Chapter Text
DEC - 1999
The snowfall that winter was an anomaly. In Georgia, snow was a rare visitor, quickly turning the world outside into something almost unrecognizable. The ground was blanketed with a thin, delicate sheet of white, covering the earth with a tranquility that felt foreign to me. The air was crisp, the world hushed beneath a muted sky, as though time itself had slowed in reverence to the falling flakes. It was a brief stillness—an illusion of peace—before the inevitable return to the harsh rhythms of my Pa's world.
My Pa , unlike the rest of us, paid no attention to the snow. To him, the quiet of the world was an inconvenience, something to be disturbed, something that demanded a response. He didn't see the serenity in the falling flakes; instead, he sought the violence that could rupture it. I recall him stepping onto the back porch with his hunting rifle in hand, the barrel gleaming under the pale light, the weight of the gun heavy in his grip. The contrast between the serenity of the snow and the aggression of his actions struck me even then.
He would set up bottles, lined them along the fence posts on the property line, and shoot at them with mechanical precision. Each shot rang out, loud and jarring against the stillness, the sharp sound of the gunfire shattering the calm like glass. I remember watching from the window, my small hands pressed against the cold glass, as I studied the way he aimed, how the trigger squeezed under his finger with calculated ease. It was a ritual, a display of control over the world around him. But to me, it felt more like an act of desperation, as though the peace of the snow itself offended him.
One memory from that time remains vivid, its imprint on my mind as clear as the day it happened. I was four years old when he took me on my first hunting trip. To him, it was a rite of passage—an initiation into the world of men. He had insisted that I come along, despite my reluctance, and it was less a father-daughter outing and more of a test. I had no desire to kill, no understanding of why someone would want to take the life of something as innocent as a rabbit. But to him, that wasn't an option. He needed me to be tough.
I remember walking through the woods beside him, the crisp winter air biting at my cheeks, the ground hard beneath my boots. It was all a blur of cold and confusion, a sense of being out of place in a world I didn't fully understand. Then, we found the rabbit—small, brown, and unsuspecting of us as we watched it from a far.
My Pa's voice was like a command, rough and unyielding as he placed a too-big rifle into my hands. "Shoot it."
I froze, the weight of the rifle in my hands feeling unnatural, too heavy for someone so small. My heart hammered in my chest as I looked at the creature through the cross-hair, its life hanging in the balance, and I couldn't bring myself to pull the trigger. I began to cry for the animal, for the violence that he was demanding.
I can still hear his voice, low and sharp, as he growled, "Y'gon' shoot it. This how thangs work. You pull that trigger, or you ain't never gon' be worth a damn to nobody. Weakness'll cost ya everythin'."
I wanted to explain to him that it wasn't about weakness—that I just didn't understand why I had to be the one to end another life. But I couldn't. I was too small, too frightened, and my tears mixed with the cold air, freezing against my skin as I tried, and failed, to comply.
He didn't say anything after that. He just snatched the rifle back from me, the rabbit hopping away, unfazed. The silence between us was heavy with the unspoken weight of his disappointment. He didn't need to explain his anger—he didn't need to explain anything.
That was the first order I was ever given: to take a life. And the first lesson I learned was that no explanation was necessary. It didn't matter if you didn't understand it, if it didn't make sense, or if it shattered something inside of you. The world was harsh, and if you didn't act, you were weak. And weakness? Weakness would cost you everything.
AUG - 2000
Growing up in the South had a way of making me feel like the world was smaller, more confined—like I was tucked away in a corner where no one could hear me scream, even if I wanted to. The outskirts of Macon were quiet. It was the kind of place where the only things that mattered were the things that were close to you—your house, your family, your church. If you were lucky, you'd get a taste of something bigger, something outside of the small-town grind. But for most of us, there was nothing more than the dirt roads, trees that stretched on for miles, and swamp.
The heat in Georgia was relentless in the summer, and the thick humidity hung over everything like a weighted blanket. I grew up knowing nothing but isolation, nothing but the quiet sound of cicadas in the trees and the common, distant rumble of thunder. My mother, a soft-spoken woman with a gentle smile, was as much a product of her surroundings as the tall oak trees that shaded our porch. But my dad—he was different. He wasn't shaped by the ground he walked on. His roughness came from somewhere deeper, somewhere colder. And it was festering under the surface.
By the time I turned five, the quiet nights that used to be filled with bedtime stories were replaced with the sound of Pa's anger. My Ma's gentle hum as she went about the house was drowned out by his yelling, his demands. I remember hearing the creak of the floorboards, the heavy boots thudding against the old wood as he came home from work. And if he wasn't greeted with his beer, if dinner wasn't on the table and hot, it was like a switch flipped inside him. The man I knew as my Pa would vanish, replaced by something darker. His face would contort with rage, his hands would go to places they shouldn't, and his voice would shake the foundation house.
It wasn't something I could ignore, no matter how hard I tried to. At five years old, I could understand. Old enough to know that something was wrong with the world around me, something was ugly.
I watched it all, even if I wasn't meant to. Ma tried to keep it together, trying to act like everything was fine. Her eyes would flicker with fear whenever he walked into a room, and I hated it. But I couldn't stop it. I could never stop it.
