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sadsoftserve · 1 year ago

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-Promises- An EE minific

(this is angsty. Really angsty. It's Bonnies backstory breaked down into a simple ~1,800 word one shot. This contains REALLY SENSITIVE CONTENT. The mentions of Domestic abuse, SA, and attempted murder. PLEASE IF ANY OF THIS TRIGGERS YOU AND OR MAKES YOU UNCOMFORTABLE. DO. NOT. READ. This is oc centric. Focuses on Bonnie, with mentions of her mom (Reseda) and her uncle, Ramsey..Not canon to EE. This is Fanwork)

Most of my early childhood was spent blocking out the screams of my parents, and hiding in the moist attic playing with whatever old anquite I could find. No matter what happened within the day, my drunk ‘dad’ would always find a way to beat me or my mother. I stayed as far as I could from them, out of fear it would happen to me. My mother was an amazing woman, Reseda Murdoch was her name, she worked tirelessly at a local library to support me and the drunk she was with. When she worked she often took me with her, she didn't want to leave me alone with the man who frequently beat us.

“Bonnie, baby, come on…” My mother gently cooed. “You know what happens when we’re late.” She loudly whispered as I sped up to match where she was walking. I didn't talk much as a kid, I had no need too. If I did speak it was because I absolutely had too. I shared a lot of physical attributes with my mom, the olive green eyes, and the red hair were the most prevalent. As we walked down the streets of the hood part of Sweet Jazz, my mother held my hand and prayed. Like she always did. She wasn't religious, just hopeful. Hopeful that one day the bastard would drop dead from alcohol poisoning or a drive-by. Me and my mother walked fast, the sooner we arrived the lesser the beating would be.

The closer we got to the house the more anxious my mother got. If we were lucky the bastard would already be asleep and we would go the day unscathed.

Other days, we weren't so lucky. Like today, as soon as we walked through the door his abhorrent screaming was heard. From where I was standing I could smell the alcohol on his breath. The slurring I was used to, the smell got worse every time I inhaled it. “Wher’ the hell have you beeen!” He grabbed my mother's collar and she let out a yelp. “Keep yer’ mouth shut, whore!” He broke the bud light bottle over her shoulder as she dropped to the ground, holding back tears. She couldn't cry in front of him, if she did it would get worse. He spat in front of her and threw the bottle down next to her. “Get me another ‘ne."

My mother nodded as she quickly stood up and ran to the kitchen to grab the beer he had yelled for. He glared at me. He didn't like me. Not one bit. I was his plaything. Something he could manipulate and play with at his leisure. I didn't know it was a crime. Looking back on it, the nights he would beat my mom so bad to the point of unconsciousness, were the nights he used me. I was five. I was barely a child, and yet he found it amusing to make me do things for him and his friends. Things I didn't know were bad or taboo. He touched me In places I didn't know were private to me. He did the same to my mother, but worse. I could hear her screams, and his beatings as he brutally assaulted my mother. My mother often found herself confiding in my uncle. She called him on our old landline we kept in the attic.

“Ramsey… I can't do this anymore…” She sobbed out into the landline, I was never able to hear my uncle's voice on the other line. But I'd always imagine he sounded like a superhero. Like one from the cartoons. Looking back on it I should've known that's not what he sounded like, but the way my mother talked about him made him seem like a hero. “No… don't do that… he’ll- he’ll beat me worse…” Another unnervingly lengthy pause. She nodded and started to jot down a long string of numbers on an old bill. “O-okay… I'll try. Thank you…” She hung up. She looked at me. I was her pride and joy, she loved me more than she loved herself. Was as fiddling with an old doll I kept up there. “Bonnie… baby, come here.”

I obeyed her actions and went to her sitting in her lap, as she stroked my hair. “Love, your hair is getting so long… it almost looks like mine…” she sighed. “Bonnie, you can talk around me… you don't have to be quiet all the time…” I shrugged. I didn't like speaking. Everytime I did I would be told to shut up by the man who dared to call himself my ‘father’. She sighed once more. “We’ll be out of here soon. I promise. Its gonna be me and you against the world.” She smiled softly.

I leaned my head against her chest and closed my eyes. Listening to her heartbeat. It had an irregular pattern, but it was still soothing. I found myself falling asleep on her as she hummed a simple tune.

