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I blinked, staring at my best friend. My mind was slow to focus. What did he want?
“You hear me, man?”
I did. Now. How long did he call my name?
Oh. I remembered now. Noooooooooo.
“Flint,” I cried, turning my head to stare at my mom. “He killed her.” I swallowed hard. “She’s gone.”
“I know.” He blinked a couple of times, trying not to cry. “We need to call your dad.”
I nodded. Words seemed so hard right now. To think. To say. Fuck. Even to describe what happened.
“Mr. Hobbs, you need to get home. Now. Bring the club.”
I heard shouting on the line—my father’s voice.
“He’s right here, but, uh,” Flint paused, “he’s not okay.”
My gaze fell on my mother’s body. GONE.
She would never hug me again, smile at my silly jokes, make blueberry pancakes, and warm up the syrup right before she served them to me.
Jesus. Fucking. Christ.
My mother wasdead.
I couldn’t contain the sorrow. It built into a living, breathing beast inside me that I had to unleash.
My head tilted back, and a wail of pain escaped my throat, reaching high into every corner of the house, but the beast wasn’t finished. Cry after cry spilled into the air after it. The grief tore me up from the inside out. I sank to my knees, lifting the knife, ready to plunge it into my heart to stop that horrible, visceral ache that felt like it would split me in half.
A firm grip caught my wrist. “Son.” The raw pain in my father’s voice brought me back from the edge.
I fell into his arms as the butcher knife slipped from my hand and landed on the floor with a muted thud. “She’s gone,” I managed to blubber.
“I know.” He held me against his chest as a sob broke loose. “I’m sorry, Balen. I should have been here.”
Time held no meaning for me. I lost the ability to track it when the last breath left my mother’s lungs. My father held me as I lost it, crying so hard that I couldn’t get enough air into my lungs. I almost passed out. It must have been a long time before I calmed. He finally released me at some point and ticked his chin toward Flint.
“Take my boy. Get him cleaned up and keep him safe. I’ll send Skel with you.”
Skel, short for Skeletor. My father’s closest friend. A man he trusted with both of our lives.
“Yes, sir,” Balen answered.
I didn’t remember leaving the house. Or how I got to Flint’s. It blurred in my head, too insignificant to have meaning.
Hours later, after a shower and change of clothes, I stood at the top of Lone Mountain. Flint and Skel flanked me on the left and right. I stared at the city of sin spread below, watching the colorful lights. Above, the stars shone in a clear sky. Not a cloud to block their twinkle.
On the outside, I appeared calm. Inside? I raged like the beast I had unleashed.
Somewhere out there, an enemy lingered. They entered my home and murdered my mother. I pulled my switchblade from my pocket and flipped it open, slicing across my palm. Blood dripped from the wound as I clenched my fist.
“I swear I’ll avenge you, Mother,” I promised, “no matter how long it takes.”
At age thirteen, I learned about loss, grief, and death.
At age thirteen, I spilled blood and became a monster.
