by Tiana Laveen
“She’d be clean for a while, but then when she’d get back with my dad, the shit would start all over again. It was like he couldn’t stand her being sober. I think it was because then he knew she’d leave him for good. She’d be thinking clearly, see what a fucking poisonous, rotten, fucked up loser he was. He’d tell her she was tryna take his son away from him, talkin’ about me, shit like that. One night, everything came to a head.
“My mother had gotten a job at some store, and she was making enough money to save up a bit, I guess. My father was all for the job at first, until he found out she was squirreling some of her paycheck money away in an account he didn’t know about. Then he found some papers – I guess she was looking at houses to rent and had daycare sheets to fill out for me, as well as moving expenses scribbled down in some notebook. She was planning to leave, finally. Start a new life. She was sober again, according to my grandmother, clean for about a year, so things were good.” He ran his hands along his pants, his eyes blank, empty. “My father got high this particular night. He flew into a fuckin’ rage, grabbed a gun, and popped her in the head five times, right in front of my fucking face.”
“Oh my God…” She gasped and covered her mouth.
“Do you know what it’s like to have your mother’s blood splatter all over you, JJ?” She blinked back tears and shook her head. “To feel and see bits of brain hit the walls and your body sprayed like it’s from a water gun? And as she’s falling to the floor, she looks at you, right… She is looking… dead… at… you. She hits the floor and her head bounces against it a couple of times, like in slow motion. She’s probably dead after the first shot, but she still looks alive, like she’s going to talk at any second. But she just lies there, her eyes glued to you… dead ocean blue eyes, a tear rollin’ out of ’em. You can see her crying, and your reflection in her eyes…
“And your little self is standing there, your little seven-year-old self, screamin’ and crying, pissing down your leg. You were shrieking, ‘Daddy, no!’ You run over to your mother, and you shake her, and you just know she’s going to wake up and say she’s okay… but, she doesn’t, and then, before you know it, your father is calling the police, real calm like, telling them he killed his wife. He hangs up, and puts the gun in his mouth… right in front of you. Because see, him shooting your mommy wasn’t enough. So, he pulls the trigger… but it jams. He falls to the floor, sobbing, and then you hear the police sirens and the ambulance… and… you’re officially fucked up from that day forward. You’re no longer Hunter; you’re Tyrant. Yeah… you’re officially out of your fuckin’ mind. If it wasn’t the neglect and abuse that got you, it was this right here… And then you end up with your grandparents, and they are showing you love, but you don’t know how to take that, so you’re out here runnin’ the streets.
“You get sent to a million therapists. They all have different diagnoses, and all of them are wrong. ‘Oh, he’s a sociopath…’, ‘No, he just has ADHD….’ ‘Oh, he’s got a high I.Q. but anti-social disorder…’, ‘Oh no, he’s bipolar…’ Nope. Then you go to the top dog, a big wig in adolescent physiological help, world renowned. Your grandparents shell out a lot of money, fly you there to California in desperation, and finally, this guy gets it. He understands you down to your core. He spends a few days with you, and he tells the truth after a battery of tests, conversations, and observations.
“He says, ‘This kid has acute post-traumatic stress disorder. He has narcissistic tendencies, too, but, he was not like that before his mother was murdered, and he still remembers how good it felt to see her smile at a picture he drew and had brought home from school, and how nice she was to him, and how she kept most of her promises… despite being addicted to crack cocaine, meth and pills. He still remembers love, but he doesn’t know how to trust anyone anymore, or how to get that back. The two people in his life, the ones that gave him life, pretty much died in front of him, in one way or another. So see, Nita, the trauma continues. You grow into a man, and the police don’t give a fuck about why you do what you do, think like you think. The judge doesn’t, either. So you go to prison, over and over, because you still want to love, but you don’t remember how to receive it. The woman who taught me that died way too soon. I can’t ask her to help me remember. She’s gone… She’s gone forever. Now Noah will be going, too. Everyone I tell I love, dies. I stopped saying it. I had to.”