I tried to help. I tried to stop him. I would run to my dad's side, pulling at his pant leg, begging him to stop. But my Ma would just shove me into the closet, that same damn closet I had been hidden in so many times before. She locked me in, like she always did so I couldn't see. But I couldn't stop myself. I always watched through the key hole.
I once heard her scream as he shoved her down the basement stairs. The sickening sound of her body hitting each step, the sharp crack of bones breaking—it froze me where I stood. My legs felt like lead, refusing to move even as my heart begged me to run to her. When my father stomped off, his rage momentarily spent, I crept to the basement door and opened it just a sliver.
She was lying in a twisted heap at the bottom of the staircase, her body crumpled like a broken doll. My voice trembled as I called out, "Ma? Are you okay?"
For a moment, all I heard was her shallow, labored breathing. Then, in a voice barely above a whisper, she murmured, "I'm alright, B...Bumble Bea. Close the door..."
I didn't understand. The words didn't make sense, but the raw pain in her voice did. My hands shook as I pushed the door shut, leaving it cracked just enough to keep her in my line of sight if Pa came back. I stood there, unable to do anything, listening to her hurt, feeling the weight of my own helplessness.
I was five, but the shame already settled in me, the feeling that I wasn't enough to protect her, to stop him. I wasn't strong enough. I wasn't enough for her.
SEP - 2003
The years that followed blurred into an overwhelming haze of tension, fear, and helplessness. Each day felt like an endurance test—an effort to survive in a house where danger lurked in the form of unpredictable rage. My existence became about one thing: remaining unnoticed. The darker the mood in the house, the more I learned to fade into the shadows, to stay just beyond his reach, hidden but hyper-aware of the chaos unfolding just out of view.
I learned to be invisible. The kind of invisible that becomes second nature, where a person doesn't speak unless spoken to, doesn't move unless absolutely necessary. In my case, that wasn't just a survival mechanism. It was my only means of keeping myself safe from the unpredictable violence that was unleashed on our home. I would find refuge in quiet corners, under tables, behind curtains, anything that shielded me from my Pa's wrath. And yet, no matter how far I buried myself, I couldn't unsee what he was doing to her.
There was no escaping it.
The bruises, the blood, the hollow look in my Ma's eyes—these things became etched into my memory, irreversible. The years blurred, but the moments of violence remained seared into my mind. I couldn't block out the sounds of her screams, the smacking of his fists against flesh, the muffled pleas for him to stop. And yet, no matter how much I wished I could erase the image of him hurting her, I never could.
Anger started to take hold. It didn't arrive like a wave crashing onto the shore. No, it grew inside me, slow and steady, festering like a rot in marrow of my bones as I watched her slip further away. She was disappearing. The woman I had known as my mother—strong, proud, full of light—was being chipped away. I could see the sadness in her eyes, but more than that, I felt it all swirling inside of me with every blow, every tear she shed.
One night, the house felt like tense, air thick enough to choke on. When it storms here, it doesn't just rain; it roars, it shakes, it consumes. And that night, Pa's drunken voice was the lightening, bright and harsh, flashing through the house as his footsteps stomped from room to room.
Ma tried to quiet the storm, her voice soft, trembling like the first drops of rain, but it never stopped the flood. It never worked. It never did.
But tonight was different. I wasn't hiding in the shadows. I wasn't sitting quietly, I was waiting for the loud boom that always followed the harsh strikes of white. I was waiting. I couldn't let him hurt my Ma anymore.
And then it came. I saw him—his hands tightening around her neck from behind, forcing her to watch her own suffering in the hallway mirror, the panic in her eyes reflected back at her. But I saw it all: the fear, the desperation, the way her skin flushed purple with the struggle for air.
And suddenly, all I could think—the only thing I could think—was that this was my shot.
The gun. I could picture the location in my mind: the drawer beside his bed, the cold metal of the gun resting inside. My legs carried me there before my brain had time to catch up. The door creaked open, and I pulled the drawer open with a shaking hand, grabbing the weight of the cold steel.
But then something shifted. My mind dragged me to a year ago, to that hunting trip, to the feeling of the rifle in my tiny arms as I aimed at the rabbit in the field. I couldn't pull the trigger. I had seen the innocence in the creature, and I couldn't bring myself to take its life. It would've been a predator's kill—a kill he had delighted in.
I ran back to my dad with a raised gun and shaky hands. I saw him through the rear-sight of the heavy pistol, his face twisted in a mask of rage, her eyes rolling back and fluttering shut. I only saw a monster. For a moment, everything felt still. Here I was, holding a gun once more, only this time the target wasn't innocent
I felt the anger flood through me—hot, fierce, primal. It wasn't the kind of anger you felt when someone took your toy, or when someone pushed you on the playground. No, this was something deeper. Something older. A hatred so pure and aged it had boiled my blood and imbedded itself into my DNA for life.
I had to use both index fingers to pull the trigger.
The noise was deafening. The world seemed to halt, the shot reverberating through the house. Pa crumbled, his grip loosening on my mom, his body collapsing in a lifeless heap onto the floor.
