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hauntedpaperbag · 2 years ago

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The Angel Said

"Where've you been off to?" David grumbles, whittling the end of a stick.

Maggie sucks her teeth, thin lips pulling shrewdly apart. She opens her mouth to speak but closes it, words lodged in her throat. She's soaking in sweat from the Louisiana heat, humidity clogging her pores. A crane caws.

"Off." She says, sitting on the opposite side of the fire on a moss-covered log.

David's eyes flicker up towards her face, pausing his whittling.

"Off where?"

Maggie doesn't respond, setting her pack down on the ground. It smacks against the wet dirt. She twiddles with her cross necklace, twisting it around her pointer finger until it turns red. Her own form of flagellation. She thinks of Father Michael.

If it hurts, it cures.

"Nowhere, David, just…off. I needed to clear my head."

He sighs, the start of an argument bubbling out of his chest, all the unsaid things of the past three days crawling from the pit of his stomach. His face twists, old visage turning sour, and Maggie almost feels bad. Almost.

"Nowhere," David mumbles, shaking his head. He sets his project down, standing, wiping the shavings off his blood-stained jeans. He picks up his rifle, army backpack, and canteen from the ground.

"What are you doing?"

He ignores her, heavy boots shuffling around their little camp in the middle of the swamp. David looks up at the moon; it reveals nothing.

"Remember what I said about honesty, Maggie?" He says.

"What are you talking about?"

"Back in the swamp, when you were running, and I told you the truth, I said that's all we have. Honesty."

"David, I don't know-."

"Maggie." He says quietly. She stops, slamming her mouth shut, all her mistakes rattling in her head.

"I-I was on a walk." She can't meet his stare, too afraid that if his eyes find hers, she'll drown in them, just like she nearly did back in the bayou. When he hauled her out of green sludge, harbored her in his tiny log cabin, lied to the congregation.

No girls come round these parts, Father.

'You're a gahdamn liar, Maggie Turner." And he starts to walk away from her and their little camp of broken faith.

Maggie scrambles to her feet, tennis shoes sliding in the mud. She runs towards him, grabbing his arm, putting herself between him and his freedom. David looks down at her, square jaw set tightly, hard lines etched into his skin. He reaches a strong, scarred hands hold her shoulders.

"Where were you." And it's not a question because he knows where she was. It's a statement, a threat.

"You know where I was."

"I want you to say it."

"David-"

He pushes her away harshly, discarding everything she won't tell him. She falls into a tree, the breath knocked out of her lungs, empty in the swampy air. The forest screams around them. She slides down the tree, crouching on the wet earth.

"Fine!" She shrieks like an insect horde. "Fine, David! I went back; I went back because he has it, and I need it; it's the last thing of my mothers-"

"He coulda killed you!"

"He wasn't there! I looked everywhere on the first floor, and it wasn't there and-"

"You went inside his HOUSE!?" He shouts, startling the forest awake.

"He wasn't there!! I swear, I triple-checked just like you taught me to-."

"Shit, Maggie! What in God's name is wrong with you? Did he beat the sense out of you too?"

"He has it, and it's mine; it's the only thing I have left of my mother, and-and I-shit-" Maggie cries, sobbing into her knees. The moon shines over them softly, garishly, and Maggie feels all the mushy parts that make her her become exposed.

"I can't go alone. I can't go, David, please; I can't go to his room alone-"

David stares at her. Flashes of the bayou, of Father Michael's slimy words at the door of his cabin-

Have you seen Maggie Turner, a young girl, around? She's been missin and…

David sighs. A moment passes as the cicadas sing around them, harmonizing with the owlish sound of Maggie's grief.

"Fine."

Maggie looks up, calming down, wiping her face with a dirty sleeve.

"What?" She sniffles..

"We'll go get it, but you listen to me. Do you hear me?" David grits.

And for the first time since moving to New Haven, Louisiana, Maggie smiles. It curls on her face like a dying spider's legs, and David feels a shiver crawl down his spine.

Father Michael's house is a monstrous beast that lives in the woods. Old, white, and worn. Inside is nothing but the remnants of the previous priests, their furniture, covered swathes of white cotton cloth. David touches a finger on what looks like a couch, and it comes back bathed in dust.

"Who the hell lives like this?" He mutters. The hairs rise on the back of his neck; someone walking over his grave.

Maggie's looking around, triple checking all the corners she double-checked before. But nothing's here.

"It's always been like this." She whispers. "The parish doesn't come here anymore; he goes to them."

David walks around the living room quietly and steps before a massive fireplace. It's unlit, ashes stone cold inside the hearth, and above it hangs a large painting of The Virgin Mary. It's a copy of some old, famous version. There's a painted golden glow emitting from behind her blue-shrouded figure. But in this light, under her obliterating gaze, David wonders what she's seen.

"We have to go upstairs."

He whips his head around. Maggie is standing by the stairs, one foot already beginning to climb up old rickety wood.

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"Upstairs, David. It has to be upstairs."

David swallows with a dry mouth. He glances back at Mary, whose stare has not yet left his soul.

"I don't know if that's a good idea."

"Fine, you stay here, and I'll go alone." Maggie snipes, quick as a bullet, faster than a prayer through town. She starts to walk up the steps, and David knows there is no reason with the unreasonable, he follows. The wood creaks under their feet. David feels the wear in the middle from decades of parishioners before coming to this house for penitence. For forgiveness. He wonders if they found what they were looking for.

When they're at the top, the room is small, with a single-lit candler glowing on a tiny table in the middle. The shadows it casts along the wall tower over them. Suddenly, the air in the room is very, very cold. On two walls are two doors facing across from each other. Maggie tries to open three and finds them all locked.

"Shit. Do you know how to pick lo…" But at the fourth door, the knob turns and swings open.

David and Maggie peer inside.

"This is his room." She whispers, sounding so frail that David worries one step and she'll crumble.

"I can go in and look-"

"No. I can do it."

She steps inside first, shaking from head to toe.

Father Michael's room is filled with crosses. Nailed to ceiling, to the walls, the floor. It's nearly impossible to walk without stepping on one. In the middle of the room, not against a wall, is the largest four-poster bed David has ever seen. The white comforter is stained, the pillows are ripped, and the drapes hanging from the posts are sheer. Moonlight filters in from three windows on the far wall.

It's ghastly.

A small desk is in a corner, with unlit candles melting onto the surface.

"Oh my god," David says, but there is no God here.

And when he looks at the ceiling, he knows that.

Stuck to the wall, directly above the bed that he realizes has no top fabric, is a painting of Jesus, with blood dripping from his forehead, crowned in thorns. And hanging from the ornate gold frame is a necklace.

"Maggie," David says and points.

He expects something, an exclamation, a sob, a prayer. But Maggie's face is stone cold, and David feels a little silly for expecting a reaction.

She walks into the room, carelessly stepping on every cross, and climbs atop the bed. She grabs the necklace and rips it from the frame. Her hands shake when she brings it down to her level. She trips off the bed, her foot catching on the bedding, and falls onto the floor. When David moves to help her up, she shakes her head, red hair falling like the confessional curtain covering her face.

David shuffles his feet, growing antsy.

"Okay, you got it; let's go."

Maggie nods, not really listening, paying more attention to the jewelry in her hands. She presses her lips to the locket and turns to David. He feels the Holy Ghost whisper in his ear.

"I'm gonna kill him." She says.

David knows this to be true.

***

"Lord Jesus Christ, we pray that you will protect our parish in the face of sin. We pray that You will cover us with Your power, Your love, and Your blood. Heal our wounds and soften our hearts so that we may be able to accept Your will into our souls. Surround all of us with Your heavenly Angels, Saints, the strong arms of St. Joseph, and the mantle of Our Blessed Mother. Through Christ our Lord. Amen."

"Amen." The herd repeats.

Father Michael bows his head and raises his hand; father, son, holy spirit across his chest. Atop the platform, behind the podium, he stands, cassock shining in the morning sun. His hand's toy with the beaded rosary braceleting his wrist.

