Hell's Knights
Page 4
- Background:
- Text Font:
- Text Size:
- Line Height:
- Line Break Height:
- Frame:
“I’ve got fresh meat. It’s you, snake.”
“You’ll never make me your whore, Jasper.”
“But I will, because you know as well as I do that this is your life, like it or not.”
“Not.”
He smirks, cold, evil, and then turns and walks towards the door. When he gets to it, he digs into his pockets and pulls out a bag of white powder. He tosses it at me, and I catch it in one hand.
“Make sure your Momma don’t get that ‘till morning. We both know she likes it for breakfast, and from what I hear, so do you. Make sure she keeps her legs open and her eyes wide tonight, got me?”
“Go fuck yourself,” I hiss.
“Don’t make me turn around, snake, because if I do, you won’t like how it ends. Get my money for me tonight, or face what’s coming for you. Another week with no food doesn’t sound too appealing, now, does it?”
At my expression, and the loud grumble my stomach makes, he chuckles.
“Thought as much, do what I ask, snake.”
Then he’s gone. Just like that. I stare down at the bag of powder in my hand. Sighing, I open it, line it up on the table, get to my knees, roll up an old five dollar note, and snort it.
He’s right, I do need it as much as her.
I need it because it’s my only escape.
PRESENT
I walk down the road after getting out of the compound. I really don't know what I feel right now. I've gone over so many different scenarios in my head. I think about the situation, and what it will all mean for me now that I’m here. Seeing my father again, seeing the horror in his eyes when I told him my story makes me wonder if I’ve made the right choice. I don't know if he’ll ever get used to having me around or if things will just continue to spiral downwards.
Things could be much worse for both of us though, of that I’m sure. I’ve been around rotten people in my life, mostly pimps, who consider feelings to be worthless emotions that are simply not needed. Cold, heartless people who think hurting another person is okay. That’s the difference between these bikers and the pimps I used to live with. Bikers will fight for what they love and believe in…Pimps don’t care. They do what they have to do for business and money. I don’t think bikers fall completely into that category; at least, I’d like to hope they don’t.
Seeing my father’s face when I gave him a glimpse at my life, told me that even though he doesn’t know me, he would fight for me. That’s a nice feeling to have, even if I know it’s temporary and I can’t hold onto it. I don’t belong here. Honestly, right now, I don’t know where I belong. How do you fit into any place when you’ve lived a life protecting yourself and trusting no one? I can’t get comfortable anywhere, in fear it will just end badly for me and I’ll break the wall I’ve built so high around myself. At least, for the moment, I know that I’m safe and I have protection. That’s all I need for the moment. He can’t find me if I’m protected.
As I continue down the road, rocks crunch under my feet as I contemplate my next move. I have no money, and I really don't have any other place to go. This is it for me, this compound, this world, this job - working in a bar with a bunch of bikers I don't know. I have to survive though, even if surviving is hard. I just have to do what I do best, and that is to fight through the next few months and get enough money to figure out where to go from here. Once I am out of this state, hell, out of this country…then maybe I can start piecing my fucked-up life together, tatter by tatter, until it resembles something worth believing in.
When I get to my father's old, run down house, I stare at the massive building for a long moment. It’s ugly, like, really ugly, but I've lived in much worse, so to me, it’s like a fine hotel. It's tall, two stories, and it’s surrounded by a rickety looking deck. I think it was once white, but the paint is now peeling and faded to a dirty brown. I step through the front gate and walk up to the front door. As soon as I unlock it and step inside, I sigh. Typical male home, beer bottles everywhere, clothes, pizza boxes, you name it. It's clear to me, after one glance at the old faded blue kitchen, that the dishes haven’t been done for at least three days, and the laundry…don't even get me started on the laundry.
I stare around my new home. It’s not great but it’s safe. I've been to many places in my life, most of which weren’t fit for fleas, let alone people. So I know I can make it work here. I slip my shoes off and walk into the kitchen. I open the fridge, cringe, and close it. My God, what in the hell was that God awful smell? Do I even want to know? Guess I will deal with that one later. I notice along with dishes, laundry and cleaning up, my father also doesn’t shop often. Turning on my heel, I walk out into the living room and up the stairs to my left. At the top, I step into a long hallway, with faded wooden floors. I stare around at all the closed doors; I guess I have to open them and find out which room is the spare one. I begin walking down the hall, opening doors as I go. The first to my left is definitely a man’s room, so I am guessing my father’s considering he’s the only man who lives here. At least, I think he is.
The second room is an old bathroom, with cream tiles, a cream shower that needs a damn good clean, and an awful rusted mirror. The third door is the spare room. I can tell this by the mass of suitcases, pillows, old blankets and other junk that’s been so nicely dumped on the queen sized bed. With a sigh, I walk in and get to work clearing it all off. When I’ve managed to tidy the room up, I take a good look. Green curtains, nice. Wooden floors in here too, though most of the surface is covered with an old, frayed rug. The bed has a squishy, sink into it, kind of mattress. I dispose of the sheets and pillows right away, I will hit my father up for some new ones later on. If not, they’re getting washed three times. At least.