Hunter’s foot was tapping hard against the floor like a damn jack rabbit. His forehead was wrinkled and his nostrils flared. He looked tense, agitated beyond belief. Maybe his mind wasn’t even there, with her. Then, just like that, he stood and walked towards the stairway.
“I’m going up to lie down. I know you still don’t want me spending the night, so I’ll set my alarm so I can get up and leave in a few hours.”
“Spend the night.” She stood up too, holding herself, trying to not fall apart. “I want you to stay… please.”
Holding onto the railing, he gave a slight nod, then headed up the steps. She jumped when she heard her bedroom door slam. Every day that week, Hunter had stopped by, fixing things around her home, laughing with the girls and telling stories about his adventures with Noah. She knew he was smiling too damn much, laughing too hard, working and busying himself to try and forget. But there was no forgetting such a thing, and Noah’s illness seemed to bring it all to the surface for him. It opened a box he had sealed for a long, long time…
Taking a deep breath, she climbed the steps and entered her bedroom. It was pitch black. She went to the master suite bathroom, turned on the light, and left the door open just a hair. Just enough so she could see him lying on the bed, naked. His eyes were open, his arms behind his head. She slowly removed her clothing, one piece at a time, and crawled into bed with him. Kissing his face, she felt the tightened muscles. He pulsed with rage that was decades old… She drifted low, then lower, reaching for his dick. She held the thick and long muscle with two hands, guiding it into her mouth.
Hunter’s love language was action. He told you how he felt about you through his actions… Fixing things. Making people laugh. Fucking. He remained quiet as she gave head with passion, wanting to make her man feel better, take a little of his pain away. Even if only for one night. He moaned ever so lightly, then held her head, feeding more of himself to her. She sucked slow and easy, running her hands up and down the shaft. When she let go, she moved his cock up and licked his balls, then kissed them. He groaned, his deep voice rumbling in the room.
Releasing him, she leaned over to get one of his condoms from her nightstand drawer. Sheathing his erection, she mounted him and guided him inside her. He grasped her hips as she moved, and she rested her hands along his hard chest, riding his big dick, crying on the inside on his behalf…
He moved faster, held her tighter, his upward thrusts demanding. She shuddered when he locked his hands around her waist and forced her to increase the tempo and making her hold on for dear life. He massaged her breasts, kissed them, then stroked her pussy as he stared so deeply into her soul. An orgasm gripped her and she cried out, shaking uncontrollably. His groans guttural, dipped in pain, his body seized, and he came in fast spurts. She could feel the warmth of his urgent release inside her pussy, the condom filling to the brink. When she rested her head against his chest, his heart beat fast, like wild, racing horses. Both of them lay panting, vulnerable, aware and awake.
Reaching for his hands, she intertwined their fingers. He squeezed, and squeezed again. She took his lead and quieted down, like him. There was no need for words, only the silence of their tiptoeing souls. He fell back onto the bed, taking her with him. Wrapping his arms around her, he pressed her head to his chest and she lay between his legs, while he kissed her shoulders until she felt him go still.
“Sleep…” she whispered, rising from the bed.
She carefully removed the condom from his semi-erect dick, tossed it away, then freshened up in her bathroom. When she returned, the sheets were raised to right b
elow his navel and he was lightly snoring. She slid on a silky black nightgown and crawled in the bed beside him. Minutes passed, and just as she too was feeling tired, seduced by slumber, he rolled over on his side towards her and spooned her. She felt so safe in his big arms, as if she were with a man who had walked through fire and not only survived, but was determined to prove to everyone that he controlled the flame…
CHAPTER TWELVE
At the End of the Day…
Hunter squinted up at the sun, sweat dripping down his face. It was cold outside, but he’d been moving around so much, he felt practically on fire.
“Just set the roof blades over there,” he directed the man who was bundled up tight in layers of clothing as he moved stiffly about with the other workers. “No, right there.” He pointed to an old pile of worn and battered shingles. The work crew was moving steady to replace parts of Nita’s roof, and he wanted to be there to oversee. He knew how it was supposed to go because he had some experience in construction work during his previous stints on probation. The pay had sucked – nothing like the money he’d made tricking out stolen cars, customizing for high paying buyers, boxing or shooting pool tournaments, but he’d done what he had to do at the time.
