Finding Us

by S. K. Hartley

  It’s started.

  Chapter Five

  “Mom?!” I shouted as I toed off my Chucks, making my way down the hallway towards the kitchen. “Mom, where the hell are you?”

  My mind was in a blind panic as I searched the entire house for her, my head throbbing as a migraine started to take hold. This wasn’t good. I could feel my heartbeat hitting new highs as I made my way up the staircase to the second floor, shouting for her with every step I took. I ran out of the venue which held The Takedown, leaving everyone behind. The text message my only warning that something was happening and I needed to start protecting those around me.

  “In here, sweetie!” she yelled from the spare bedroom.

  Breathing a sigh of relief, I ran to the bedroom, my heavy footsteps against the floorboards sounding louder than usual.

  Throwing open the door, I found my mom on the floor folding clothes. Her brunette hair styled into a high ponytail, while her clothes were her usual color, black.

  She quickly swung her body around the minute she heard my panting breaths; she knew something was wrong. Oh, but if she knew.

  “It’s started.”

  The words poured from my mouth with so much distaste I almost vomited. Almost. I watched as pure shock registered on my mother’s face; she knew exactly what I was referring to. She placed her head in her hands and wept uncontrollably. Shit, if I’d have known that was going to be her reaction, I would have toned it down a little bit. But why sugarcoat the inevitable?

  My gaze was suddenly transfixed on her bare feet; it wasn’t often she was barefoot in the house, maybe she had just had a shower? My eyes landed on the large scar that covered most of the top of her foot. Even after all these years, it was still a reminder of who we were. We all had scars.

  “Mom,” I said, snapping out of my thoughts. “Pack a bag. You’re going to Vegas.”

  That was all I said before I slammed the bedroom door shut behind me. There was no comfort in my words, no softness to them at all. The ball had started rolling, and it was time to take back some of the control I thought I had lost over the years.

  Heading down the staircase, I made my way into the lounge in search for something to calm my nerves. The room was large but intimate. My mom had tried to make this house into a home, but she knew as well as I did this wasn’t a home. It was never supposed to be one either.

  My shaking hands went straight to the liquor cabinet that sat to the right of the black leather sofa, I needed a drink. Pulling out a bottle of malt whiskey, I unscrewed the top and took one large pull.

  “Fuck me.” I hissed, the whiskey burning the back of my throat, straight down to my stomach where it bubbled nicely. Whiskey wasn’t my drink of choice—merely a means to try and forget—but today I wasn’t really picky.

  “That shit’s going to be the death of you,” my mother said as she stepped into the room, placing a large bag onto the armchair beside her. If you took one look at her, you would have no idea she had just been crying uncontrollably. No, right now she looked like the prim and proper woman I’ve come to know over the years.

  “You know as well as I do that this shit ain’t going to kill me first,” I said, shaking the bottle before taking another long pull.

  “True.” She sighed. “What happens now?”

  Eyeing the bag she had packed, I sagged down onto the sofa, the whiskey bottle dangling from my fingertips.

  “You take a cab to the airport, I’ll get you on the next flight out. Just remember, wherever you go—”

  “Pay in cash,” she said, finishing my sentence for me.

  “Right,” I said, my gaze fixed on the window to my left.

  Spring was definitely here, the flowers in the front yard had sprung and were in full bloom. It was a damn slap in the face: welcome to the real world, Low. Where life carries on even if you’re dealing with the world’s biggest clusterfuck of all clusterfucks.

  “It’s really happening, isn’t it?”

  The faint tremor in my mother’s voice didn’t go unnoticed; in fact, it was the sole reason why my gaze locked back onto hers. She was terrified, and I felt like a huge fraud. Years of wondering, waiting, and hiding turned me into a robotic version of the girl I once was.

  “Yes,” I mumbled, taking another large gulp from the whiskey bottle. “Yes, it’s really happening.”

  Fingering the zip on her bag, she muttered, “But, why now? It’s been six years.”