“You’ll never make me your whore, Jasper.”
“But I will, because you know as well as I do that this is your life, like it or not.”
“Not.”
He smirks, cold, evil, and then turns and walks towards the door. When he gets to it, he digs into his pockets and pulls out a bag of white powder. He tosses it at me, and I catch it in one hand.
“Make sure your Momma don’t get that ‘till morning. We both know she likes it for breakfast, and from what I hear, so do you. Make sure she keeps her legs open and her eyes wide tonight, got me?”
“Go fuck yourself,” I hiss.
“Don’t make me turn around, snake, because if I do, you won’t like how it ends. Get my money for me tonight, or face what’s coming for you. Another week with no food doesn’t sound too appealing, now, does it?”
At my expression, and the loud grumble my stomach makes, he chuckles.
“Thought as much, do what I ask, snake.”
Then he’s gone. Just like that. I stare down at the bag of powder in my hand. Sighing, I open it, line it up on the table, get to my knees, roll up an old five dollar note, and snort it.
He’s right, I do need it as much as her.
I need it because it’s my only escape.
PRESENT
I walk down the road after getting out of the compound. I really don't know what I feel right now. I've gone over so many different scenarios in my head. I think about the situation, and what it will all mean for me now that I’m here. Seeing my father again, seeing the horror in his eyes when I told him my story makes me wonder if I’ve made the right choice. I don't know if he’ll ever get used to having me around or if things will just continue to spiral downwards.
Things could be much worse for both of us though, of that I’m sure. I’ve been around rotten people in my life, mostly pimps, who consider feelings to be worthless emotions that are simply not needed. Cold, heartless people who think hurting another person is okay. That’s the difference between these bikers and the pimps I used to live with. Bikers will fight for what they love and believe in…Pimps don’t care. They do what they have to do for business and money. I don’t think bikers fall completely into that category; at least, I’d like to hope they don’t.
Seeing my father’s face when I gave him a glimpse at my life, told me that even though he doesn’t know me, he would fight for me. That’s a nice feeling to have, even if I know it’s temporary and I can’t hold onto it. I don’t belong here. Honestly, right now, I don’t know where I belong. How do you fit into any place when you’ve lived a life protecting yourself and trusting no one? I can’t get comfortable anywhere, in fear it will just end badly for me and I’ll break the wall I’ve built so high around myself. At least, for the moment, I know that I’m safe and I have protection. That’s all I need for the moment. He can’t find me if I’m protected.
As I continue down the road, rocks crunch under my feet as I contemplate my next move. I have no money, and I really don't have any other place to go. This is it for me, this compound, this world, this job - working in a bar with a bunch of bikers I don't know. I have to survive though, even if surviving is hard. I just have to do what I do best, and that is to fight through the next few months and get enough money to figure out where to go from here. Once I am out of this state, hell, out of this country…then maybe I can start piecing my fucked-up life together, tatter by tatter, until it resembles something worth believing in.
When I get to my father's old, run down house, I stare at the massive building for a long moment. It’s ugly, like, really ugly, but I've lived in much worse, so to me, it’s like a fine hotel. It's tall, two stories, and it’s surrounded by a rickety looking deck. I think it was once white, but the paint is now peeling and faded to a dirty brown. I step through the front gate and walk up to the front door. As soon as I unlock it and step inside, I sigh. Typical male home, beer bottles everywhere, clothes, pizza boxes, you name it. It's clear to me, after one glance at the old faded blue kitchen, that the dishes haven’t been done for at least three days, and the laundry…don't even get me started on the laundry.
I stare around my new home. It’s not great but it’s safe. I've been to many places in my life, most of which weren’t fit for fleas, let alone people. So I know I can make it work here. I slip my shoes off and walk into the kitchen. I open the fridge, cringe, and close it. My God, what in the hell was that God awful smell? Do I even want to know? Guess I will deal with that one later. I notice along with dishes, laundry and cleaning up, my father also doesn’t shop often. Turning on my heel, I walk out into the living room and up the stairs to my left. At the top, I step into a long hallway, with faded wooden floors. I stare around at all the closed doors; I guess I have to open them and find out which room is the spare one. I begin walking down the hall, opening doors as I go. The first to my left is definitely a man’s room, so I am guessing my father’s considering he’s the only man who lives here. At least, I think he is.
The second room is an old bathroom, with cream tiles, a cream shower that needs a damn good clean, and an awful rusted mirror. The third door is the spare room. I can tell this by the mass of suitcases, pillows, old blankets and other junk that’s been so nicely dumped on the queen sized bed. With a sigh, I walk in and get to work clearing it all off. When I’ve managed to tidy the room up, I take a good look. Green curtains, nice. Wooden floors in here too, though most of the surface is covered with an old, frayed rug. The bed has a squishy, sink into it, kind of mattress. I dispose of the sheets and pillows right away, I will hit my father up for some new ones later on. If not, they’re getting washed three times. At least.