My breath, my heart—it all stopped for a moment. My ears still rung as I dropped the gun. My body slumped to the floor, staring at the crumpled figure of the man who had terrorized us for so long. My mother sat, equally as crumpled next to his body. She just stared at him, not a single sound leaving her.
The police arrived around an hour later, distance and all that. Their flashing lights painted the house with an eerie red and blue glow. They spoke to my mother, who was dazed, her eyes blank, unable to process what had just happened. They spoke to me, too, asking questions I didn't know how to answer. They called it self-defense, said I was justified. But I knew that wasn't true.
I had killed him. And nothing, not the justification, not the police reports—could ever change that.
JULY - 2009
The aftermath of my Pa's death was a strange, hollow silence that hung over everything. Ma became a ghost of herself. The woman who had loved me, who had held me when I was scared, when I was sick, became a quiet, broken shell. She drank to forget, but all it did was make her disappear more. She wasn't cruel or neglectful, but the years of living with my Pa had broken her spirit in a way even his death couldn't fix. She was just... lost.
I took care of her. I had no other choice. I bathed her, dressed her, cooked for her, did everything I could to make sure she was still alive. With every passing day, I saw her slipping further away, her eyes distant, melancholy etched into her smile lines. She still showed me love in her own way. She'd hum appreciatively when I brushed her dark hair, she'd hold my hand tight when I'd kiss her goodnight, but it was never the same. I couldn't stop seeing how I had failed her, how I had become the reason she was like this.
I hated it. I hated how I blamed myself. If I hadn't shot my Pa , if I had just been able to save her without everything falling apart... I couldn't shake the thought that it was all my fault.
By the time I was fourteen, things had only gotten worse. I should've been thinking about school dances, hanging out with friends, or grades. But there were no dances, no friends. There was just survival. My dad's life insurance policy had been helping us get by with the bills, but it ran out. Some legal jargon I couldn't understand, something about premiums or what-not. But we were broke. My Ma couldn't work and I had to step up.
I dropped out of high school to find a job. I wasn't old enough, but it didn't matter. The world had already passed me by, and the only thing left to focus on was survival—paying the bills, keeping the roof over our heads, making sure there was food on the table. I took the GED as fast as I could and somehow passed. I went looking for work and it was always the same bullshit. Sorry, you don't have enough experience. Sorry, you're too young. They didn't see me, not really. Just another desperate face, another invisible person trying to survive in a world that had no more room.
After running into nothing but dead ends, I grabbed Pa's old '85 Yamaha VMAX and made the hour-and-a-half ride to Atlanta. I wasn't supposed to be behind the wheel of anything, let alone a motorcycle—too young, too reckless, too desperate—but I didn't have a choice. The bills were piling up back home, and Mama was too far gone to even notice, let alone help.
So I swallowed the knot of fear in my stomach, swung my leg over the bike, and hit the road. One of the few useful things my sorry excuse for a father ever taught me was how to ride, and for once, I was grateful for it.
The bike's engine rumbled as I pulled into the city, my hands tight on the handlebars as I parked the bike behind a dumpster. I covered the bike with trash from the dumpster, hopefully it was enough to keep it hidden. The feeling of control kept the jitters at bay. I couldn't go back home empty-handed. I had to make money, and fast.
I'd learned to be observant over the years—street smarts, the kind you don't get in school, picked up from stealing from the supermarket and pickpocketing people on the bus. I kept my head down as I wandered Atlanta's gritty streets, sticking to the shadows. But I'd soon learn the shadows were the last place I should've been. I avoided the pimps who tried to recruit me—fat men sizing me up like I was something they could own. But I knew better. I'd learned the dangers of men young, and I wasn't looking for that trouble. I wasn't that desperate. Not yet, anyway.
It didn't take long for me to spot something else— some men on street corners, cash in hand, glancing over their shoulders as they leaned against brick walls. I didn't know exactly what they were selling, but I had a good guess: drugs. I watched them until the sun dipped and the streetlights flickered on, hiding behind some trash cans, trying to figure out how to approach. I knew opportunity when I saw it.
I took a breath and forced myself forward, each step heavier than the last, my chest tight with the pounding of my heart. I told myself the same thing over and over: The quicker I did this, the quicker it'd be over, and I could go home. When I finally reached them, my voice came out steadier than I'd expected, cutting through the night like I belonged there.
"Can I sell with y'all?"
They stared at me like I'd lost my mind. One of them snorted, a sharp burst of laughter breaking the silence, but I didn't flinch. I stood my ground, shoulders squared, my gaze steady and unblinking. The moment stretched out, my heart pounding in my ears, until their amusement faded and realization set in. I wasn't joking.
After a few seconds, the one who'd been laughing stopped and looked me up and down. "You serious, kid?" he asked, his tone skeptical but curious.
"Yeah," I said, my voice steady. "I can sell. You gi'me the product, 'n I'll sell it."
They exchanged glances, skepticism etched in their faces. One of them narrowed his eyes, leaning in slightly. "You a cop?" The question hung in the air, sharp and pointed. I shook my head, keeping my expression steady. Maybe it was the look in my eyes, or maybe they just appreciated that I didn't flinch. Either way, their doubt began to waver.