  “Why?” I asked, becoming angrier as the minutes slowly ticked by. “Why is the sky blue? Why is the grass green? Why do people have sex and introduce a child into… THAT world?”

  Closing my eyes, I took in a sharp breath, I wasn’t equipped to deal with this shit right now. Her questions were becoming beyond frustrating.

  “We could ask questions all day about why the hell this is happening, but you need to quickly understand, Mom. This is happening, it isn’t going to go away. You knew this was going to happen eventually. So if you want to make it out of this alive, I suggest you get your ass into a cab and get to the airport.”

  With a tight nod, my mother grabbed her bag and slung it over her shoulder before walking right out the front door.

  The minute the door slammed, I was on my feet. Taking three more large gulps of the poison in a bottle, I held back the gag before gripping the neck of the bottle tight and throwing it against the nearest hard surface. Fragments of glass splintered and shattered across the carpeted floor like a blanket of glittering confetti. I laughed sarcastically. Welcome to the real world: where girls drank malt whiskey, where liars and cheaters were rife, and where your life is held in the hands of a single text message.

  Welcome to my hell.

  I stared at the glass fragments on the floor, watching as they glistened with moisture from the remaining whiskey. I looked around the quiet house, the one my mother and I had never really turned into a home, knowing full well that we’d eventually have to leave.

  There were no picture frames housing family photos, there were no handmade ornaments from her little girl. There was nothing, nothing to say we had been here for six years. There were no memories here, only the ones that haunted us in the darkness of the night.

  With the thought weighing heavy on my mind, I dived into the cabinet of alcohol, coming across my old friend. Jack Daniel’s.

  “Hello, motherfucker. It’s been a while,” I taunted the bottle, watching as the amber liquid sloshed around the bottom of the bottle.

  Ripping off the cap, I sucked in a mouth full of the foul tasting shit, hissing as I gulped back the vomit that was quickly rising up my throat. I took another large gulp, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand as I ventured up the staircase on shaky legs. The alcohol already had me buzzed, but I didn’t want buzzed. I wanted completely fucking annihilated, inebriated, and comatose. It was the only way to get rid of the rising guilt.

  After negotiating the staircase, I stumbled across the hallway, making my way to my childhood bedroom. I laughed at the thought, not so much a childhood when you’re on the run from it. I slumped my body against the door, turning the handle with one hand, bringing Jack to my lips as I did. I stumbled into the room with a loud thud, Jack almost slipping through my fingers.

  “Slippery little fucker tonight, aren’t you, Jack?”

  I winced. This was when Willow came out of her shell, alone and… pretty damn wasted. I didn’t want to be her. I wanted so desperately to be Low Parker, not who I was. The text message I received had sparked this, the need inside me just to break lose, to remember why I turned into Low. I hated Willow; she was nothing more than a poisonous memory, a part of the past that was now creeping up and tainting everything within its path.

  “What you say me and you have a little party huh, Jack?” I hissed, sucking more of the alcohol into my mouth, feeling the irresistible burn that slid down my throat. “It’s just me and you, buddy.”

  Without thought or feeling, I moved to my old dresser, finding my dusty CD player.
With a flick of a button, I was thrown back six years. Faint by Linkin Park blasted through the crackly speakers and I threw my arms above my head, basking in the amazing alcohol fuzz that blurred my vision. As the chorus kicked in, I threw myself up onto my old single bed, the wooden slats beneath it creaking as I jumped around to the bass. Jack spilled some of his contents onto my bed, proving that even in alcoholic form men couldn’t control themselves when it came to women.

  I panted as I threw my head from side to side, still jumping up and down on the rickety bed. The bed moaned and groaned beneath me as I paused to take a large gulp from Jack, sucking him into my mouth and allowing him to swirl around in my mouth before I swallowed hard.

  “Come on, Jack. It’s a fucking party!” I yelled, dancing around like a freaking lunatic.

  I drank some more, trying to drown the thoughts and feelings that were trying to consume me. I just wanted to blank everything out and be Willow for a couple of minutes, just to try and understand her. But, like always, I had no freaking clue who she really was. I had no idea who Low Parker was either. I was a nameless face with multiple personalities.