"Now, my friends," he starts, voice curling around the parishioners like a shepherd's crook, guiding, leading, commanding; "We have all been made aware of Maggie Turner's disappearance and the subsequent threat she has become to our church. Her place in The Ritual will not be replaced, so it is pertinent, friends, that she is found. Neighborhood watches have taken the helm in the search, and the Lady's group has kindly offered to go through her Uncle's things at his home. John was a close friend to this parish, and may his soul rest in heaven now."

The women smile in the first row, all pastel hats and perfumed hair, stockings with runs, and kitten heels. They cluck like hens, giggling under Father Michael's gaze.

"The church is also raising funds for John's funeral. Once the Lady's go through his home and find his will, we'll commence with a burial under my guidance in the cemetery."

He smiles with crooked teeth. The parish waits on bated breath; hands outstretched for the morsels he will grant them.

"That is all for today. Through Christ our Lord. May He guide you."

The sermon ends, the herd rises, bleating to each other, spewing the same conversations they do every Sunday, and Wednesday, and Monday. Someone sneezes, and a chorus of bless yous erupts through the crowd. Father Michael says goodbye to the flock, waving them out the door with one mighty hand. When they have all gone, he sighs, wiping the sticky sweat off his brow. He looks up to the arched wood ceiling, mumbling a soft prayer only he and God will know. Then, raising the rosary to his lips, he presses a foul kiss to the cross and walks up the spiral stairs to his office.

Sheriff Will is sitting inside, in a chair facing the mahogany desk, lit cigarette in mouth.

"Beautiful sermon, Father."

Father Michael thanks him and sits at his desk.

"We've been looking all night. Haven't found a hint of her." Will mumbles, cowboy hat tipped down over his eyes. A gold cross necklace shines in the sunlight from the stained glass windows.

"Not hard enough," Father says, not meeting Will's eyes, signing paperwork.

"Father, we've had men-."

"Not hard enough." And when he does look at Will, it's God's lightning striking through his soul. Will chokes on his spit.

"Yes, of course, Father."

Father Michael hums, nodding his head.

"I expect you at confession today, Sheriff."

"Yes, Father."

"I haven't forgotten about your deputy."

"He didn't know it was her, sir. He thought it was some kid playing a joke-"

Michael tilts his head, raising his hand, and with a single flick, Will is ushered out of the room. Michael looks down at the morgue's papers on the desk about Maggie's Uncle, John. His eyes skim over the injury report.

13 stab wounds.

13 times Maggie shoved a knife into her Uncle's stomach, chest, neck.

Oh Maggie, he thinks, you can't run from God.

***

Maggie sits in David's tiny cabin, buried in fleece blankets by the wood furnace, cradling her mother's locket close to her heart.

"That's your mothers?"

"Yeah." Maggie nods, voice solemn. "She was sacrificed in the ritual too, but I was living with my dad. I'd lived with him since I was only a few months old when he left the parish. Then, when he got the letter from Fathe- God…." Tears skim her water line.

"He lost it." There is so much unsaid, but Maggie won't bring herself to say it. "Uhm-that's why I had to move here, to live with John. My Uncle."

David grunts from his bed, whittling a stick with his pocket knife. It's warm inside the cabin, cozy.

"They said she died in a boat accident. Riding through the bayou, that she just fell out and hit the rudder…." She scoffs. "And I believed it."

"You were grieving-"

"I was stupid."

If it hurts, it cures.

Maggie shakes her head, trying to slap the vengeful voice of Father Michael like a fly out of her head.

"You found out, then," David asks, eyes turned down at his work.

"I found Father Michael's letter to John with the news."

The fire crackles in the furnace, but this is no campfire story.

"John was, he was- he knew I wouldn't do it. Said they were gonna force me too. That I should feel lucky-" Maggie can still feel his hands gripping her arms, pulling her hair, dragging her back into his house when she'd tried to run, "said Father Michael thought I'd like it, to die like my mother had."

"Then you killed him." He says, looking at her now, wrinkly face so so guilty.

"Yeah. Then I killed him." She can still feel his hand around her kneck loosen when she'd first shoved his own knife into his stomach. The blood was warm. She'll never feel clean again.

They stew in silence for a moment, reality heavy on their shoulders. Feeling like Atlas, holding the world. "And then you found me in the swamp."

David remembers, on his boat, lamp looking for gators, but instead catching Maggie, trudging through the marsh. Drowning.

"I tried to go to the Sheriffs, but they all- everyone knows. They all knew, and they were almost…jealous. So, I'm going to kill Father Michael. For my mother, for my father."

"Revenge is a fool's game," David mumbles.

"Well, I guess I'm the biggest fucking fool there is."

The wind howls outside the cabin, rattling the window.

"Why do they leave you alone?" Maggie asks.

David stops his whittling, thinking.

"My family has been here for decades. Before Father Michael. They leave me alone; I leave them alone."

"So you all have just, like, lived in the middle of the swamp for forever."

"Yuhp." Back to whittling.

Maggie pictures generations of David's, whittling right where he is, knowing everything yet being silent.

"Did you know?" She asks.

David doesn't answer.

"David."

He looks at her, and in his face, she sees an old man drowned in guilt.

"Yes."

Maggie knew that he had to have known. Kept their secret safely tucked away in his back pocket, the skeleton shoved in his closet.

"Do you believe in God?" She asks.

David finally sets his work down, places the carved wood onto the floor, and puts the knife back in his cargo shorts pocket. He meets her accusing gaze, and they just watch each other for a moment.

"No."

Crackle goes the fire.

"But I've seen the Devil."

And Maggie knows this to be true because she has too.

***

Father Martin pulls into his driveway, tires rumbling on the gravel. The radio's on, crooning the Kossoy Sisters. His head sways back and forth, voice humming along. He parks the truck and steps out, the top buttons of his cassock undone, skin sweaty in the Louisiana heat. The swamp around him hisses in the night.

Walking inside, he skips the first floor, going straight to his room. The steps creak like they always do, and the candle in the top room has completely melted onto the wood table.

When he steps inside his room, undresses, prays, lays in bed, and looks up at the Lord, it takes him a second to realize.

Father Michael grits his teeth, balling his hands into the sheets. He gets out of bed and redresses, buttoning the cassock to perfection, and goes back outside to his car. The truck door slams hard, chipping red paint falling off the side as it rocks under Michael's fury.

He calls the town to a meeting and sends the Sherriff and his useless men knocking on doors, gathering the herd like hounds to the church.

It only takes an hour.

"My friends, the situation has become much worse than I anticipated."

The church is full, every soul there, and Father Michael is doing more than preaching tonight.

"Maggie Turner has broken into my home and stolen something of mine!" He shouts.

The herd gasps.

Father Michael wipes sweat off his brow with a quaking hand, pale face red in anger. He runs his fingers through his thinning hair to smooth out his cracking seams.

"She has broken into my home, friends. She will be found tonight."

The church is alive in agreement, people raising their hands in fists of justice, some shouting for God to help them all.

"I believe that David Halloway has taken her into his satanist cabin, fed her, kept her hidden from us. This man is no friend of ours. We have tolerated him all these years, let him live close to our home, and this is how he repays us?"

The crowd roars.

"Tonight, we will drag Maggie Turner here and perform The Ritual! TONIGHT!!" Father Michael cries, gripping the podium, torso leaning over the front, nearly flinging himself forward. The parish moves out of the church's large double doors, going to their cars, boats, and bikes. Some have flashlights, some have guns. They all have Father Michael to guide them, though.

And Father Michael has God.

***

Maggie hears the cries before she sees them. Shouts of her name, of whore and witch calling through the trees. Footsteps stomp through tall grass and marshy mud; they cry for justice, fire for the sinner.

David grabs her by the arms and hauls her from the fireplace and out back. He brings her to the small dock behind his cabin. The moon shadows his stern face, and the only thing Maggie can genuinely see is his frightened eyes.

"Take my boat. Do what you have to do."

"David, no-"

"If you're not here, I can try to shove them off. Say you stole my boat."

"I can't leave you!"

He shakes her hard. The parish cries, growing closer. A flashlight's beam falls over the front of the cabin; it shines through the windows.

"Take my boat!" He hisses, reaches into his pocket for the pocket knife, and shoves her to the dock.