“Hunter.” Nita came to the front door, her long hair parted down the middle and small diamond hoop earrings sparkling in the sunlight. “Can you turn that music down?”
‘All Good,’ by Bones Thugs n Harmony poured out the speaker of his car. Turning the damn thing off, he walked back on her front yard to check the work being done on the roof.
“Leave these guys alone for a second and come in here for some lunch.”
He took a drag on his cigarette.
She’s getting on my nerves…
“Let me finish what I’m doing, Nita. I’ll be inside in a little bit.” As he turned away, he heard her huff but unfortunately, it wasn’t followed by the door slamming. Instead, she hung around.
“What?” he asked, no longer caring about hiding his annoyance. He threw up his arms.
“They don’t need to be micro-managed, Hunter. Their boss is already out there with them.”
“That doesn’t mean anything. Jesus Himself could be standing here with a video camera and they’d still goof off. Heeey! Man, yo!” He snapped his fingers and dog-whistled at a guy trouncing around on the roof as if he were Godzilla. “What the hell, man? It’s a roof, not your enemy, King Kong! Why are you trying to trample all over Tokyo?” The guy wore a perplexed look. “You can’t stand on that. You’ll warp it.”
Nita rolled her eyes and finally shut the front door. The phone vibrated in his pants pocket just then.
“Hey, Kylie…” His chest drew tight right then. For a split second, he regretted taking her call. He could feel the energy shift right before he answered.
“Hey, Tyrant… Well, Noah isn’t doing so hot today. I know you just saw him yesterday, but uh, you know how this works. The nurse is here at our mother’s house and says he doesn’t have much longer. It could be tonight, even. You might… you might wanna come on over and say…” She burst out crying on the phone. He hung his head. Shoving his hand in his pocket, he began to pace about, going in circles, around and around and around. He let her fall apart and lose her shit on the other end of the line. It felt like forever – but even that wasn’t long enough to heal a broken heart, it seemed. “…So you can say goodbye… He was my best friend! My protector… my big brother… He helped me out when I needed it… Tyrant, I can’t do this!”
“I’m on my way.” He disconnected the call and stared at the men working on the roof. The old shingles they’d thrown down were in significantly bad shape, some worn so much it was amazing the previous rainfall hadn’t caused a collapse. Sometimes life was like that; it got all used up, until its effectiveness was over, and it had served its purpose.
Noah served his purpose, huh? I read in one of Leon’s old books that when we die, it’s because we either did what we came here to do, or we’ve screwed up so bad that there’s no way out. We just gotta start over and return in a different body. Hunter scratched his jaw as his chest heated up like an angry forest fire ignited within. He had one foot ready to go, to drive over to Noah’s mother’s house, and one foot towards Nita’s front door. He felt torn; not in two, but a million pieces. All of a sudden a sharp chest pain radiated through him. For an instant, he figured it may be a stroke, even a heart attack, but then he realized it was the same feeling he’d had when he’d stood over his mother’s casket.
He bent over and began to beat on his chest. The blood rushed to his face and burning tears stung his eyes. He was hemorrhaging, coming undone, feeling a pain that spread through him like a wildfire and scorched his soul like no other.
“Ahhhhhhhhh!!!! AHHHHHHHH!!!!!” He screamed, cracking the world wide open, his voice pouring out like black electricity, sharp and untuned. His own voice felt foreign. Surely, it had to be someone else’s.
“You okay, chief?” one of the guys on the roof called out.
A door opened, then slammed. Feet scurried towards him in the grass. Small yet strong arms began to tug at him and a gentle, soft, airy voice broke into his head as he lost his complete mind.
“Hunter… come on, baby… come on.” He had trouble standing up, but she forced him to. Like a little worker ant, she wrapped her arm around his waist and hoisted him up straight and tall, as if he were a rusted-out toy robot abandoned under a child’s bed. He turned slowly and looked at her. Tears flowed down her cheeks.
