Most of them had no clue of the wealth they sat on. They bought their designer pieces because it was something to brag about over mimosas on Sunday brunch. And I exploited their ignorance for my gain.
I stole anything of wealth which helped me survive on my own. I sold it. Traded it. Used it for bribes. I could have bribed the guards at the state hospital they had my mom at. But I was able to easily sneak into there to see her in the dead of night.
She was a medicated zombie—drooling, tied to a bed, and staring vacantly into the darkness. I always wondered what she saw.
No one was looking for me. I was just another delinquent kid who fell through the cracks of the system, and that is why when I knew the boys were safe, I blew off Saint Paul’s and went back home—my home—and made sure it was ready for when my mom came back.
I visited her every fucking night. I talked to her. I begged her to snap the fuck out of it and come home. At first, she didn’t look at me; she looked through me. I thought she was lost to me. I brought photos of us, hoping to spark some sort of memory or recognition in her.
It didn’t.
I then brought her favorite things—jewelry, perfumes, anything that made her June.
Nothing worked.
But I should have known the only thing which could drag her back from the depths of hell was the devil himself—the fucker who held her captive in the abyss from the very beginning.
My father.
My mother used to watch all the old movies—over and over—Marilyn Monroe, James Dean, and Marlon Brando. These were some of her favorites. And I have fond memories of watching these movies with her as it was the only time she appeared happy.
I thought that was because she was a movie enthusiast, but the truth was, my father loved these movies. He even took her to see one at the cinemas—just one, of course, because the bastard was too busy doing anything but the right thing.
So I knew the only way to get my mom back was to remind her what she was missing by being locked away. It wasn’t being a mom to her eleven-year-old kid or even facing her demons for herself.
The only thing which gave her strength to go on was my father—the asshole who abandoned us. She persevered for him, in hopes that one day, he would come back to her. But if it meant she returned to me, I didn’t care.
I downloaded the movies she loved onto a laptop I stole and watched them with her night after night. And piece by piece, she came back to me. Through the memories of my father, June returned.
And no matter how much I hate that fucker, I have a bittersweet relationship with those movies.
But I won’t end up like June. I will fight with my last dying breath to better my life and hers.
“I’m tired.”
Lifting her frail frame into my arms, I walk her into the bedroom and gently place her on the bed. She is wet from the shower, but she doesn’t seem to mind as I pull the blankets over her.
She’s asleep in minutes.
There is a knock on the front door, so I leave my mom sleeping peacefully and answer the door quietly.
It’s Nonna.
Her name is Julia, but she insists everyone calls her Nonna.
I think it’s because she wishes she was one, but she doesn’t have any family of her own. It’s just her and her ten cats.
I run my fingers through my wet hair, not explaining why I’m soaked. “Hey, Nonna. What’s up?”
Her short gray hair is dyed violet. “I just wanted to check on your mom,” she says, peering over my shoulder into the house. “I came by earlier, but she didn’t answer.”
Nonna is our next-door neighbor, and if it wasn’t for her, ringing me countless times to let me know my mom wasn’t answering the door or her calls, June would be dead. I owe Nonna everything, which is why I look after her.
I buy her groceries. And I make sure her cats get the organic cat food she insists they like. The money I make from stealing, I give to her to help pay her bills—even though she never wants to take it.
I do what I can to help because the truth is, she’s helping me just as much as I’m helping her. I know one day, I will need to call on her. One day, when I can’t be here, Nonna will be the only person who can be.
She knows where I keep my hidden stash. And I’ve told her, if anything were to happen to me, she is to take the money and look after my mom.
I don’t have anyone else.
An eighty-year-old woman is my saving grace.
“She’s all right,” I reply, not wanting to worry her. “She’s sleeping it off.”
Nonna purses her lips. “I’ll bring over a tuna casserole.”
There’s no point in arguing or reminding her that I fucking hate tuna because Nonna is a part of my fucked-up, dysfunctional family—and I wouldn’t have it any other way.
I decide to cut through the forest on my way home from school. I’ve always felt safe feeling lost and surrounded by trees. When I was little, maybe five years old, I strayed from a camping site where my parents and I were staying for the holidays. I remember wandering into the thick trees and turning to watch their campfire get smaller and smaller in the distance.
Eventually, I turned to see blackness. Only the sky split into pieces through the trees lit my way, and I felt nurtured by being taken by the woods. Looking back now, I realize this wasn’t a regular response because most kids would probably be screaming.
But I never felt more alive.
I was gone for eight hours as search parties looked for me, but it felt like only minutes as I was hypnotized by the sticks and creatures that crawled around my tiny steps.
So now, I find myself in familiar territory, walking through the woods. It’s very cold and wet with a soft mist circling my movements. My breath is frosted in the air, and the only sounds are the steps I take and the birds crying out above, enjoying the sprinkle of rain.
I feel I’m in heaven until the serenity is broken by some laughter echoing in the distance and the sound of glass breaking. It pisses me off to think someone is destroying this beautiful place.
I head toward the sound and see some broken-down furniture arranged in a circle and a dirty space cleared in the center. A weak fire has been lit but is struggling to roar under the spits of rain.
Boys are goofing around under some kind of influence. I can see Foss, the dumb surfer with curly long hair from school who doesn’t stop laughing all the time. Happy idiot. The big one, I don’t know his name, but I heard them call him Buckets. I think they use him to mow down players on the football field. And lastly Blake, who is just sitting like a corpse on one of the chairs, looking like a fashion model in his blazer and slick black hair to match his black eyes.
I don’t know about him. He doesn’t fit the footballer mold, but I’m guessing he’s athletic and perhaps strategic.
He’s watching the fire while ignoring the other two.
I’m at quite a distance so as not to be seen. I begin to back away to conceal myself further behind a large tree trunk when my body hits some kind of wall.
“Little girls should never walk alone in the forest.”
It’s Carson, and the wall I hit is his big, muscled chest. I spin around to face him, and those icy-blue eyes leave me dumbfounded. His thick shock of blond hair falling down over his face is pure sex, if I’m honest.
“Darcie.” He’s amused by my stunned face as he stares down at me.