Maggie falls in the blood, tears falling from her face. She wants to thank him for saving her, and for helping her; but instead, she scrambles down the dock, tripping on the shoddy wood structure, and slides into the tiny mud motorboat. Sitting on the bench, she pulls the engine, which rumbles to life.

With one final glance at David, standing at the start of the dock, she sees him lift a hand. A cry gurgles out of her, and she sobs, waving with one hand and steering away from him.

She turns to look at the swamp ahead of her, unable to face Davids's shrinking form. Parishioners are shouting out, screaming like locusts tearing through crops. Father Michael's voice croons in her ear, whispering of holy lands. She feels nauseous and retches over the side of the boat. Her hand wipes the vomit from her mouth, and she steers away, looking for the church's spire. It's a few minutes before she catches it peaking through the woods.

It spears through the treetops like a stake in the ground.

It laughs at her.

By the time she reaches the church, no one is there. They're all out searching for her, wading through chest-deep water, driving on the roads. Maggie pulls to the dock and slows to a stop, listening for the horde. All she hears is crickets and the deep rrrrribit of bullfrogs. She stops to breathe for just a second and listens.

The swamp surrounds her, holds her, cradles her in mushy arms of wet moss.

But then Father Michael is strolling out the back door, and his steps stomp down the stone staircase, and he smiles.

"Maggie, we've been looking for you." His voice rings like a church bells Sunday morning chime.

She looks the Devil in his cold, hollow face, and spits. It splats on his left cheek, and Father Michael's smile drops. He lifts a sleeve to wipe it off, and Maggie fights a smirk from her face.

"That's not nice, Maggie." he laughs with no mirth.

Maggie steps back a bit, her hand gripping the pocket knife, knuckles turning white. Father Michael advances on her slowly, backing her to the water. Maggie is terrified; she wonders if her mother felt like this, but no, her mother wanted it.

"You stole from my home."

"Fuck you!"

Father Michael's hand snaps out like a viper and grabs her wrist. Maggie cries out in pain, his fingers digging into her skin, no doubt leaving marks.

"No!" She screams as he drags her up the steps.

"Come now," and he's so tall, so broad, so strong. Did Goliath fight this hard? She flings herself backward, but he pulls her like an ox, dragging her into the church.

The altar is ready in the middle of Father Michael's platform. It's tragically beautiful, carved from ornate white quartz and trimmed in gold filigree. Their footsteps echo through the air, crashing and clanging through the pews. Maggie breaks free of Michael's hold and runs back, turning and sprinting to the podium. She holds the pocket knife before her in a fighting stance.

"Fuck you! You're no man of God! You killed my mother!" She sobs, screaming, voice hoarse with raw emotion.

"No, Maggie, your mother was glad to offer her soul to the church."

"Liar!"

"If only you could see it her wa-"

"LIAR!" She wails. And for a breath, Father Michael is startled into silence.

"You killed her! You told her to do it, and she trusted you! You've killed all these people." She advances on him. "You're the Devil." She spits.

Father Michael scoffs, affronted, but backs away.

"Don't be simple-minded, Maggie. I don't need the laws of man to advise me."

Maggie laughs through her sobs, snot trickling down her face, hair sticking to her wet cheeks. She's a wild animal, cornered in a cage. Moonlight filters through the stained glass, washing the room in a muted rainbow.

"He reached down and touched my hand."

"He doesn't say shit to you. You're insane."

"Gave it to my strict and charred. Taught me right."

Father Michael laughs, shaking his head. His eyes burn like hellfire, spreading through Maggie's soul.

"Put the knife down, Maggie."

"No." She steps forward.

"I'm warning you."

"Eat shit."

"Fine." He says, and charges forward, grabbing her hair and yanking her back. Her face is forced upwards, and he grabs the wrist that holds the knife, forcing her to step to the altar. She thrashes in his hold, screaming like a banshee. Father Michael grits his teeth, huffing in the exertion of dragging her up the platform steps.

"Thank you, Oh Lord, for-for protecting m-my people…" He commences the prayer. "Blessed be those that-that follow in your grace-"

But Maggie crashes free and tumbles to the ground, back hitting the altar's side. She looks up at Father Michael with wide eyes and, holding the knife in one hand, stabs his thigh.

He screams.

She takes the knife and stabs him again, and again, and again. Pushes him down the steps and falls on top of him, cracking his head on the wood floor. Till there is nothing left but blood. She's in a trance, adrenaline coursing through her bloodstream like the holy spirit. Jesus on the cross hangs above her, nailed to the church wall, crowned in thorns, face tilted towards her with sad eyes carved from stone. The grief of sacrifice.

When Maggie is done, she's done slowly. Like rising from a deep sleep, eyes foggy, blinking away the haze. One final stab into his corpse before she rises off of him and drops the knife. Staring down at him, at his desecrated body, she smiles.

She hears rain.

Drops pitter-patter on the roof, and the world is still. The swamp is alive outside; frogs sing, and crickets chirp. Maggie huffs in heaving breaths. She steps over Father Michael's unrecognizable body and walks to the back door.

Stepping into the rain, she lets it wash away her sins. A newly baptized baby, naked and swathed in fresh cotton. Her clothes are drenched in blood and water, and her shoes feel like swimming pools. She thinks of her mother, slitting her throat on the altar, or her father, hanging himself in his bedroom. She thinks of David, fighting Goliath and winning, and David, finding her drowning and helping. She thinks of Father Michael, the wolf in sheep's clothing, with a shepherd's crook the shape of a sickle.

The parishioners are arriving. They're emerging from the river, out of their airboats and canoes. With rifles slung over shoulders and flashlight beams streaming through tall grass. They gasp, wobbling back on their heels. The Lady's group cries out in horror, men aiming their guns at Maggie's crimson figure. Shouting erupts from the herd. They tremble in fear and suffering, bones shaken with grief.

"He's dead."

And the Angel said be not afraid.

But they were, Oh, they were.

#short story #horror #thriller #religious

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bestialsadist · 7 years ago

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Beast uf Tha Southern Wild (|5|) Bloodmoon: Fam’ly, Tribe, an’ Pack Pt. 1-4

Part 1:

Bloodmoon. Mah Fam’ly. Mah Tribe. Mah Pack.

Ain’t nothin’ mo’ impo’tant den dem.

I’m standin’ hea, watchin’ mah fam’ly from tha backyard porch. Nika tumblin’ an’ wrestlin’ wit’ @IndigenousHowls, swearin’ up an’ down she gon’ git ‘em on tha ground one day. @HerCajunFlame got ha feet in tha water, starin’ off at tha horizon. Nico by ‘im an’ BJ back house, workin’ on his latest bike. Dat boy betta not git no oil on mah mah ground. @LoyalMasochist in tha kitchen cookin’ up som’thin’ dat smell too damn gud ta’ jus’ be food.

I crack open anotha Guinness wit’ mah teeth an’ spit tha cap in tha trash nex’ ta’ me. @LoyalMasochist na’ ‘bout uh second lata come suckin’ ha teeth as she walk by me.

“One of these days you’re gonna crack a tooth. So damn hard-headed. Open it like normal person, Lie.”

“Luh yah too, Z.”

Throwin’ ha wink as she suck ha teeth again an’ roll ha pretty lil’ eyes at me, I head back in when I hea mah baby sis yellin’ she brought som’ shrimp étouffée fa’ dinna an’ uh new lil’ girlfriend. I shake mah laughin’.

“Chea on tha menu too? O’ nah?”

“I’ma slap yah, ‘Tiste. Keep yah paws off mah girl.”

I roll mah eyes as she come kiss mah cheek an’ introduce me ta’ tha latest, nameless chick who ain’t gon’ exist come nex’ week. Bu’ I smile an’ be polite ‘o course. Bu’ wha’ make me laugh hard as shi’, Desi pull out uh bea from tha fridge an’ open tha shit jus’ like me. I can damn’nea hea mah wif’ lose ha shit.

“Gahdamn! What’s wrong with you two?!”

“Awww, Zelly… I fa’got how much yah hate dat.”