One of them finally reached into his jacket, pulling out a few small bags of what looked like weed and pills. He pressed them into my hand, the plastic crinkling against my palm. The weight felt heavier than I'd expected, like it carried more than just product—like it came with expectations, risks, and consequences I couldn't yet see. "A'ight," he said, jerking his chin toward the street. "Go sell it, then. Let's see what you got."
I didn't hesitate. I walked off, my steps quick and deliberate, hitting the pavement with purpose. Truth was, I didn't know the first thing about selling drugs, but I knew people. I'd learned to size up a situation in seconds—how to make someone feel at ease, how to convince them they were getting a good deal when they weren't.
After my dad was gone, I haggled with vendors, pleading for lower prices on vegetables or fruits—or flat out stealing it if I had to. If you didn't know how to play the game, you didn't survive. Maybe that was the lesson my dad had been trying to teach me.
I found buyers easily, hustling from one corner of the city to another. My heart pounded, but I kept my face calm, my voice steady, making people feel like they were getting something special.
Still, unease gnawed at me with every sale. This wasn't who I thought I'd be, but I couldn't dwell on it. All I could think about was getting home to Mama, keeping the lights on, and holding everything together. Whatever fear I felt didn't matter—not compared to what was at stake.
I sold to the pimps who'd tried to recruit me earlier, knowing they were good for the money. I handed over the product with a forced smile and pocketed their cash like it was nothing. It felt like a game I didn't fully understand—but I assumed I was winning.
An hour later, I returned with cash in hand and no product left to sell. The rush was still pulsing through me as handed the money over to the men, hoping the cut I'd get would at least cover the water bill. They stared at me, wide-eyed, as if they couldn't believe I'd pulled it off.
One of them cursed under his breath as he counted the cash. "Holy shit," he muttered. "She's good."
I could see the respect in their eyes, and just like that, they decided I was worth something. Without another word, they grabbed my arms and led me to their boss. I didn't try to fight them, but I didn't want to get too involved in this shit.
After what felt like an eternity being dragged through the city, we finally reached some non-descript building. A sharp double knock on a metal door, and it creaked open, letting us inside. I was immediately stunned by the lavish interior—something straight out of a movie, or so I thought.
As we moved deeper into the building, I could feel the shift. The men who had brought me here—rough around the edges, always sizing people up—were still leading the way, but it was clear they weren't the ones in charge. Foot soldiers, workhorses. The men inside the building, with their sharp suits and cold eyes, had a different kind of presence. They moved with purpose, their steps deliberate and calculated. They were all so... Tall. The workhorses, by contrast, looked awfully simple. I couldn't imagine what I looked like compared to them all. A plain flannel and jeans on my body, barely scraping 5 feet on top of that.
It was obvious now—the street guys weren't in control. They were just runners, doing the dirty work for someone bigger, someone more dangerous. The men in this building weren't hustlers. They were businessmen, and I could feel it deep in my gut: the real power, the real influence, sat with them. The way they carried themselves—it wasn't about quick deals on street corners. It was about long-term strategy, about empire-building. And I was apparently about to meet the man at the top.
We stopped at the end of the hall, in front of a plain wooden door. One of the men knocked twice, and moments later, the door was opened from inside. Inside, the room was nearly pitch black, lit only by a single desk lamp casting a weak, uneven glow. The only other source of light was the glowing tip of a cigarette, hovering in the darkness, the smoke curling upward like a snake.
As we stepped inside, the door clicked shut and my eyes fought to adjust to the darkness. The man behind the desk leaned forward, shifting into the pale light of the lamp. The sudden shift revealed his cold eyes, calculating, the kind that seemed to strip you bare. I could see two guards standing silently at the sides of the desk, their eyes locked on us, watching every move. The dim light barely touched the sharp edges of his face, but enough to make it clear—he was the one pulling the strings here.
He didn't even glance at the men who'd brought me in. Instead, he took a long drag from the cigarette dangling lazily between his fingers, exhaling the smoke slowly, deliberately. The cloud curled in the dim light, thick and suffocating, filling the space with a stifling presence. For a moment, I thought the smoke might choke me, but I forced myself to breathe through it, to ignore the burning in my throat. I can't be weak. I thought. Weakness would cost me everything.
One of my escorts stepped forward, handing over the cash I made to one of the guards. "She made this off a few eighths and some pills," he said, his tone flat, not bothering to conceal his surprise. The guard took the stack of cash, examined it carefully, and counted it with deliberate precision. Then, leaning down, he whispered a number to the boss. The boss didn't respond immediately. Instead, he leaned back in his chair, his eyes flicking between the cash and me, narrowing as he took me in.
"Hm," he hummed, the sound devoid of emotion. "You have got guts. I will give you that."
I didn't reply. My heart hammered in my chest, each beat a reminder of how out of my depth I was. I had no clue what was happening, but everything about this man—this weird Russian mob boss sitting before me—screamed danger. His gaze was sharp, calculating, as if he were weighing me, deciding whether or not I was worth his time. The power he exuded, the control he commanded—it hung thick in the air, suffocating, and I knew instinctively that disappointing him was not an option.