A lot of my nights were spent like this. Cradled up in my mother's arms, years went by, repeating the same cycle of abuse. My mother, beaten and sexually assaulted, I, beaten and sexually assaulted. I was about 9 when ‘The incident' happened. That's what me and my uncle call it. It was December 27th, a cold, windy night for Sweet Jazz. Instead of spending my nights on the attic, I spent it outside. I would play with rocks, sticks, or any snake I could find. The usual screaming match was happening inside, bottles being thrown, punches landing, I was used to it. This particular night I was playing with a small wooden snake I had gotten for Christmas, it was small and bendy. I found myself growing fond of it. I was in my own little world, when the sounds of a gunshot were heard, and the blood curdling scream of my mother followed. The neighbors lights turned on as they heard the screams of my mother.

The gates between our houses were simple wired fences. Missus Poppy lived next door, she was an older woman, about in her mid sixties. She ran outside upon hearing my mom's scream. Her bonnet and fluffy robe swayed in the late night chill. “Bonnie..? What's going on?” She asked me, I simply shrugged my shoulders.

“I don't know…” I said meekly. Missus Poppy ran around her house to the front door, which she banged on.

“Ray! Reseda! What on god's green earth is going on!” Her voice was loud, it awoke some of the other people on the block. We lived in the hood, hearing a gunshot wasn't rare, but it wasn't common either. We were a tight knit community, everyone looking out for one another, but my mom hid our abuse so well, no one suspected we were being abused. “I swear Ray, I have the police on speed dial!” My father answered the door, gun in his hand. He swung it open, letting the scene of what just happened be seen by everyone on our porch. Missus Poppys face fell immediately, and her dark skin turned a shade lighter. She put her hands over her mouth as she put her arm in front of me.

I saw it all. It was graphic. He shot my mother. Right in the stomach. She was barely clinging onto life. I pushed past missus Poppy, and my ‘father’. I didn't care if he shot me, do it, I couldn't care anymore. I ran to her side, stepping in the grotesque amount of blood spilling out of her. The authorities and my uncle were already being called. “Momma…?” I said, tears spilling from my eyes.

“...Bon-nie… baby…” She lifted a weak hand to put on my face. She gently caressed it. “Baby… I don't think mommas gonna make it…” she winced in pain as she held her stomach with her free hand. I could see the life slowly draining from her, and I didn't want that to happen.

“But… what about our promise…? You promised you'd always be here for me… you said everything would get better…” I cried. My knees were soaking up the blood that was on the floor. My once purple leggings were now stained red, with my own mother's blood.

“B-baby… I'm sorry…” She said, her own tears spilling from her eyes. “I… want you to know…” The sounds of ambulances and police sirens were heard outside, along with the angry shouts of my uncle. “I want… you to know… that whatever happens… I'll still be here with you… and that… I'll love you no matter what… okay..?”

I nodded. “Okay… promise?” I asked.

“Promise…” She gave me a pinky promise. The paramedics quickly came and scooped her away. Nine year old me was left on the kitchen floor, kneeing in a puddle of my mother's own blood. I was in shock… then I broke down. I let out blood curdling wails of pain and grief. I was nine.

No nine year old should go through that.

The police had to hold back my uncle from completely beating my ‘father’ to death. At this point in time, I believe he was out on parole. The police were trying to make sure he didn't break it. He was shouting curses, profanity of all kinds.

“COUNT YOUR FUCKIN’ DAYS RAY! JUST WAIT TILL I GET BACK INTO PRISON! COUNT YOUR MOTHERFUCKIN’ DAYS!” I had never seen my uncle so angry. He was usually a calm guy. His body was entirely gold, he was ready and wanted to fight. I went outside, still crying, upon seeing me, he immediately stopped his angry rant and shoved the officers off of him. He ran up to me and gave me something I desperately needed. A hug. I cried into his shoulder. Staining his bright red Hawaiian shirt with tears.

“Bonnie… kid.” He said softly. He stroked my hair, just like momma did. “It'll be alright. Just… let it out…” I could tell he was fighting back tears too. His nose was scrunched up as his eyes closed tightly. He held me close.

Somehow, I had a stroke of luck. My ‘father’ was charged with attempted murder, two counts of domestic violence, child abuse, rape of a minor, and rape. He got life in prison. But, my luck ran out quick. My mother was out in a coma, to save her. She hasn't awoken yet. I was put in the foster system until I was twelve. Bounced homes frequently, I became a delinquent, fights, juvie, you name it. Foster homes didn't want me, I was trouble. The city had no choice but to stick me with my uncle. Ramsey Murdoch had a criminal record, but it was all petty. Embezzlement, forgery stuff like that.

He's a great caregiver. He supports me, gives me a good life I didn't have when I was younger. Hell I think he's even talking to Micah's mom. Maybe rat man will get hitched? I'm glad I still have someone out there to take care of me. Sure, he sucks at it sometimes. But I love my Uncle, he's still that hero a dreamed of when I was little.

Maybe one day we'll be all together again.

Only time will tell.