Chapter 3

At the edge of Boston is where the unhoused settled into makeshift tarps, tents, and boxes. Most ignore each other, but not everyone here is kind. My mother and I found that out on our first night, which is why I have a box cutter. Someone thought they could take our food, and they paid the price.

A gurgle to my side captures my attention. Pausing, I tilt my head, shoving my hands into my ripped pockets. The lapping water behind me is the only sound, but I wait.

Another gurgle, this one followed by a laugh. The hair on the back of my neck stands up, awareness hammering into my head.

Picking my way through the woods, I only get a few feet when I see three kids—big guys better suited to the football field—and the young girl between them.

Her eyes are wide, her mouth gasping as one of them squeezes her tiny neck. Another has her hips pinned to the tree, and the last? His dick is out, and her shorts are torn.

Cold fury rises in me, a resurrected ghost looking to take someone to the Underworld. It’s the first real thing I’ve felt in hours. And it feels good—right.

This isn’t my fight, but fuck, if it wouldn’t feel good to take out my aggression on these wasted pieces of rotten human skin.

My hands move before I realize what I'm doing. Grabbing a thick branch, I swing it at the fucking prick closest to me. He drops, and her neck is released. A sweet cry of relief bursts from her lungs, but I don’t celebrate with her.

My focus is entirely on the other two. They stumble back, and while watching them, I bash the branch into the unconscious kid’s crotch. Foraesthetics.

They scramble, and the dickhead with his small balls flapping in the air, hurries to cover himself.

“Jesus, Linwood, what are you?—”

“I’ve had ashitday,” I begin conversationally. My lips twitch, and a smirk pulls at my face, though happiness is far from how I feel. Leveling the branch at him, I continue, “Say something to piss me off. Idareyou.”

They exchange a look, and the girl shudders, still held captive.

But I don’t see her. I see my mother—beautiful, fair, docile, pinned beneath my father for years. She said no every night, but he never listened. He never stopped.

And I had to endure, locked in my bedroom, never once able to help. Being confined has never sat well with me since those horrible days.

“Time’s up.”

Lifting the end, I catch the one holding her by the chin, then stab it into his gut.Fuck, that feels good.The girl drops tothe ground, sobbing, but my rage colors my vision. I don’t hear anything over the pumping of blood in my ears and the cries of my mother from memories long ago.

Of her fight. Of her shouts. All I hear is my failure, and feel the icy rage in my chest. Rage that’s being unleashed on these cocksuckers. They deserve it–maybe worse.

The last comes for me, because he thinks his size does anything for him. He’s bulky, and I’m thin from malnourishment. But it’s made me a better fighter–deadlier. Swinging the edge of the branch, I catch his cheek, and blood sprays into the air.

He falls to his knees, and I bash the top of his skull. A nice dent forms, and he teeters to the side. His body crumples, but I don’t stop, enjoying the give under each strike. The way his body thumps and rocks with each whack. The noise, the relief. Itticklesme.

But yet, he’s still alive. I’ve hit him over a dozen times, and he continues to breathe.

Theaudacity, really.

Tossing the branch away, I grab the knife from my pocket. Flipping it open, I hold it to his neck. The bastard chokes on his blood, eyes red, nose mashed. It’s pretty, actually, in a morbid sort of way.

“You really shouldn’t have done that.” I shrug. “These are the consequences of your actions. Maybe you can learn from this.”

The knife cuts easily into his throat, slashing it wide. Like a dam pulling free, hot blood gushes over my hands and soaks his stained T-shirt. Transfixed, I watch, letting it seep into the ground under his body, into my skin, and through my sneakers.

I’m not scared of it, no. I’m mesmerized.

It’s amazing how something so ugly, so hated by many, can transform into something so beautiful.

I don’t know how long I kneel next to his body and let myself float away. I’m untethered, embracing the relief the kill has given me. Distantly, I wait for the sounds of sirens or screams. Someone should be looking for him, or discover what I’ve done.

But nothing happens. The air turns cold, the sounds of the city drift away, and all that’s left is me, the water, and a few corpses.

My shoulders sag, and that crushing weight in my chest is finally gone. Weird way to expel grief, but I’m not judging it.I’ve never been normal.