"What is your age, Little Bird?" he asked, his Russian accent thick and foreign on my ears.
He took another drag from his cigarette, the smoke curling around him like a cloud of indifference as his eyes never left me.
"'M fourteen." I picked at the skin of my fingers behind my back.
"Tell me your name," he said, his tone as bitter as the smell of tobacco.
The more he asked, the deeper the pit in my stomach grew. I hadn't expected to end up on the radar of some ritzy Russian mobster. My throat tightened, panic rising as I struggled to swallow. All I wanted was some quick cash and to get the fuck home.
"Beatrice," I said, the name feeling strange in the heavy silence, like it didn't belong here. My accent sounded out of place in this room, as if I didn't belong at all. He looked at me, his gaze piercing, studying me, sizing me up. For a moment, I could feel my pulse in my ears. I didn't know if I was being judged or evaluated. I couldn't tell. But I had a sinking feeling that this man—this ruthless man—had already decided what he wanted from me.
"Beatrice." He repeated my name, letting it roll off his tongue, his accent twisting it into something almost mocking. "You have got... potential, Bird." His smile was thin, predatory. "Why are you here? Money?"
I swallowed, fighting the urge to fidget under his gaze. The smoke still hung thick in the air, and the weight of his stare felt like it was pressing against my chest, making it hard to breathe.
"Money," I said, my voice steady, though my pulse hammered in my throat. "What else is there?"
The street men were then dismissed with a curt nod, they shuffled out quickly, their eyes lingering on me for a moment before the door closed behind them. The room felt smaller without them, the weight of the boss's gaze intensifying.
"Sit," he commanded, his voice firm as he gestured to the chair in front of his desk.
I sat, not wanting to refuse him, not wanting to give him any reason to see me as anything other than compliant. I folded my hands in my lap, trying to keep my body still, but my nerves were running wild under the surface.
He leaned back in his chair, the dim light from the lamp casting shadows on his sharp features. He took another drag of his cigarette and blew out the smoke slowly, his eyes never leaving me. "You want money. Why?"
I swallowed, trying to gather my thoughts. "My Ma... she's sick. I have t'take care of 'er."
His eyes narrowed slightly, as if he were sizing me up. "Tell me more," he said, the words almost like a command.
I hesitated, unsure of how much to say. I wasn't used to talking about my mom, not like this. But the pressure to explain, to justify my desperation, pressed against me, and the words spilled out before I could stop them.
"She's... she's been strugglin' for a while. She don't work... So, I'm the one who keeps the bills paid, who makes sure there's food in the house." I shifted in my seat, trying to keep my voice steady. "I'm doin' everythin' I can to make sure she's okay."
He didn't react to my words. He didn't seem to care, really. But there was something in the way he was looking at me, like he knew there was more. His eyes flickered from mine to my hands balled in my lap.
"You are still hiding something," he pressed, his voice laced with an edge that made my skin prickle. "Tell me now. I don't deal in dishonesty."
I felt the walls closing in. I wanted to keep my mouth shut, wanted to pretend that there was nothing else. But I couldn't. His gaze held me, like he knew what I was trying to bury.
"My Pa," I began, my voice barely a whisper. "He was always drunk, always violent. He'd get worse every time he came home. It wasn't just the beatin's. It was everythin'. I never knew if it was gon' be worse one day or the next, but I thought it was just gon' go on forever, like he was always gon' be there, hurtin' her—hurtin' us." I paused, swallowing hard, my chest tightening as the memories flooded back.
I forced myself to look at him, my hands trembling. I wasn't sure what I expected him to say, but I wasn't prepared for the look in his eyes—appreciation, even amusement. As if this was something he could work with.
One of his lips was curled into a thin smirk. He wasn't disgusted, didn't seem surprised. If anything, it was like he'd found something he liked.
"You killed him?" His voice was smooth, and the question came out like an invitation, like he wanted me to say more.
I nodded slowly, not trusting myself to speak.
"I didn't wanna," I said, my voice strained, a stray tear sliding down the apple of my cheek. "But he wouldn't stop. He was hurtin' her. Everyday. I couldn't let 'em do it anymore. So I—" I swallowed, the phantom feeling of the gun's recoil causing my wrist to ache. "I had to stop 'em."
He didn't flinch, didn't grimace at the confession. His smile only deepened, a glint of admiration in his eyes.
"Good," he said simply, as if I had told him something he'd been waiting to hear. "You did what needed to be done." There was a pause, a dangerous calm settling in the room, and then he leaned forward, his voice dropping lower. "You have got fire. But fire... fire must be controlled. You will be scorched if you do not."
"You want to make it out? You have got the guts. That is more than most. But if you want to keep your head above water... you will need control. Of yourself."
I felt the weight of his words, but I wasn't sure what he was offering. My heart raced in my chest, adrenaline pulsing as I stared at him, waiting for him to spell it out.
He didn't disappoint.
