Twisting the knife around, I run my fingers across the fading engraving on the handle: family runs deeper than blood.
I don’t know what it means, but the knife itself gives me comfort.
There was only one man who ever positively acknowledged my mom had a kid and remained that way all through his time around her. He was a piece of shit just the same, would show up and disappear into her room to be with her just like the rest, but he always brought me ice cream and a portable DVD player with a new movie each time. He’d tell me to turn it up and usually by the time it was over, so was his paid session. He’d grab the movie and go.
The last time I saw him, though, he didn’t stay long. He dropped down beside me, looking a little solemn as gave me this knife. He told me to hide it on me at all times and use it whenever I felt I needed to. He had said the words inscribed were true, that I didn’t have to accept my life just because I was born into it.
He told me family was choice, not a burden of birth. He said it was up to me to find the feeling and never to settle for less than what I wanted.
I’m pretty sure he’d just realized my mom brought almost all her “work” home with her and he felt like crap about it, but at the time I took his words and held onto them. And since that day my knife grants me sleep at night.
Maddoc’s blood is only the second person’s to touch the blade.
Doubt his’ll be the last.
I lay back down, flashlight on, earbuds in and knife tucked away once more.
Sleep never comes.
It rained all night and shows no sign of letting up anytime soon, so everyone who could scrounge a buck-fifty jumped on the city bus for the short drive to school – a mile and a half in the rain on foot is not fun.
Lifting the sleeve of my sweater to cover my yawn, I drop my back on the bus bench and close my eyes. The ride is only five minutes down the road, but any extra seconds of rest will do me good right now.
After Maddoc left last night, I couldn’t sleep. Adrenaline was too high as always after a fight, and I knew nothing short of a Xanax would work. Of course, I didn’t have any of those around here.
Back home, though not always paid, I fought more often so the balance was better. All it would take is a couple cheap beers or shots, if I had the money, to calm myself. I didn’t have all this extra built up energy inside me with nowhere to put it. On a regular day I only ever got maybe three to four hours of sleep, so I knew when I hit my pillow last night I was screwed.
The squeaky brakes jerk us to a stop and my back shakes against the seat, making my headache that much worse.
Bass’s elbow hits me in the ribs, so I elbow him back. When he smacks my thigh, my eyes fly open and I roll my head to glare at him.
His face is blank as he tips his chin to the front of the bus, not bothering to move his DJ size headphones from his ears.
I ignore him and close my eyes.
“Son, you paying or not?” the bus driver asks in her scratchy smoker’s voice.
“That’d be a negative, bus driver lady. Just looking for—” My eyes snap forward and Royce answers my glare with a grin. “There she is! Let’s go, RaeRae.”
“What are you doing?” I call from my seat about four rows back and he leans against the driver’s holding bar.
“Waiting for you.”
Every damn eye on this piece of shit bus is on me, and there are not just students from the Bray houses on here, but common workers and stragglers from the surrounding areas.
“Go away, Royce,” I force through clenched teeth.
“Can’t.”
“Look, people have places to be—”
Royce’s fierce chuckle has the lady’s mouth clamping shut, and a vindictive smile forms on his lips. “This is Brayshaw business.” He drops his name like a dick and the poor chick visibly pales. “The bus can move when I say it can move. And it doesn’t until she gets off.” He moves his eyes back to mine, all signs of playfulness gone.