We both crackin’ up ‘cos she’on’t care how much @LoyalMasochist hate it an’ she know it. Bu’ ta’ make mattas worse, Desi spit tha metal top inta’ tha trash jus’ like I do too. Dat’s when Z gih up an’ walk off, goin’ ta’ talk ta’ Nicky wif’ an’ pretend none uf us really hea.

“She gon’ kick yah ass, Desi.”

“She gon’ kick both ou’ asses, ‘Tiste.”

“I know…”

We both laugh. Wit’ tha holidays jus’ ‘round tha cornah, I been thankin’ hard ‘bout whea we at as uh fam’ly, uh tribe, an’ ua pack. @LoyalMasochist been whisperin’ in mah ear ‘bout thangs she been hearin’ from tha otha wif’s, girlfriends, an’ so has Desi. Dey tell us wha’ me, Nicky, an’ Napalm cain’t a’ways git from tha co’munity.

Tha las’ yea an’ uh half been filled wit’ mendin’ an’ makin’ bonds wit’ fam’ly, tha Eldas uf ou’ tribes, an’ tha mambas uf ou’ packs. None uf it been easy, bu’ tha hardest mendin’ been wit’ mah own fam’ly, mah cubs. Tha untrigga’d ones. I’on’t know ‘im like I kno’ Nika an’ BJ, so tryin’ ta’ get ta’ kno’ who dey are on uh day ta’ day, an’ not jus’ on tha full moon been hard. Harda den any fatha should hafta’ deal wit’. Bu’ e’vn @IndigenousHowls, he d’fferent adjustin’ ta’ bein’ uh man mo’ den uh wolf. Nika tha mos’ well-adjusted despite e’vrythang she went tru—tho ha lil’ tempa ain’t no joke. I thank ‘cos she got ta’ be ‘round us in d’fferent forms, dat tha othas couldn’t—she uh lil’ betta den ha sistas an’ brothas. Tommy I couldn’t gih two fucks ‘bout much, bu’ Nico, @HerCajunFlame, an’ me still gotta ways ta’ go. Nico comin’ ‘round. Slowly, bu’ it’s happenin’. NeeNee, I ain’t rea’ly gotta gud read on, yet. Chea in ha head a lot, like me. An’ ha books, like ha mama. I gotta figa out tha way ta’ get ha talkin’ an’ get ha an’ ha mama ta’ talkin’. @LoyalMasochist had ta’ lea NeeNee not ta’ long afta she was born an’ dat broke mah wife in mo’ ways den one. Chea barely had uh yea wit’ ha befo’ tha curse kicked back in. I’on’t thank dey eva gon’ recova from tha loss uf all dem yeas.

Bu’ it ain’t jus’ us.

All tha cursed wolves been dealin’ wit’ fam’lies in shambles, broken apart, an’ fa’ som’, unmendable. We was lucky dat Aubrey, Z big sista, an’ ha husband could take in ou’ cubs while we couldn’t. Dey was tha day ta’ day mama an’ daddy dey needed an’ I’ll a’ways be grateful fa’ dat. Not e’vrybody had dat opshun. E’vn tho many uf tha untrigga’d in ou’ tribes took in cubs uf otha kin, some still fell tru tha cracks. Ended up in fosta care o’ wors’. Fa’ ou’ tribe, dis was real bad since we was disowned from tha res’ uf dem.

We was cursed fa’ uh decade. All dat’s been broken ain’t gon’ be fix’d ova nigh’. Uh shi’ty realizashun I dun’ had ova tha las’ yea na. Months an’ months uf us all tryna get back ta’getha an’ on tha same page ta’ move forward’s been nothin’ bu’ hell on wheels. Bu’ den, anythang wit’ us wolves a’ways is. Tha o’ly thang gud ‘bout bein’ newly freed, many uh men lookin’ fa’ work. Hard ta’ find uh job dat undastand yah can’t be dere bu’ one o’ two nigh’s uf tha month. Wolf-owned bus’nesses bein’ rebuilt wit’ ou’ own paws an’ thrivin’ on ou’ own m’ney. Bu’ outside tha bus’ness, tha laws uf tribes an’ tha way uf ou’ livin’ ain’t as easy ta’ come ta’ ‘greements on. None uf ‘em seem ta’ git on tha same page long enuf ta’ ‘gree on whea ta’ take us all from hea. In-fightin’s tha whole reason we was vulnerable ta’ tha vamp’s witch-bitch’s curse ova uh decade ago anyway. If we banded as one, no fanga woulda been able ta’ take us on. Not e’vn one wit’ uh witch ta’ do his biddin’. Mah pack had nothin’ ta’ do wit’ any uf dat. Too busy sellin’ powda an’ pills befo’ tha shi’ hit tha radar on uh Na’shunal scale. Mah mind was on makin’ m’ney fa’ mah fam’ly. Nothin’ mo’, nothin’ less. We fell prey ‘cos uf tha Crescents an’ Guerrera’s an’ dey bul’shit wit’ tha fangas. Fuckin’ idjits. Uh curse’on’t discriminate. Bu’ we gotta pick up tha pieces jus’ tha same.

E’vn tho mah Pack’s in line, tha othas got some comin’ ‘round ta’ do. Some packs re’dy an’ willin’ ta’ gravel at tha feet uf tha Hybrid while tha res’ uf us ain’t hea fo’ it. Me an’ @LoyalMasochist an’ ou’ pack damn sho’ ain’t hea fa’ it. I ain’t lookin’ ta’ be nobody’s lil’ bitch. I’on’t gih uh fuck who he is o’ whea his bloodline come from. He ain’t tha architect uf mah fam’ly. He jus’ anotha muthafucka tryna con’trol us. Jus’ anotha way idjits lettin’ outsidas break us ‘part. It’on’t make no sense we keep repeatin’ ol’ habits dat’ll get us killed. E’vn tho e’vrybody thank I’ma beast, ‘dere ain’t nothin’ I care mo’ ‘bout den mah Fam’ly, mah Tribe, an’ mah Pack.

“Penny for your thoughts, papa?”

@LoyalMasochist’s lil’ voice snaps me outta mah thoughts. I lean mah elbows down on tha porch railin’ an’ search ha eyes, starin’ back at me.

“Mm... Tell me yahs an’ I’ll tell yah mine, chea…”

Ha face tell me she know ‘xactly what I mean. “Nothin’ ta’ say, chea?” She keep quiet, worryin’ ha bo’tom lip. I kiss ha nose an’ go back ta’ drankin’ mah bea. It’s been uh long yea fo’ us all.

E’vn ha an’ me…

____

Part 2:

Grimancin’ wit’ creased brows, I hiss at tha stink uf tha cow’ard hangin’ by uh noose an’ beggin’ fa’ mercy in fronta me. His tiptoes touchin’ tha chair unda him jus’ enuf so he’on’t hang ‘imself. -Yet.- He ain’t got long fo’ I kick tha chair from unda ‘im jus’ ta’ watch ‘im strangle ta’ death ‘cos I’m fuckin’ bored uf his bul’shit. I dun poured wolfsbane down his throat ta’ watch tha herb burn through his flesh an’ beat tha shit outta ‘im so e’vry gappin’ gash an’ jagged cut ‘on’t heal so quick while tryna. He ain’t tha firs’ eitha. ‘Bout eight uf his packmembas hangin’ upside down in tha otha room, dead, ‘cos dey ain’t gimmie tha ansas I wanted ta’ hea. Tha name uf dey supplia. Dis’ere pack’s been rackin’ up m’ney lef’ an’ righ’ wit’ rumas uf workin’ fo’ uh new deala in town. Sumbody tryna come fa’ mah ter’tory. Who dat deala is, nobody seem ta’ know so I pay uh visit ta’ tha capo’s, tha Deepwata Pack, ta’ see ‘bout dis’ere mystery guy. Bu’ when we showed up ta’ dis’ere saf’house I caught uh glimpse uf sumthin’ el’se. Sumthin’ mo’ pressin’ den m’ney feuds.

Zak guardin’ tha do’ from tha inside, uh few guys guardin’ outside, an’ Nicky an’ Napalm standin’ behin’ me as I stare dis’ere so-called Alpha face ta’ face.

