my way to the stairs, and I almost fall backward as Mom comes hurtling down them toward me. She hurries past me and to the front door, picking up the old rifle Spence pointed out to us earlier as the door flies open.

“Mom! Get ba—”