  The thought made me laugh out loud, a full belly laugh that had me falling to my knees. My body hit the uncomfortable mattress but I didn’t care. I couldn’t control the laughter that bubbled from my throat, but as the laughter came, it slowly died on my lips as sobs vomited from my mouth. Hard, gut-wrenching sobs as I threw Jack from the bed.

  I cried for the girl who I refused to be, for the girl who I wanted to be, for the girl I never could be. I was Willow Knoxx, the girl who was one monumental fuck up.

  I lifted my head as I tried to survey the room; it swam with roaring intensity as I quickly realized I had cried myself into an alcoholic coma. My throat was hoarse, my muscles ached and my head throbbed like a bitch.

  I took a look at the mess I had caused. My CD player was dangling from the dresser by its cord. The years-old green curtains were at an odd angle and the old posters on my wall were either completely shredded or hanging on by a thread.

  Then I froze.

  Crack.

  Without warning, the bed I was lying on face first completely shattered beneath my weight.

  “Oooof!” I winced as the bed hit the hardwood flooring of my old bedroom.

  I sighed hard into the comforter. It was time to go home.

  Three hours and many large glasses of water later, I sat in my usual spot on my dorm room carpet, my head spinning as I unscrewed the glass jar. I drew three little hearts, kissing all three before placing them safely in the confines of the mason jar.

  One hundred and fifty-three reasons for me to keep on fucking running.

  Chapter Six

  It’s never easy trying to carry on as if nothing happened, as if sending my own mother off to Vegas without warning wasn’t a big deal. It was a huge deal. Trying to stop my damn knees from shaking underneath my desk in Dr. Voxen’s class was becoming more difficult with every word he spoke.

  Ace, as usual, was late. I hadn’t seen him since the fight, and his lack of presence was making me jittery. I have never been one to deal with nerves, but right now, I was really fucking nervous. The text message was a warning, the next would be a threat, after that… it wasn’t worth thinking about.

  My hangover was monstrous, lingering in the back of my mind as my nerves took over. It was there but it was more like a pain in my god damn ass when I really didn’t need it. I couldn’t believe how trashed I had gotten, how fucked up everything suddenly was.

  “Today’s focus is US mob bosses and the financial impact they have.”

  Dr. Voxen’s monotone voice rang out into my ears, his words bursting through my ear drums like a damn knife. Shit. I needed to get my nerves and emotions under control, this was not me.

  Taking a slow and steady breath, I picked up my pen, ready to start taking notes. I looked down at my hand that held the pen, shaking and unsteady. Christ. This… this wasn’t good. It was as if my own body was warning me of the danger I was in.

  “Do I really need to ask why you’re late to my class again, Mr. Matthews? This seems to be becoming a habit.”

  Looking up from my shaking hand, my gaze landed on a smirking Ace. I chuckled quietly as he just shrugged his shoulders in defiance, making his way to his seat that sat empty next to my own.

  “This class sucks ass,” he muttered as he parked his ass in his seat.

  Grabbing the pen from my shaking hands, he flashed me a wink as he placed it between his teeth and twirled it around with his tongue.

  “Some of us are majoring in this class, Ace. Shut the fuck up,” I grumbled, my mood clear in my words.

  “Just sayin’.” He laughed softly as he noticed today’s discussion. “Original, really original,” he grumbled.

  “Mr. Matthews, if you insist on disturbing my class, then please, by all means, come and teach it for me,” Dr. Voxen said, rolling his eyes as he made his way up to Ace, stopping in front of him and flourishing his hand down towards his desk.

  “Oh, Dr. Voxen, I thought you’d never ask.” Ace smirked, bouncing out of his seat as if he had just been given a hit of pure sugar.

  Oh shit.

  Dr. Voxen took Ace’s seat next to mine and I sat up straighter in my seat. What was it with a teacher’s close proximity that made us quiver a little? I was worried he could smell the fraud seeping from my skin.