"I will make you an offer. Something no one else will. You can work for me, but not just any job. You will work with the big players. Sell to people who matter." His gaze never wavered, and his lips twisted into something that wasn't quite a smile. "You will have enough money. But you must always play by my rules."
My mind raced as I contemplated his offer. I thought of my mom. I thought of everything I had done to keep her safe, to hold everything together. I didn't have a choice. I had to take this offer, no matter what it meant.
But I needed to hear it from him.
"What's your name?" I asked, my voice barely above a whisper as I met his eyes.
"Ivankov," His accent twisted the syllables, smooth and cold as he rose from his seat towering over me. He smirked, the slightest hint of approval flickering across his face as he extended his hand to me.
Without hesitation, I extended my hand, my palms sweaty but determined. He met my hand with his, his grip firm, unyielding. I felt a shiver run through me as his fingers closed around mine.
The deal was done.
Ivankov stood up from his chair, his gaze sharp and unblinking as he gestured toward the door. "Come with me." His voice was quiet, but there was an edge to it, something that made my feet move before I even thought about it.
I followed him through the halls of the building, my every step echoing off the cold marble floors. We stopped in front of a room near the end of a hallway. Ivankov knocked twice, and the door opened with a groan. Inside was a small, concrete, dimly lit room. At the center of it was a man—bound, bloodied, and beaten beyond recognition. He was slumped in a chair, his face swollen and bruised, naked and shivering. They had skinned parts of his limbs. I felt like I could smell the rot in the air as I met his wide eyes.
"He is a rat," Ivankov said flatly, his voice almost bored, as if this was something he saw every day. He probably did. He stepped beside me and the door clicked shut behind us.
The man's eyes darted to me, and all that came out was a shrill cry. "Please! I didn't tell anyone! I swear! I'm not a rat! You've got it all wrong, please!" His voice broke, frantic.
Ivankov didn't flinch. He walked around the man, inspecting him like an animal to be slaughtered. "This man has been leaking information," he said, his voice low and cold. "He's betrayed me. And I want him gone." He turned toward me, his eyes calculating. "You've proven yourself capable. You can finish this."
He reached into the back of his waist band and handed me his gun. "You killed your Pa, right? You can kill him too. It should be easy."
The way he said 'Pa' made my stomach churn. I looked at the man, trembling in the chair. Was this just like my father? My hand shook as I held the gun. The man's eyes pleaded with me, I tried my hardest to read him. But as the tears soaked his face, I couldn't help but wonder if he was lying. What if he actually snitched?
"Shoot him." Ivankov's voice was sharp in my ear, commanding, as if he was waiting for me to prove myself. "If you hesitate now, you lose everything. You go back to your mother with nothing. Is that what you want?"
I could see my mother's face in my mind, her weak, broken body, her terrified eyes whenever he would come home drunk. The gun in my hand suddenly felt colder. The decision I was making felt heavier.
I couldn't go back. I couldn't fail.
With a trembling breath, I raised the gun, my finger hovering over the trigger. I heard the man sobbing, begging, screeching, pleading, howling for his life, but I couldn't stop. My chest was tight, and I could feel my pulse in my ears.
The shot rang out, louder than I expected, and the man slumped forward, gone, in an instant.
Ivankov watched the scene with a strange satisfaction, his lips curling into a thin smile. "Good," he said, his tone smooth and approving.
I didn't feel anything. The gun slipped from my hand, clattering against the floor as I stood frozen. The room tilted, spinning, but I couldn't stop it.
It was like I had crossed some invisible line, one I'd been afraid of my whole life. I'd failed back then, couldn't bring myself to shoot the rabbit. I was scared, too weak. But now... Now it didn't matter. The thing I couldn't do as a child had been done, just not in the way I thought. It wasn't a rabbit, but a man. And I wasn't sure if that made it better or worse. All I knew was that I'd stepped over the line, and I doubt I could step back now.
OCT 9 - 2012
For the past three years, I've found myself stuck in a life I never imagined for myself—one forged by necessity, not choice. The weight of it presses down on me daily, and the monotony is suffocating. I've been turning the idea over and over in my mind for days now, and I know it's time. I can't keep doing this. I can't keep living this way. Each day, I sell to some big wigs that think Cocaine and LSD are their own ethereal beings. Each night, I sit in those dimly lit rooms, counting money, stacking it neatly, but all I can feel is its weight—not just the cash, but the responsibility, the fear that comes with it. It's like being trapped in a web, and the harder I struggle, the more tangled I get. There has to be a way out.
I've been thinking about it for a while, but now, more than ever, it's clear. I'm done. I turned seventeen a while back, past old enough to get a decent, minimum wage job. Sometimes I wonder why I never tried. Maybe it's fear—fear of leaving behind what I know, even though it's grimy, dangerous, and it's slowly juicing the life out of me.
The bills and the food are all covered for the house. Ma can handle the basics, but I'm not around enough to make sure she's really okay. And that gnaws at me, too. She can handle the basics but that's not enough for her. After everything, she deserves more than to see me only two, three times a week.
I don't know what Ivankov will say. I don't know if he'll laugh it off or get angry, but I can't go on like this. The very thought of this life, of being stuck in this world indefinitely...