“Olive just got the call, too. Let’s go. I’ll drive you both over…”
Noah’s mother’s home was beautifully decorated, with bits and pieces of classic White trash thrown about. There was large wine furniture and a huge deer head on the wall mounted above a white brick fireplace. Matching wine and white drapes hung down the windows, allowing ample sunlight when spread open as they were, and the walls were covered in framed photos of family members, family dogs, and inspirational quotes framed in wood. Nita paced the parlor alone, taking it all in, trying to figure out more about her man’s best friend.
Hunter hadn’t said much about him as of late, but she knew why. As the time drew near, the less he spoke of it. That was his nature. The more he cared, the less he shared. Period. It was almost as if he were holding his breath.
A clock ticked, the house smelled like vanilla, cigarette smoke, and cinnamon, and the soft sighs and cries of Olive could be heard in the distance. Behind a marigold curtain that separated the parlor from the living room, drawn to one side, was a hospital bed occupied by a dying man. A crowd surrounded Noah, but she could see through just a little.
The machines sighed and cranked, and whispers filled the air. Nita rubbed her hands together, unable to keep still. She wished to allow the man’s family and friends to rally around him. This was a private moment, and she was simply the driver.
She glanced down at her watch, thankful that Tisha hadn’t been at home when everything went crazy. Olive had come straight from school with a friend but Tisha had basketball practice. A woman, with bright blue eyes, sunken-in cheeks, and thin white hair pulled in a ponytail appeared. She made her way beyond the curtain and her eyes locked with Nita’s.
“Hi, you must be Noah’s mother. My name is Nita.” She extended her hand. The woman seemed suspicious at first, then accepted the greeting. “I’m a friend of Hunter’s.”
“Hunter?” The lady cocked her head to the side, as if she had no idea who she was speaking of.
“Tyrant? Noah’s friend… the big, tall guy.” Nita pointed towards the curtain. The woman’s lips curled in a smile as she nodded in understanding.
“Tyrant… yeah… I forgot his name is Hunter. Noah never called him that when he’d talk about him, even when they were kids. Nita, my son is dyin’. He’s young, not even forty, and he’ll be taking his last breath soon.” The woman’s bloodshot eyes said it all.
“I know, ma’am. I am so sorry.”
“You ever h
ave a child die?” Nita’s heart beat a bit faster. This had to be the beginning of a nervous breakdown for the woman. This brought back terrible memories of when she, too, had fallen to pieces when life had simply gotten too damn heavy.
“No ma’am, I haven’t.” Nita grasped the woman’s trembling, pale hands, the nails painted a bright pink. The lady’s white mock turtleneck had dark stains on it: mascara drenched teardrops. Her head shook a bit, as if she had a touch of Parkinson’s disease. Nita squeezed her hands.
“Noah never mentioned you.”
“I didn’t know Noah. Hunter and I have only known each other a few months.”
“You’re awfully pretty.” The woman smiled as her eyes welled up with fresh tears.
“Thank you.” Nita smiled, just going with the odd flow of the conversation, the kind of talk one had when something awful was happening, and there wasn’t a damn thing they could do to stop it. The words jumped around like a frog, strewn together and barely making sense. “I am so, so sorry. I am sure that doesn’t help, but I know how much Hunter and Olive cared for Noah.”
“Noah wasn’t a good father. I wasn’t a great mother. I don’t get to see Olive too much because her mother doesn’t like me.” Nita wondered if the woman even knew that Olive’s mother was missing, but figured that wasn’t the time to broach the topic. “Glad I can see ’er now… She’s such a nice girl. Noah was a difficult youngster.” She chuckled sadly. “He caused me lots of problems. But I love him. He’s smart. Very bright child. Too clever for his own good. He called me a bitch before.” Nita swallowed, the air getting thicker. “Isn’t that awful? A son callin’ his mother something like that? He said, ‘Mom, you weren’t there for me. You’re a selfish bitch!’ He said it just like that.”