  I rolled my eyes as I noticed Ace picking up a dry erase pen from Dr. Voxen’s desk. He was enjoying this far too much for my liking.

  Turning on his heel, Ace wrote the word omerta on the white board, underlining it a couple of times for effect before turning back to the rest of the class. I recognized the word, but didn’t have much of an idea of what it meant exactly, all I knew was it was Sicilian.

  “Omerta,” he paused, placing the lid back onto the pen, “roughly translated means men of honor. It’s a code, but also a way of life. It’s known to be the Cosa Nostra’s strict code of silence, meaning everything you learn in this class is based on rumors, stipulations, and the media’s way of turning the Mob into a paper-selling enterprise.”

  I shook my head as I took notes, watching the professor from the corner of my eye as I did so. His fingers cupped his chin with one hand, while the other rested in his lap.

  “It is basically to ensure the members swore total devotion to the head of the mafia family they’re affiliated with. Meaning, if you were to become a rat, a contract would be placed upon your head,” he said, cocking his brow.

  “Some of the so-called facts you know today are based on the undercover work of Joe Pistone AKA Donnie Brasco, but most of the intelligence gathered from his twenty-year undercover work as a mafia member is classified. For instance, Michael Franzese, the former Colombo captain, was reported to have made millions of dollars through tax and business scams, and was believed to have made more money for the mob since Al Capone. Case in point, ladies and gentlemen: reported, estimated, classified. There is no factual information detailing just how much of an impact the Mob had on the financial US, merely guess work. Unless you speak to a real mafia member who is willing to break the code of silence, which is highly unlikely, you aren’t going to have a paper that has any factual basis what-so-ever.”

  Ace finished with an over-exaggerated bow, the class cheering in response. I rolled my eyes once more as he flashed me his brilliant white smile before shouting, “Peace out!” and leaving the room without a backward glance.

  Smart ass.

  “Well, that was certainly interesting.” Dr. Voxen smirked before getting out of the seat and making his way down to his desk. “Considering Mr. Matthews took the discussion in a whole new direction, your assignment is to argue this point. Do we really know how much of an impact the mafia has had on the financial US? I expect this on my desk within two weeks, you can partner up for this assignment to help collate research,” he said, packing a stack of papers into his briefcase. “Well? Get some research done!” he said wit
h a wave of his hand.

  The room erupted with students chattering and chairs scraping against the floor as they filed out, all eager to get out of the stuffy classroom, the spring air making the pokey room suffocating.

  Packing away my notepad into my backpack, I made my way out of the classroom. My head wasn’t in the game, everywhere I turned my eyes trained on other students faces and their expressions, trying to comb out who could possibly become a danger to me.

  “I’ve got your pen.”

  “Holy fucking hell!” I jumped, rearing my elbow before plunging it behind me, pulling a resounding “ooof” from the person behind me.

  “Shit! That’s a meaner elbow than some of the fighters I’m up against next weekend,” Ace groaned from behind me.

  I sagged against the nearest wall in relief, my heart thundering in my chest as I realized I wasn’t under threat. This was getting ridiculous, I couldn’t carry on like this. I needed to rectify this shit, and quick if I didn’t want a god damn heart attack.

  Turning around, I laughed as I watched Ace rub his stomach in mock pain. Flashing me a smirk, he thrust the pen he had stolen from me in class into my hands.

  “Thought you might need this.” He laughed. “If I’d have known you were going to fucking elbow me, I would’ve kept the damn thing.”

  “Thanks,” I muttered, twirling the pen between my thumb and index finger.

  “Hey,” he said, taking a step towards me. “What’s wrong?”

  “Why would anything be wrong?” I asked, my chest rising and falling in quick succession.

  “I know you better than you know yourself, Low, no matter how much you think otherwise,” he whispered, placing his hand on my shoulder and squeezing gently.

  A current of unease coursed through my veins while a mixture of relief and fear was churning my gut. Six years. Six years I had been hiding, holding everything back, and now I had no idea what my future held, or whether I would make it out the other side.