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He yelps out in pain when I put a bullet in his knee cap, and I leave him rolling around on the floor in agony to go in pursuit of justice.
I park up on a hill that looks down over the farm, making sure I’m sheltered by the tree line. The first guy that I see come out, pulls the white mask off his face, and sits on the bottom step of the porch to light up a cigarette. He’s young, probably around my age but I don’t recognize him. This must be where they work from these days, and it’s only a matter of time before one of the raping bastards stop by. I’ll wait it out and I’ll take them down one by one. Then I’ll go back to Grimm and I’ll tell him the truth.
He may not think of me as the same person after, but if it’s honesty he wants, he’ll get it. Every ugly part of it. And he’ll see how strong I can be when he realizes I took care of my business.
I wait for the guy to go back inside the house before I get out of the car and go to the trunk. I stopped by the hardware store and got a few supplies on the way out here. A bullet to the head is far too courteous for these sons of bitches. I want them to scream like Eddie did. But I’ve learned from living with Grimm how vital it is to be through.
I take out the crowbar so I can keep it on the front seat beside me. I may have to move fast and I want to be prepared.
A rustle in the bush behind me distracts me and when I turn back to the trunk I’m met with a solid fist to the face, one so strong that it knocks me on my back and makes the sunlight, that pours through the trees, turn black.
I had to get out of there, I had to fucking breathe. Rogue just doesn’t get that all I want to do is protect her. To keep her fucking safe, and now I’m starting to wonder if I’m gonna be able to do this. I got angry back there. I threw my fist at a fucking beam because I wanted her to feel the pain inside me.
I just need her to understand and let me take care of her.
I’ve spent every day since I was fourteen years old telling myself that I won’t become him, that the power he used to preach about doesn’t exist. But I’m feeling it inside me, now more than ever. Rogue draws it out of me, she plays with it between her dainty little fingers like it's a fucking game, and she doesn’t realize how close to destruction she’s getting.
I pull back my throttle and ride. I let the wind blow against my face, and the pain sinks deeper into my chest as I realize that the biggest threat there is to Rogue, is me.
“You haven’t got a choice. This is God's gift.”
I hear his voice in my head and try so fucking hard to blank him out.
I pull my bike up outside the church and I race inside, pushing through the doors and storming up the aisle. When I reach the top of the alter, I drop onto my knees, staring up at the stained-glass window that shines down on me and let it heat up my skin.
“Take it,” I speak out loud, the shake in my voice becoming uncontrollable. “If it’s true and you put it inside me, you take it away right now. Or fucking take me.” I draw the knife from my boot and place it on the altar. “I will not live with your curse inside me. I will not become him.”
Picking the knife back up, I scrape its blade through my palm and squeeze my hand together, the blood drips through my fist and onto the tiled floor beneath me. I want to drain the rage from my blood and expel all the compulsions I battle with.
“I hate you,” I yell, feeling an invisible belt tighten around my chest. “I hate him.” I slam my palm hard onto the floor.
“Richie Carter.” I hear my name and I wonder if it’s the devil summoning me.
“Is that you?” I hear the clipping footsteps getting closer and when I turn around, I see Mrs. Dwight.
“I thought I saw you come in here.” The pastor’s wife smiles at me warmly, her eyes swelling with concern when she sees blood dripping from my left hand and a knife in my right.
“Richie, are you okay?”
“I didn’t come here to hurt anyone,” I tuck the knife away. This woman was friends with my mama, she showed her warmth and kindness every Sunday. I won’t have her scared. I wipe the tears from my eyes with the back of my hand and feel the blood from it streak my face.
“You’re hurt. Let me take a look,” she moves toward me and when she reaches out to me, I pull away from her.
“Take a seat,” she points to the front pew, then disappears behind one of the curtains and brings back out a first aid box.
“It’s been a while since we’ve seen a Carter in our town.” She sits beside me, very carefully taking my cut hand in hers and assessing the damage.
“You came here angry. Did yelling at His Lord Father make you feel better?” she asks me, with such a calm tone that I wonder if I’m imagining her.
“It’s okay, people get mad at Him all the time…” She leans forward and whispers, “Even I do.”
“I’m mad at myself.” The admission comes out of nowhere. “I made myself a promise and I don’t think I can keep it.”
“Oh.” She nods understandingly, as she swipes an alcohol wipe through the gash I made in my palm.
“So once you were done yelling at Him, you were going to ask Him for His strength?” she smirks.
“I don’t want His strength, I don’t want anything from Him,” I bite back.