So tomorrow, I'll talk to him. I'll tell him I'm done.
OCT 10 - 2012
My boots thump against the floor as I walk toward Ivankov's office, my heart pounding in my chest in rhythm with my boots. With a swift knock, the door creaks open, and Ivankov looks up from his desk, one eyebrow quirked as if he's waiting for me to say something. His face is unreadable, but there's a glint of curiosity in his eyes.
"Ivankov," I say, my voice steadier than I feel. "I need t'talk to you."
He gestures lazily to the chair across from him, a casual smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "Sit, Bird." he says, using his annoying nickname for me like it's just another day, like we're having another ordinary conversation.
I sit, but I can't shake the tension in my muscles. I swallow hard, my mouth dry, but I push forward and force a brief, cordial smile.
"I'm done," I say, my voice firm, though inside I'm anything but. "I want out."
He stares and then he laughs, a deep, rolling sound that fills the room. The noise cuts through the thick silence like a knife.
"You are joking, right?" He leans back in his chair, still laughing, shaking his head as if I've just told him the world's dumbest joke. "You want to leave? After everything you have built here? After everything you have done for me? You are a funny one, Little Bird. "
I shake my head, trying to steady myself. "Ain't no joke, Sir. I'm done. I can't do it anymore."
The laughter dies. Ivankov's eyes turn cold, calculating. The smile falls from his face like a mask slipping off, and for the first time, I see the darkness in him fully. The air grows thick, and my heart skips a beat.
He stands, slow and deliberate, his chair scraping against the floor. He steps around his desk, towering over me, his presence so overpowering it makes the room feel smaller.
"Do you have any idea what you are asking for?" he spits, his voice low and dangerous. "Do you think you can just walk away? Do you think I will let you?"
My pulse races, and I take a breath, my voice is steady. "Been thinkin' 'bout it for a long time. I can't live like this anymore. I-I'm done."
He's fully rounded his desk, his hand gripping the edge of the desk as if holding himself back. I can see the anger swirling behind his eyes. If looks could kill, I'd be as dead as Pa.
In that instant, he grabs the fat of my cheeks tight in his grip, pulling me to my feet with a force that makes my neck burn. "You think you can just leave? You took a life to be here. You cannot undo that."
I stare up at him with wide eyes, fear clawing at my insides, "I don't want t'be a part of this anymore," I say, my words muffled from his grip.
Ivankov's grip tightens for a second, his face millimeters away as he searches my eyes for what feels like eternity. Then he releases me with a slow exhale. His face softens, and for a moment, I'm not sure what's coming next.
"You want out?" He says, his voice far too calm now. "Fine. You can go."
I blink, not sure if I heard him right. "What?"
His expression remains cold, but something darker flickers in his eyes. "You can leave," he says, almost too calmly. "Go home, that is your choice, yes?"
He leans back, tapping a finger idly on the desk. "But remember, Little Bird, some doors, once opened, are never truly closed."
His words hang in the air, unsettling, like the quiet before a storm. The faintest smirk pulls at the corner of his mouth, but it's not amusement—it's a warning. I stare at him for a long moment, trying to read his face, but it's impossible. Finally, I nod, a mix of relief and disbelief flooding through me.
"Thank you," I say quietly, my voice tinged with gratitude, but I know it's not the end. It can't be. But it's a start.
Ivankov doesn't answer. He just watches me with that cold, calculating look in his eyes, like he's already moved past me, already thinking about something else. But I know the deal is done.
Soon enough, the door to Ivankov's office clicked shut behind me. My chest was tight, my legs unsteady, but I forced myself to walk. Step by step, I made my way through the halls of the building I had fatefully walked into some three years ago, the walls that had swallowed me whole and reshaped my life. I didn't look back.
The night air hit me like a slap when I stepped outside. It was cold and sharp, a stark contrast to the suffocating heaviness of that office. I still used Pa's old Yamaha—I named her Cindy—She was parked right where I'd left her just a few minutes ago. She was a relic of the life I was desperate to return to. I slung my leg around the bike's seat, feeling grip of the handle bars as I put the key in and revved the bike.
The engine roared to life, loud and unapologetic, as I pulled away from the building. As the distance grew, so did my breaths. The tension in my chest started to loosen, little by little, replaced by something I hadn't felt in a long time: hope.
I didn't drive far. Just a few miles down the road, I pulled into the lot of a cheap, nondescript motel. The neon sign buzzed and flickered overhead as I handed over a few bills for a room key. It wasn't much, but it was enough for tonight—a place to hole up, to think, to breathe.
The room smelled faintly of mildew and stale cigarettes, but I didn't care. I locked the door behind me and collapsed onto the squeaky bed, staring up at the ceiling. For the first time in years, I felt the smallest semblance of lightness.
I thought of Ma, of how her face would look when I told her I'd be home more. The thought was enough to bring a smile to my face, small but genuine. She wouldn't have to manage everything on her own anymore. I'd be there to cook dinner, to clean the house, to sit with her and make sure she was okay.
I couldn't wait to tell her. To see her face light up when I'd tell her, "I'm staying."