“So, tell me, dipshit, ‘cos I’m losin’ wha’ lil’ pat’ence I got left an’ seein’ as half yah guys a’ready dead, I ain’t start wit’ much. Whea yah git dis’ere man jew’lry from? Yah’on’t look lika faggot.”

I hol’up his ring fanga in front uf ‘im. I cut it off ‘cos he got dis’ere ring on wit’ uh lil’ dark stone thas givin’ his Pack tha ‘bility ta’ use tha powa uf dey wolves e’vn when dey ain’t shif’ted. Sumthin’ o’ly mah kind can do. Sumthin’ mah kind was exiled fo’. I got dat much outta his dead Pack, ‘least. Firs’ it was jus’ rumas on tha grapevine dat Weres was changin’, gainin’ powas like us outlaws. Nobody was claimin’ it ta’ be true o’ na, so we ignored it neva thankin’ it could re’ly be true. Bu’ ta’day, I seen it wit’ mah own eyes. We all did. Dis’ere Deepwata Alpha down in tha bayou wit’ his pack, shiftin’ parts uf dey body in broad daylight fa’ anybody nosin’ ‘round hea ta’ see. Dey ain’t e’vn see us lurkin’ ‘round. Dis shit’s real an’ uh threat ta’ mah bloodline. If tha Powas dat be get dey hands on sumthin’ dat make ‘em match us, wha’s ta’ stop ‘em from tryna take us all out….-A’gin.- Dat includes e’vrybody who ‘ligned wit’ us too....Like mah wif’ an’ cubs.

“It don’t...don’t matter where...we got it from. This is…for protection. You gon’ keep...killing your own….kind for us choosing…to protect ourselves?!”

Tha mo’ tha cow’ard stuttas an’ whimpas, tha mo’ I’m gettin’ a’noyed. Don’t nothin’ piss me off mo’ den uh spin’less wolf. I migh’ be’uh liar, cheata, an’ e’vn uh killa, bu’ I ain’t neva an’ will eva be uh fuckin’ cow’ard. I feel tha golden eyes uf mah beast flash pass mine an’ I kno’ I cain’t hol’ ‘im back too much longa.

“Traitas ain’t mah kind, muthafucka. An’ who yah so ‘fraid uf? Who yah protectin’ yah pack from? Yah new Boss? Whoeva dat is. Oh…I hope yah’on’t mean dat silly ass Hybrid-muthafucka. I’ll kill yah’ on pr’nciple if dat’s tha case.”

I still ain’t got no respect fa’ Mistah Do Wha’ I say O’ Watch Me Cry ‘Bout It. He ain’t tha maka uf mah bloodline o’ mos’ uf ou’s from down deep by tha Bayous. Bu’ Jimbo hea, see ‘em. He see mah eyes flash bright an’ know within uh s’cond wha’ I am. He’on’t gotta say nothin’, it’s written all ova his face. E’vn tho he strainin’ ta’ talk from tha pain uf his beatdown an’ cutoff body parts, hate an’ rage pulse in his bulgin’ eyes clea as day. If he wa’n’t hangin’ from tha ceilin’ he prolly be tryna take mah head off.

“Yeah…You’re right. You’re not -our- kind. BPC shunned you Scummoons from our packs decades ago. Why they didn’t kill you savages off like the Atakapas, none of us will ever fucking know. You cain’t begin to understand why we need this! Not that I gotta explain myself to you trash, but I made a decision to protect my pack. Give us control over who we are so it can’t be used against us ever again. -Period.- If we can’t protect ourselves, what’s the point of rebuilding our packs anyway?”

His anga an’ disgust’s all wrapped inta’ one. All shit I’m usedta’ an’ ‘on’t care ‘bout. I can undastand uh Alpha wantin’ ta’ protect his pack tho. Bu’ dis ain’t tha way ta’ do it an’ it sho’ ain’t help ‘im too much wit’ me hea an’ na.

“Dis’ere ain’t no protecshun, idjit. Dis’ control. I ain’t neva had it e’sy, from outsidas -an’- e’vn otha shiftas like yah’self. So, ‘on’t come talkin’ ‘bout protectin’ wha’s yahs ta’ me. Imagin’ havin’ ta’ protect yah’self from yah own kind, huntin’ yah fam’ly like wild dogs!”

Mah anga get da bes’ uf me an’ I hurl uh blow ta’ his lowa torso, righ’ ‘bout way uf his kidney. Tha one thang I a’ways had was control ova when tha ragin’ part uh me culd be let out his cage. Mos’ly. Sumthin’ most mah kind cain’t say, an’ tha v’ry reason tha LaPierre bloodline been stri’ped from ou’ rightful place in tha Bayou Pack Co’ncil. Ta’ be shunned mean tha Bloodmoons ain’t got no say in tha goings on uf tha Bayou tribes an’ Packs an’ tha roy’lty uf mah bloodline been seared ‘way since mah great, great, great-granddaddy was roamin’ dis’ere swamps. Prolly befo’. Searin’s uh ritual done ta’ tear ou’ connecshun from e’vry otha Bayou Pack an’ strip us uf ou’ connecshun ta’ tha F’rst Shamans. Ou’ own Ancestas an’ tha Firs’ uf Ou’ Kind. Dat come wit’ it’s own heep uh bul’shit. Mah mar’iage, cubs, an’ tribe ain’t re’ly recognized o’ real in’tha eyes uf BPC who still hol’ ta’ all dese ‘ol tradishuns an’ rules dat say mah blood’s tha scurge uf tha Earth. It’s like we hea bu’ ain’t hea.

Tha Eldas was jus’ too piss’d tha lycan gene ain’t sumthin’ dey culd get like all tha otha ‘bilities passed down in tha Were-lines. So wha’doyah do when yah want sumthin’ somebody else got an’ ain’t givin’ up? -Yah take it.- If dat’on’t work, yah make it sumthin’ -nobody- wants. Dat’s ‘xactly what dey did ta’ mah fam’ly all dem yea’s ago. Dey ain’t had tha powa ta’ take us on, bu’ dey had tha infl’ence ta’ make us invis’ble.

Tha Eldas say since all wolves gotta trigga tha wolf by murda, ta’ dem, uh way uh killin’ uh lil’ piece uf yah humanity ta’ let tha beast in, we must be mo’ beast den man, since we ain’t gotta kill ta’ let ou’ beast roam free. We must be nat’ral born killas den. So, dey outlawed lycans as tha one thang ev’rybody look down at an’ won’t be a’sociated wit’. Tha savages. Tha beasts. Tha -othas.- Tha thang ev’rybody too ‘fraid ta’ be, ‘cos ta’ dem, we sumthin’ dat ain’t so...human. Easiest way ta’ make e’vrybody okay wit’ hate? Make ‘em ‘fraid uf tha otha.

It’s tha ’merican way.

“Yeah… Uhhuh... I see it in your eyes. You’re thinking about it. You have the choice not to turn. You have the choice not to be broken. We don’t! We don’t have the choice not to be the savage beasts you are! By what shit-stain karma fuck up would you get such a choice, but decent people don’t?!”

E’en tho I ain’t neva felt like much, I ain’t neva felt like less fa’ bein’ wha’ I am––despite tha Eldas wantin’ us LaPierre’s an’ all those who share ou’ blood ta’ feel dat way. Bu’ so many sho’ try ta’ remind me we ain’t shit. E’vn when dey s’conds from stranglin’ dem’selves ta’ death. Thang is, tha one thang he want so gahdamn bad is tha re’son he see me lowa den tha horseshit he stepped in. Dey’d all luh ta’ hav’ ou’ powa bu’ not tha stigma ‘ttached ta’ it. Packs been hatin’ ma kind so lon’ dey’on’t kno’ why dey hate beyon’ tha lies dey tell demselves ‘bout us.

I ain’t moved tho. Still startin’ ‘im in tha eye. I clea mah throat an’ hawk spit righ’ ‘tween his eyes.

