Future. Their stomachs are full. Today, Dove’s skin got so warm in the sun. She smiled more than I’ve seen in so long. Future seemed alert in a new way. Even with Perry missing and our confusing new home, Mama felt this world’s promise.
And I’ll endure Anders’s cruelty to keep my family safe. That’s the choice I make in this story. In another one, I might push away this big angry man and risk returning to the Village. Or possibly, in a different story, I sneak into my old home and kill John Marks and free the Volkshalberd. Another version of me might be very brave.
But in this story, I choose to submit to Anders’s whims, so my family can enjoy another day of plentiful food, sun, and safety.
ANDERS
Why am I talking about the past with Pixie? Aren’t men supposed to put their best face forward when winning over a woman? I should do pushups and other masculine shit. Show her how much cash I have hidden in the house. Anything to prove to Pixie that I’m a good provider. Is that what Bronco did with Lana?
Instead, I talk about drugs and shitty families and killing people. Almost as if I want Pixie to run away screaming.
Of course, she can’t. Her family is downstairs with nowhere to go. Is that why Pixie cries quietly rather than telling me to shut the fuck up? With her back against my stomach and the shadows in the backyard, I can’t tell what her face is doing.
“Back when I was high, I used heroin,” I say and light another joint. Once I inhale, I nudge her with the hand holding it. “It’ll help you relax.”
When Pixie barely moves, I assume she’ll ignore me. Then she takes the joint and inhales in a way that makes me think she’s done this before. After she exhales, she offers no thank you or smiles. I hear her sniffle, and her hand moves as if she’s wiping her cheeks.
I keep my arm wrapped around the front of Pixie, needing her close, fearing she’ll run.
“Heroin made me feel better. I never worried about anything. But that also kept me from caring about anything. I don’t remember large parts of those years. They’re just gone. Days would pass without me realizing it. I’d notice my knuckles were busted as if I’d gotten in a fight, but I didn’t remember being in one.”
I take a hit off the joint and then hand it back to her. She does the same, and I feel her relax a little. Her quiet crying is over. I want her to lean back against me, but she’s holding her body forward. Does she want space in general or just from me?
“I was the muscle for the Killing Joes. No one asked my opinion on anything. They just told me who to hurt. I started wondering if I was killing innocent people when I was high. Did I hurt women like my father maybe hurt my mother? Was I scaring kids like I got scared? Did I break their little bodies like mine had been broken? I didn’t know, but I couldn’t stop getting high. I’d rather be a mindless monster than face how meaningless my life was.”
Pixie pulls her knees up toward her chest. She wants to comfort herself. I know that move. I did it when I was a kid, hiding from my grandmother’s attempts to cleanse the devil from my soul.
“Stopping heroin is painful too. Why would I want more pain? If I got high, I didn’t have to feel bad. But, of course, I had to stay high to avoid the pain. It wouldn’t work forever. That’s how people die. They need more drugs more often to keep hitting the high. Eventually, their bodies give out. I knew that would happen to me one day. I wasn’t scared of dying. I figured it was better than living.”
Pixie finally leans back against me, feeling small and frail next to my large body. I press my lips against her head and inhale the scent of her still-damp hair.
“But Bronco didn’t kill me, and I decided that meant something.”
“Why did he want to kill you?” she asks, finding her voice again.
“I told you that on the road.”
“No, you said you had another club. You told me that Bronco didn’t kill you. That’s why you are in this club.”
“I guess I didn’t explain,” I say and then sigh. “The Killing Joes wanted Elko. Or Lonnie did. He