My mind wandered back to Ivankov's words, the weight of his presence still lingering like a shadow. The unease was there, buried beneath my excitement, but I pushed it aside. I couldn't let it take this moment from me. Not yet.
Tomorrow, I'd start over. But tonight, I allowed myself to dream of what starting over might feel like. For the first time in years, the future didn't seem dim.
OCT 11 - 2012
The sunlight burned through the cheap motel curtains, dragging me awake. I blinked, groggy, the light too sharp for how little I'd slept. My BlackBerry buzzed on the nightstand. 10:03 a.m.
Today was it. Today was the day.
I swung my legs over the side of the bed, a dull ache in my back from the lumpy mattress. Today was the day. I was going home. A flicker of excitement lit in my chest, growing as I hurried to get dressed. Pulling on my jeans and jacket, I couldn't stop the small smile from spreading across my face. It was the happiest I'd felt in years.
The drive was just over an hour, but it felt like the minutes crawled by. The bike hummed beneath me as I wound through familiar roads, the wind flowing through my hair as each mile brought me closer to the house I hadn't truly called home in years.
When I finally turned onto the dirt path leading to the house, my excitement hit its peak. My heart raced as I imagined Ma's face when I told her the news, when I told her I was coming back for good.
I clenched hard on the brakes, the bike skidding to a messy stop in the dirt. My hands gripped the breaks so tight my knuckles turned white within seconds.
The front door was wide open, hanging off its hinges, creaking slightly in the breeze like a goddamn warning.
"No," I whispered. My stomach twisted, my skin cold and clammy. "No, no, no."
I flung myself off of the bike, not caring if it smacked the ground. Gravel sliced under my boots as I sprinted toward the house, skipping the steps on the porch and launching myself to the door.
"Ma?!" I screamed, my voice cracking.
The second I stepped inside, the smell hit me—rotting wood, smoke, and something sour that made me gag. Everything was destroyed. The couch was flipped, cushions gutted. Glass crunched underfoot. The floorboards were ripped up, jagged splinters sticking out like broken teeth. Cabinet doors hung open, contents spilled and shattered.
"Ma!" I screamed again, louder this time, desperation making my throat raw.
I ran through the house, my heart hammering so hard it felt like it might burst. Each room was worse than the last, the destruction almost methodical, like someone had wanted to erase every inch of this place. But she wasn't in any of them.
Then I saw her door.
Closed. Untouched.
My stomach lurched. My legs felt like lead, but I forced myself forward. My fingers shook as I gripped the knob, sweat slicking my palm. I pushed the door open, slow, like the room might explode if I moved too fast.
The air inside was heavy, suffocating. Her room was clean, pristine compared to the rest of the house.
She lay on the bed, her back to the door, her figure bathed in the soft glow of morning light streaming through the window. The sun caught her dark auburn hair, setting it aglow in a way that reminded me of my own. She was unnervingly still. I could see specks of dust dancing in the sun beams, as if the air had been disturbed only moments before.
"Ma," I whispered, the word barely audible. My chest tightened, breath shallow and quick. "Ma?"
I stepped closer, my hands trembling so badly I had to ball them into fists. I reached out, my fingers brushing her shoulder. It was stiff. Cold.
"No."
I turned her over.
Her face was pale, eyes glassy and fixed on the ceiling. Blood caked the single gunshot wound in her forehead, the edges blackened. Her shirt was ripped open but still pooled around her shoulders, her skin exposed so erotically it made bile rise in my throat.
And then I saw it.
You can't escape this.
The words were carved into her stomach, from her sternum to her lower abdomen, jagged and raw, like whoever had done it didn't care about anything except making them hurt. Each letter oozed with coagulated blood, deep enough to see her innards, the edges of the gashes still angry and red.
My legs buckled, and I hit the floor next to her, gasping and gagging for air that wouldn't come. My hands covered my face, but I couldn't block it out. The image was seared into me, burned into my brain like a brand.
I couldn't scream, I couldn't shout. I could feel my entire body just break.
She would never move again.
I clawed at the floor, my nails splintering and cracking in half, but the pain barely registered over the suffocating grief and rage.
It's like a lightning strike to the soul. It doesn't just hit—it consumes, electrifies every nerve, leaving you raw and trembling as if your entire body is being ripped apart from the inside. It's a jarring, all-encompassing wave of pain that doesn't stop at the surface. It rushes through your veins, floods your lungs, and leaves you gasping for air you can't seem to find. It's not just the breaking—it's the moment before, when you feel everything at once: the shock, the disbelief, the unbearable weight that crushes down before the full force of the storm hits. It is devastation in its purest, most visceral form.
I'd thought I could leave, thought I could walk away from all of it—the deals, the danger, the blood. But I couldn't, and now I was entirely alone.
Ivankov would regret the day he dared to cross me. I didn't care how long it took or what it cost—I'd find him. And when I did, he'd wish for the sweet release of death, a mercy I'd never grant.
This wasn't over—not until I had him kneeling, drowning in the fire he saw in me.
Pa had tried to tell me. I didn't get it back then, but I did now.
Weakness will cost you everything.