“Such uh fuckin’ cow’ard. Yah sicken me. It’s Packs like yah’s dat make it e’sy fa’ anybody ta’ take us down. Ta’ busy lookin’ out fa’ yah’gahdamnself. I say Pack ‘cos none uf ‘em stood ‘gainst yah bad choices. How yah’on’t undastand tha o’ly protecshun yah eva need is yah own kind?! Huh?! Not some outsida quick ta’ make yah turn on dem who got yah back mos’. Say wha yah wan’ ‘bout mah blood, I’d neva sell out mah Pack an’ make ‘em bitches ta’ wha’eva sucka yah made uh deal wit’. ‘Cos dat’s all dis lil’ magical man-jewel ‘ere is, uh fuckin’ leash fa’ all yah ta’ bow down. Na who gave it ta’ yah? Hm? I’on’t wanna hafta take out tha res’ uf yah pack ta make mah fuckin’ point. Try me if yah thank I’m bluffin’, Jimbo.”

Takin’ steps ova ta’ tha few uf his membas still breathin’ an’ standin’ ‘gainst tha wall, I grab anotha one uf ‘em by tha neck an’ yank ha esophagus from ha throat. Ha warm, bloody muscle still in mah palm when ha body crumbles ta’ tha ground.

“I kin keep goin’. One by one ‘til yah gih me wha’ I want. Up ta’ yah.” Uh sickenin’ smirk touch mah thin-lipped mug.

“Black Pines! They’re handing them out to any pack willing to take them!”

“Ugh.” Alls I can say… I shake mah head wit’ uh he’vy grunt, his revelashun bein’ tha v’ry thang I was hopin’ wa’n’t true. Strollin’ back ova ta’ ‘im, I grab his face wit’ mah bloody hand afta droppin’ ha throat on tha way ova. “I shoulda known it was dem. Whyah ain’t go ta’ tha Co’ncil ta’ stop dis’ere shit?! Band ta’getha ‘nstead uf signin’ up ta’ be tha Hybrid’s lit’le bitch?”

His face scrunch up an’ eyes bulge like I’m tha one missin’ sumthin’.

“You stupid inbred sack of shit! The Council -made- the deal!”

____

Part 3:

“Lie…”

I hea mah wif’s sleepy voice comin’ from tha livin’ room an’ I kno’ tha sound uf chea when she been up worryin’ an’ wonderin’ whea I’m at. It’s uh d’fferent sound den when she jus’ wan’ some a’tenshun from me so she wait up ta’ talk ta’ me ‘bout mah day an’ ha’s. I’on’t kno’ why I thought I’d be able ta’ walk in mah house an’ na’ht be botha’d. It’s dumba den uh tick ona flea ta’ e’vn thank so. Dis’ w’man gotta fuckin’ sixth sense when it comes ta’ me, ha fam’ly, an’ ha cubs. I suck inna deep breath befo’ ansa’n ta’ mah name.

“Yea, chea? Yah ‘wake?” I kno’ chea is bu’ I’m gaugin’ ha state.

“Mhm. Where you been, Papa? And what’s that sm….” Chea bee-lines ‘round tha couch fa’ me, wearin’ ona mah black wif’beetas dat giv’me uh lil’ sideboob ac’shun from ha, some black shorts dat let ha lil’ booty hang ou’t, dark grey socks that reach tha top uf ha thighs, an’ ha furry grey an’ black wolf-claw house shoes chea luh so much. Wha’ dey call’at? Irony? Wit’ wha’ Z got on, if tha nex’ look on ha face wa’n’t wha’ it was an’ wha’ I knew it’d be, I’d expect dis’hea nigh’ ta’ go real d’ferent den it’s ‘bouta.

Stoppin’ in ha tracks soon as ha eyes land on me, chea ain’t gotta say uh word fa’ me ta’ kno’ whea ha mind go. Dat’s uh real thang ‘tween ma’ried folks, supan’tural o’ na’ht. Some shit jus’on’t needta’ be said. Some shit jus’ -shuldn’t- be said.

Ha head cocks ta’ tha side whil’ she grabs mah wrists o’ly showin’ me I’m righ’ ‘bout why chea stopped so hard an’ so fast. She smell it on me. I kno’ she do. Chea kno’ wha’ I dun wit’ou’t me sayin’ uh word. She’s carryin’ mah cub, so ha senses heightened e’vn mo’ den dat Babineaux w’man intuishun chea a’redy got. Notice I ain’t say mama ‘cos she had dat shi’ long fa’ she had mah firs’ cub. Bu’ fa’ Weres, dey’on’t get ta’ ‘xperience dey wolf powas in human form like us, ‘cept fa’ two ways. One, fa uh few days afta dey shift. An’ two, since dey’on’t turn whil’ dey carryin’, some uf dey senses rise ta’ tha surface durin’ dis’hea time. So it’on’t s’prise me chea kno’ I been up ta’ no good. I jus’ hoped she was sleep so I culd handle it befo’ she kno’ nuthin’.

Tuggin’ me ta’ tha kitchen by mah arm, chea’on’t touch mah black-gloved hands an’ make sho’ I’on’t touch nothin’ else. When we stop at tha sink, I lean ‘gainst tha counta an’ watch ha work. Z loads tha dishwasha, which chea’on’t eva use, wit’ tha leftova dishes an’ rinses tha sink ou’t ta’ fill tha brown granite wit’ hot wata an’ bleach.

“Arms up.” Chea grabs tha end uf mah dark, long-sleeve thermo ta’ pull it an’ tha gloves at tha ends off an’ I lean ova ta’ help ha pull it all offa me. “Pants too.”

I’on’t giv’ha no figh’ e’vn tho she got me undressin’ like she ‘bout ta’ send me ta’ bed wit’ no dinna. Theas uh joke somwhea in thea jus’ waitin’ ta’ be told. Bu’ na’ht righ’ na. I take off e’vrythang else bu’ mah black boxas whil’ chea grab uh trash bag ta’ stuff mah clothes all in. “Put your ring in the bowl right there and then hands in the water. I’ll be back.”

I do as I’m told’, lettin’ tha sterlin’ silver clink ‘gainst tha glass bowl an’ watchin’ ha retreat back whea I jus’ come from. Dis’ tha wif’ mos’on’t kno’ so much. -Q.- Tha w’man who was by mah side when I went from dope deala ta’ top uf tha food chain, o’ some wuld say, from ‘Tiste ta’ Tha Beast. Chea kno’ all mah secrets an’ jus’ ‘bout e’vrythang I’on’t say.

Befo’ I kno’ it I hea tha low hum uf tha washa kick in an’ I drop mah head down an’ push mah hands inta’ tha hot wata. It’s scoldin’ lik’ mah wif’s tryna sear mah skin off mah bones bu’ it’on’t botha me much.

Mah mind’s stuck on wha’ dat Alpha said. Tha Co’ncil sol’d us ou’ ta’ tha fuckin’ Hybrid.

-A’gin.-

Well, na’ht -us- ‘cos we shunned an’ I wuldn’t bow ta’ tha fuckin’ claw’d fanga if it meant tha end uf mah life. Som’body needta’ sho’ blondie wha’ real wolves ou’hea made uf an’ tha Co’ncil ain’t it. Ratha yah bury me in tha grave fo’ I let’cha make me uh fuckin’ slave. Dey made tha rest uf tha Packs, ‘leas dem dumb enuf ta’ take tha bait lika dick down dey throat, turn bitch fa’ ‘im -a’gin.- Thankin’ ‘is protectshun gon’ save ‘em from his need ta’ dominate ‘em. Fuckin’ idjits. Anybody kno’ uh Mikaelson deal a’ways come wit’uh price an’ dey neva tha ones payin’ fa’ shi’. How culd mah wif’ wan’me ta’ go crawlin’ back ta’ tha Bayou Pack Co’ncil uf C’wards? Ta’ be recognized by dem? Fa’ dem ta’ tell me mah claws o‘ficial an’ mah cubs a’cepted by dem weak an’ hateful fucks? If we was part uf dem, we’d be sol’d ou’t righ’ na ta’! Fuck dat!

I’m yellin’ in mah head. Yellin’ ta’ tha darkness.

