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Me? I have a family.
Brothers to be more specific, ones who I used to adore until I realized how vicious and vile they are.
A father who’s been led to believe that I died when our mother passed away during a lethal attack on their homestead that had mortal consequences, i.e., my mother, and supposedly me—which would’ve happened if my brothers hadn’t happened to find me before I’d been suffocated.
My mother, in an attempt to save me, wrapped herself around me and laid on top of me, squishing me between her deceased body and the floor of my nursery… or so I’ve been told.
She did save my life in one way. But in another way, she set me up for a life of hiding.
Allistair Crumbley’s got a reputation that makes my brother's morbid lifestyle look like they’re a clowder—a group of virtuous kittens..
Just thinking about them has a cold chill skating its way up and down my spine. My brothers’ claim placing me here is them trying to keep me safe. But word through the grapevine is that they’ve joined a human trafficking ring faction, and even with their blood flowing through my veins, I’m not safe from their ever-growing list of potential auctioneers. The suitors who pay millions for the chance to join the bidding war, they’re just as bad, if not worse, than my biological family.
I allow myself to get lost in oblivion. Sister Anne’s lecturing voice becomes static background noise, and with the black spots dancing in my vision, it’s better than the alternative scenarios.
Remembering.
Fear.
Turmoil… that’s all I feel emotion-wise when I consider where my life could lead me if I don’t play my cards right. I don’t have an ace in the hole, but I’ll never stop shuffling and discarding the useless suit in my hands until I locate my trump card.
And I will. As soon as my white knight finds me and whisks me away to my castle.
Cinderella I may not be, but I’ll Rapunzel my way out of this convent if it’s the last thing I do.
* * *
My brothers’ newfound interest in me is heart-wrenching, to say the least. The day of our health class was the first meeting I’d had with them in years, and in the last two weeks, I’ve had multiple gatherings with them. I can see the twinkle in their eyes, a telling sign that they’re up to something. Whatever that something is will be disastrous for me.
If I ever needed someone to ride in on a white horse and save the day, it’s now.
Garrick, Gideon, Graham, and Gavriel Crumbley, to our Columbian side of the family, and Crumley to our Irish side, gets confusing. They’re known as both. Each one is feared and known as evil, plus vindictive. But the spelling and pronunciation of our last name varies from one country to the next.
Given the fact that I’m camouflaged between these consecrated walls, and doing everything I can do to break from that dreaded last name, I legally changed it to Fitzgerald to honor my mother’s homeland.
Upon doing some extensive research on my familial ancestry, I found that my mother’s mom’s given last name was Fitzgerald. In an attempt to honor her in some form or fashion, I adopted that surname for myself.
Hopefully, that keeps the enemies of the Crumbleys at bay and keeps me from being tied to them, as well as the Crumleys.
As the hearse-like monstrosity of a car parks in front of the warehouse that my brothers have purchased to conceal our latest encounters, I take a second to center myself before going before the firing squad. That’s what it feels like each time I’ve stepped foot inside of this crumbling factory that was shut down a decade ago for “allegedly” forcing illegal immigrants to work for what amounts to pennies on the dollar.
Those poor workers poured their blood, sweat, and tears into every stitch of fabric while residing like indigents in encampments. Their dwelling quarters were strewn together with assorted pieces of mismatched linen—makeshift tents on the owner’s thirty-acre property.
They hadnothingfor themselves.
No freedom.
No indoor plumbing.
No electricity.
No privacy.
Their every move was scheduled by their “employer”—if you could call him that.
Garrick, also known as Rick to those who revere him, aka my eldest brother, whom I loathe more than the rest, steps out of the door, stands on the stoop and narrows his eyes at me—watching and waiting for me to… bolt, maybe?
I’m tempted to do just that. I know if I do, my driver could be put underneath the spotlight and suffer for my runaway feet. I’m not friends with the man, but he’s a man of the cloth. I know that on my judgment day, I’ll pay the ultimate penance for placing him in such dire and unscrupulous circumstances.