Tha thoughts pissin’ me off all ova a’gin, remindin’ me why I neva gav’ uh fuck fa’ dem nah’t a’ceptin’ mah fam’ly name e’vn though it’s as old as dea’s. I’on’t feel mah’self growlin’ ‘til I look up at mah reflec’shun in tha kitchen windo an’ see tha fiery gold glow in mah eyes.

“Our girls are upstairs sleeping, Lie.”

Ha hands graze ova mah arms as she slips ha’self besides me at tha sink an’ grabs tha metal wire brillo pad she use fa tha pots. I ain’t e’vn kno’ chea was thea. She’on’t look up at me, she stare at mah golden glare in tha window.

“Lemme scrub just a little then you go run and we talk when you come back or we can just talk.” Z presses ha cheek ‘gainst mah bare shulda as she starts ta’ scrubbin’ mah fangas unda tha bleach-filled wata. “You hear me?”

I nod, tha anga seepin’ as ha hands trail mah heated flesh. “You already know my rules but whatever you need to do to get yourself together, Lie. -Do it.- I don’t want them seeing you like this.”

“In my….” Z pinches me an’ I growl down at’ha, mo’ jokin’ den anythang.

“If you say ‘in my draws,’ I’m gonna punch you in tha throat. You know what I mean.” She sucks ha teeth at me an’ I kno’ I’m on thin ice an’ close ta’ ha poppin’ me one.

“Dea ain’t much ta’ say, chea.”

“Mhm. I’m scrubbing your hands in bleach. There’s plenty to say, Lie.”

Dat’s three times chea done said mah name in less den uh few minutes an’ I ain’t fuckin’ ha.

I sigh. I knew I’d hafta’ say somthin’ so I go wit’ tha easiest. I tell ha tha truth an’ nuthin’ bu’ tha truth. E’vrythang ‘bout Deepwata shiftin’ wit’ou tha Moon, tha co’ncil sellin’ us ou’, -a’gin-, na’ht o’ly ta’ tha fuckin’ Hybrid bu’ ta’ tha Acandian Bayou Packs ta’, tha packs lurkin’ ‘round an’ passin’ ou’ rangs like dey candy, an’ e’vn tha mess we left in dey Deepwata double-wide. We ain’t get ridda tha whol’ Pack bu’ we took ou’ tha cocksucka’s inna circle. Lef’ one ta’ go back an’ tell tha Co’ncil an’ dey new lil’ alliances dat na’ht e’vrybody wanna be no slaves ta’ tha fuckin’ fangas. Bu’ I leav’ ou’ tha part ‘bout tha Black Pines bein’ part uf dis’hea. Tha same pack who’s Alpha I killed an’ took in ‘is pack. I’on’t kno’ how tha pack’s e’vn rebuildin’ bu’ I’on’t wan’ha worried ‘bout any uf dat’dea ‘cos dat’s uh whol’ heep uf shi’ chea’on’t need on ha head.

I cain’t.

Judgin’ by tha blank stare on ha face, chea ain’t b’lievin’ uh word I’m sayin’ ta’ ha. An’ I kno’ why. Ha fatha’s tha Chief uf tha Bayou Pack Co’ncil an’ e’vn though ha an’ ‘im ain’t seen eye ta’ eye fa’ yea’s, chea still uh daddy’s g’rl at heart. Mo’ den chea’d eva let anybody kno’. Yah cain’t tell ha nothin’ ‘bout ‘im. No matta how much chea call ‘em by ‘is firs’ name behin’ ‘is back. Ta’ thank he uh traita ta’ his kind an’ workin’ wit’ tha Arc’s jus’ migh’ be ta’ much fa’ ha ta’ take righ’ na’. Tha man chea won’t me ta’ go gravel ta’ is tha same man sellin’ us ou’ ta’ tha highest bidda so dey can do ‘xactly wha’ he spit in mah face fo’: control tha wulf inside.

Bu’ I guess since it’s -us,- it’s d’fferent.

“You come in my house, filthy with whoever you’ve killed tonight, probably dismembered, and you’re saying my father’s a traitor? My father’s an asshole and so much more but a traitor? Even I won’t let you spread lies like that on my damn name.”

I suck in uh deep breath an’ stare at mah wif’. Did chea jus’ say -mah name.-

“Yah name, eh?” I cain’t stop tha sarcastic laugh dat come ou’ mah mouf mo’ ta’ stop me from goin’ off on mah pregnant damn wif’. “Ar’yah fuckin’ s’rious? I’ma ‘sume yah harmones on some otha shi’ righ’ na.”

Ha eyes widen an’ I cain’t help bu’ stare righ’ back at’ha. How culd chea think I’d lie ta’ ha, ‘specially ‘bout ha daddy. “Since when I lie ta’ yah ‘bout’cha fam’ly? Hm? When -tha fuck- hav’ I -eva- lied ta’ yah ‘bout yah daddy?” Chea jus’ stare hard at me, chewin’ ha bottom lip. “Huh? I cain’t fuckin’ hea yah, Z. -When?-” I’m growlin’, tryin’ na’ht ta’ wake up mah g’rls.

“Never.”

I lean in, pushin’ mah ear ha way. “Say dat ‘gin, I still’on’t fuckin’ hea yah, Zelda.”

“Never, you ass!” Chea shoves me so hard mah back hits tha dishes on tha counta makin’ uh glass fall in tha empty side uf tha sink an’ shatta. Chea jump at’tha sound uf tha glass breakin’ an’ I narro mah eyes. I kno’ it ain’t me chea mad at bu’ I cain’t hol’ mah tongue. Na’ht righ’ na’.

“I ain’t fuckin’ thank so. So, why tha fuck wuld I start na’? Dis’hea wha’ tha Deepwata fucka tol’ me hangin’ upside down fa’ ‘is life an’ it’on’t seem like he was lyin’. Ain’t no way somthin’ lik’ some fuckin’ rangs dat control yah whol’ ass shift gon’ be somthin’ dat’on’t get back ta’ tha co’ncil. Ta’ -yah- fuckin’ daddy!” I point uh wet, accusin’ fanga in ha face. “Yah fuckin’ kno’ it an’ I fuckin’ kno’ it. E’vn if yah daddy ain’t make tha deal, he in on it some way. Swallo dat fuckin’ pill.”

I push off tha kitchen counta, waggin’ mah soapy hands like crazy ova tha sink ‘til tha extra wata gon’ an’ I grab uh few papa towels ta’ dry ‘em off sommo’. It cain’t be easy ta’ hea none uf dis’hea an’ I kno’ it. Mah decishun ta’ leav’ ou’ tha part uf tha Black Pines jus’ feels e’vn mo’ righ’. Chea turn on tha wata, risnin’ off ha own hands.

In s’lence.

I suck inna deep breath an’ toss tha papa towels in tha trash. Mah claws scratchin’ at mah insides, tryin’ta’ rip through tha surface an’ I kno’ it ain’t good fa’ me ta’ be cooped up righ’ na’. I’m fuckin’ pissed tha fuck off an’ I kno’s betta if I take dat run befo’ I say somthin’ I’on’t mean. Mah lycan’s growlin’ at me ta’ go ou’chea an’ get me some air.

“Fuck dis’hea.”

Betta I lis’sen na’ den regret it lata.

Na’, mah ears get hot an’ mah feet’on’t wanna move. It’s lika call deep inside me dat stop me in mah tracks as hard as chea did when I walked in tha house. I sigh. Hard. Noe flared an’ chest heavin’ an’ slowly goin’ down as mah anga tries ta’ calm itself e’vn befo’ I realize why. Z wipes ha face an’ rubs ha belly. I jus’ ‘bout hea mah wif’s tea’rs rollin’ down ha face as chea wobbles fa’ tha sink, prolly ta’ pick up tha broken pieces.

____

Part 4:

“Z…”

Chea ignore me an’ go fa’ tha broken glass bu’ I’m on’ha fasta den tha next tea’r can roll down ha face. Grab’n ha hands an’ stoppin’ ha befo’ chea cut ha’self ‘cos she upset. I kno’ wha’ I tol’ ha ain’t e’sy ta’ hea bu’ I ain’t expect dis’hea.

“-Zelda.-”

I say ha full name whil’ I’m starrin’ at ha ta’ make ha look up at me. Bu’ chea’on’t. She’on’t e’vn budge. E’vn when I say ha full name.

“Z.”

I brang ha fangatips ta’ mah lips an’ kiss ‘em. I let all tha mad leav’ mah voice an’ say ha name a’gin. “Z…”

Chea f’nally look up at me. Red an’ puffy a’redy. It’on’t take much fa’ mah wif’ ta’ go red bu’ dis’hea d’ferent. I can count on one hand how many times I seen dis’hea much hurt in ha eyes. It’s a’ways had ta’ do wit’ ou’r cubs o’ wit’ ha fuckin’ Daddy. It’s uh d’ferent kinda hurt den when I’ve hurt ha bein’ som’ kinda young, dumb ass. Fuckin’ ‘round o’ worse.

“I’m s’ry, chea. I’ma dumbass.” I wrap ha arms ‘round mah neck an’ res’ mah head ‘gainst ha head an’ whispa. “I wa’n’t tryna hurt’cha, Z. Yah kno’ dat.”

I wa’n’t. I ain’t neva tryna hurt mah wif’. Eva. Bu’ wha’ I was -tryna- do an’ wha’ I -did’s- two d’ferent thangs. Mah wif’ can ice yah ou’ wit’ tha best uf ‘em bu’ righ’na I need’ha ta’ talk ta’ me.

“Z…”

Chea snatch ha hands from mine, scowlin’ an’ wipin’ ha eyes wit’ tha back uf ha hand. Walkin’ backwards ‘way from me, it’s clea chea wan’ha space bu’ I follo ha an’way ‘til chea giv’me ha death stare dat tell me ta’ fuck off. Chea ain’t tryna ta’ talk ta’ me. Chea’on’t turn ha back on me ‘til she kno’ I’m na’ht followin’ ha. Dea’s times when mah wif’ wan’s me ta’ folla an’ console ha, bu’ dis’hea ain’t one uf dem times.

Leanin’ ‘gainst tha sink, I sigh an’ grip tha counta lik’ I wanna break tha goddamn edge off. I fuckin’ migh’. Bu’ I migh’ hava bigga figh’ on mah hands if I do. I go ou’back ta’ tha laundry room fa’ some sweats o’ somthin’. Hopin’ I find somthin’ still hidin’ in tha baskets since mah wif’ been quick on tha puttin’ stuff back, I lis’sen fa’ Z ta’ close tha do’ behin’ ha ‘cos if chea’on’t slam tha do’, chea wants me ta’ folla ha. I ain’t got high hopes tho. Tha cut from ha ice still openin’ mah flesh deep.

When I find uh pair uf mah tan linen pants, I pull ‘em on an’ tie tha draw strang, hearin’ mah bedroom doh slam shut an’ rattle tha pictuas on tha wall ‘long tha stairs.

“I need ta’ go tha fuck ou’side.”

Dis’hea ain’t wha’ I want’d ta’ come home ta’. I ain’t tryna be fightin’ mah wif’ ova ha fuckin’ traita ass daddy. Tryin’ na’ht ta’ slam tha do’ behin’ me, I head ou’ back an’ stare at’tha sky. Tha chill air on mah skin ain’t enuf ta’ stop mah blood from boilin’. E’vry bone in mah body’s on tha verge uf breakin’ bu’ I suck in som’ fresh air an’ fuckin’ fight tha urge ta’ howl at’tha goddamn moon. Mah wif’s prolly upstairs cryin’ an’ stabin’ uh pictura uf me ‘cos I jus’ shatta’d ha. I fuckin’ hate dat I cain’t lie ta’ ha eitha. Na’ht ‘bout all dis’hea. Dat trip up ta’ tha cabins seem so far ‘way righ’na an’ I’m wishin’ we was back in dat bliss. Dat quiet. Dem nights uf jus’ us wit’ no cares in tha world.

I rest mah arms on top uf mah head, lockin’ mah fangas an’ tryna calm tha fuck down. I feel tha growl sneak up in mah ches’ befo’ it com’ an’ I cain’t stop it. Na’ht e’vn if I try ta’ bu’ I’on’t. I let’mah growl turn ta’ uh howl dat rattles tha windos an’ mah dogs start barkin’ dea head’s off.

“Fuck.Fuck.Fuck.Fuck.”

Groanin’ an’ droppin’ mah head back, I got half’uh mind ta’ head up ta’ tha bedroom anyway. Bu’ befo’ I e’vn mov’ uh inch I see yah starin’ down at me from ou’ balcony. Yah bloodshot eyes lockin’ wit’ mah glowin’ glare. I see yah shakin’ from down hea an’ I’on’t care no mo’ if yah wan’ me dea o’ na’ht. Runnin’ back in tha house an’ lockin’ up behin’ me, I take tha stairs two an’ three atta time ta’ get ta’ yah. Pausin’ when I get ta’ tha clos’d do’, fa’ uh s’cond, I wava back an’ forth if I should go in o’ na’ht. Open o’ ‘on’t?

I open it lik’uh bull inna China shop, closin’ it behin’ me wit’ou’ no hes’tashun ‘cos I’on’t wanna wake tha g’rls.

“Z…”

I’on’t kno’ wha’ I expect ta’ see bu’ I ain’t thank yah’d be sittin’ on tha bed. “Chea…Talk ta’ me.”

“There isn’t anything to talk about.”

Silent tre’tment’s ova? Leas’ chea’s talkin’ ta’ me. I ain’t expect ha ta’ say nothin’ leas’ wit’ou’ sommo beggin’. “Bullshi’, dea’s uh lot ta’ talk ‘bout.”

“You tell me my father’s sold the wolves out to that son of a bitch and what? You want me to give you my analysis on it? Would you like that paper typed or handwritten?” Tha base in ha voice sends mah blood pressha sky-high a’gin. I suck in uh deep breath befo’ I say somthin’ I regret ta’ ha. Dis’hea yah wif’. Chea mad. Chea hurt. Dis’hea’s yah wif’.

I suck in anotha deep breath an’ drag mah hands down mah face. “I ain’t lookin’ fa’ yah analyze nothin’, chea. I jus’ wanna kno’ whea yah mind’s at. Yah wa’n’t e’vn believin’ me uh few s’conds ago.”

“I still don’t know if I do. There might be another explanation to this. Torturing people doesn’t always get the right answers to things.”

I roll mah eyes, feelin’ on edge righ’ na. Dis’hea tha irrashunal part uf mah wif’ comin’ ou’. Dat part dat’s wearin’ ha heart on ha sleeve ‘cos chea’on’t wanna b’lieve wha’ I’m tellin’ ha. I get it. It ain’t e’sy ta’ hea dat yah daddy an’ tha res’ uf tha Co’uncil’s uh pack uf fuckin’ c’wards. Dis’ I a’redy knew bu’ chea still b’elive in ‘em. Mo’ den I eva will. Ain’t no way tha res’ uf dem’on’t kno’ wha’s ha’pened an’ I kno’ dey went wit’ dis’hea decishun from tha Chief. Dat jus’ ain’t how tha packs work. I’on’t needta’ be wit’em ta’ kno’ dat.

Sittin’ on tha lounge an’ claspin’ mah hands ta’getha whil’ I tryta’ lis’sen ta’ ha wit’ open ears an’ na’ht tha anga risin’ in mah chest. Why wuld I fuckin’ lie ta’ yah? I swallo dat an’ say nothin’ instead. It’s betta dat way. Betta ta’ lis’sen.

“Hm. I guess it’s quiet time now.” I grind mah teeth an’ stare daggas at’ha. “You had so much to say before, why so quiet now? Hm? Not sure if you’re right or if I am?”

“Zelda, ‘on’t shoot tha fuckin’ messenga. I was jus’ as shock’d as yah’re. Wuld yah ratha I fuckin’ lie ta’ yah? Huh?”

Ha eyes roll cold bu’ ha tongue cuts me lik’uh blade righ’ou’ tha fire dat forges it. “Wouldn’t be the first fucking time.”

____

#BestialSadist #BeastOfTheSouthernWild #MC21+#BSSolo

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