The Rage(45)

I’ve learned to not think so much about Rampage and the life I used to have. Everyday has been a struggle because he is everywhere. He’s in my thoughts and my heart, but I keep my feelings locked up until I’m alone, which is only when I shower or sleep. I have one thing that drives me, and it’s that one thing that forces me to do anything I have to do to make it through each day. It’s an absolute necessity for me to make it through every day, no matter what I have to do to make it happen.

“Bitch! You got work in a few hours,” Ryan yells, sticking his head out of the bedroom door.

“How long do you intend to keep me here, doing this shit? I ask. He laughs. I guess my question is funny.

“Until your ass is dead.” He spits.

“Why? You have used me up to the point that no one cares to see me dance, amongst other things.” I don’t know why I ask, but today I’m feeling braver than usual. I’m stick thin now, and since I wasn’t Ryan’s meal ticket for dancing, I have been used in other ways to pay back my debt to him.

“You know cunt, you fuckin’ shot my goddamn dad in the head. I had that asshole wrapped around my finger, getting anything I ever wanted from him. He was my fuckin’ income, and you’re his replacement. Should of thought shit through before you ruined shit for me.”

I probably should have, but would I have let him rape me to not get this life? No. I’d do it all over again.

“Can I go outside?” I fucking hate that I have to ask. I may not be a child, but I am a fucking captive.

“Don’t go far.” He warns. I wouldn’t fucking dream of it.

Walking to the door, I look down at myself. I need a shower, but I’d much rather be dirty than have Ryan watch me or shower with me. I do everything I can to make myself disgusting to him and anyone else, but he doesn’t care how he gets me, just as long as he gets what he wants, when he wants it. My tank top sticks to my sweaty skin and my hair is a mess, but what’s new. My personal appearance is the least of my concerns. There are only two things on this Earth I care about. One can’t see me, and the other doesn’t care what I look like.

Pushing the screen door open, it slams into the trailers metal siding with a bang. The big guy who guards this rat trap with the gun looks up at me.

“Just need some air,” I tell him. He nods his head once and rearranges his gun. Like I could miss the shotgun sitting across his lap. How could I not see the long barrel and mean stock? I know my poor cracked cheekbone remembers that wood handle.

“No leavin’ slut,” he warns.

During the year that I didn’t see Ryan, he was building himself a life in this shithole. He actually started up his own strip club, hiring dumb fucks with muscles to watch out for him and to make sure I never leave. The poor girls working for him are nothing but druggies, Ryan being their supplier. It’s sick and sad.

I’m guarded day and night by Ryan, or his two other goons, all of which carry guns with them at all times. I would have taken my chances by running and dying, but I had a very important thing that kept me here that I will never leave behind.

I have one rule here. No part of my body leaves this end of the trailer park. I guess it’s a trailer park. It’s honest to God out in the middle of nowhere, a good 30 minute drive or more away from any other civilization in any direction. I know this from the trips Ryan took me on when we got here. I think he did it to prove that no matter which way I ran, I would never make it before he got to me. There are six trailers here, and every inhabitant her either works for Ryan, or they owe him something. I have no hope of ever getting out of here alive, that’s for sure.

My altercation with Ryan last night has me sporting a broken wrist and a black eye today. No one in the place offers me a second glance, no matter how bad my beaten face and body look. We are just fucked and I’ve come to accept it.

I’m not sure where I’d go even if I did get away. I can’t go back to Washington, no matter how badly I ache for it. It would be the first place he would look, and he still holds the threat of hurting Lil and Ty over my head. He’d kill the most important people to me and I can’t take that chance.

Sitting on the steps of the trailer, I continue to work on my letter. It’s a letter I’ve been writing and re-writing for the last six months. It’s a letter I need to write, hoping that when I’m gone, it will get to the right hands.

I’m finishing up a few lines when June, the only other person at the end of the park, waddles up to me and sits down. I shove my letter in my pocket.

Miss June is my only friend. She’s the only person Ryan lets me talk to and it’s only because he owns her trailer and the land it sits on. He gave her money to help her convict son out of some trouble, so she will always be in his debt. She wouldn’t help me get out of here for fear he’d kill her family. I don’t blame her.

Miss June is sweet. She takes care of me and helps me the best she can. She feeds me sometimes when she has it to spare, and cleans me up after Ryan has his fun with me. She’s good to me and that means everything to me. She’s a large, round woman with gray hair, glasses, and a dimpled smile.

“Afternoon, Lacy.” Lacy, my new name. Every time I hear it, it makes me sick. I made the mistake of accidently correcting her one time. I quickly tried to cover my ass, but I think she caught on. June just patted my hand and said, “So, your name is Lacy. I’m June.” We’ve been friends ever since, but she sees the lies that I have to tell.

“Afternoon, Miss June.” Taking the spot next to me, she smiles and tips her sun hat up. “How are you feelin’ today? That ginger ale helpin’ any?”

“Yes, Miss June. I’m feeling pretty good.” Patting my hand, she squeezes it lightly.

“And your wrist?” She knows. She’s close enough to hear everything and wise enough to see through this whole façade. There is no hiding it. I have no makeup to hide the bruises and cuts until he takes me to the strip club. Lighting there is for shit which keeps the men’s eyes where they should be and he still buys the tattoo cover up makeup. I have nothing but a small bag of clothes and the bare minimum. I have enough to get by with.

“It’ll heal, just like everything else does.”

“Is she asleep?” She asks softly. I nod in response and she grabs my hand. “Let me go get some ice for your wrist, honey. I made some lunch too, so I can feed you before you go to work.”



Work. Now there’s a four letter word I loath. I work in a seedy, grimy, disgusting strip club at the edge of a small town, population five thousand and too many pit stained, smoke smelling truck drivers to count. I’ve never felt more degraded and used as I do when I come to work here, but this is my reality now, so I dance. I also pray for death.

This is the price I have to pay for my time with Rampage. It just wasn’t meant to be for us. I can never get that time back, and I will never regret the time I did have, whether it was meant to be or not.

Touching the pink “R” tattoo on my wrist, I take a deep breath and walk out onto the stage. Please God, let tonight be the night when I feel no more pain.





19


Phone Calls


Rampage

I’ve never in my life, not when I buried my mom, buried brothers, or almost lost Sis, ached so goddamn bad as I do when I think about Lala. I don’t sleep. I don’t eat. I don’t function like a normal fucking person anymore. There is nothing I could say to make someone understand it. It’s a pain like nothing I can even understand. It’s all fucking consuming, and it’s constant. It’s so fucking raw I’m not sure I can fucking live through it some days.

I’m not sure what’s worse. The not knowing if she left or if she was forced. Nothing proved that she was taken, and I can’t help but think that her crying that day had something to do with her leaving me. The more time I had to think about it, I really began to wonder if she just left because I didn’t love her. I wonder if it was because I fucking lied to her about not loving her. Telling her I didn’t love her was the worst mistake of my life. The stupidest thing I’ve ever done. The one regret in life that I will always have. I’ll die regretting that I didn’t cop to it and tell her how the fuck I really felt about her.

Then there is the possibility that Ryan finally got to her. That’s what everyone thinks. Fuck, they all swear it was him. Sometimes I see it, but the bigger, sicker, self-loathing part of me feels it was all my fault. If I had pulled my head out of my ass, I would have seen her for what she really was – the best fucking thing to ever happen to me. I would have told her every second of every motherfucking day that I loved her. She just wanted me to love her, and she never even pushed to hear the words, she just needed, in her heart, to know it. I should have told her how the fuck I really left.

Sometimes I lay in bed, surrounded by all her shit, and wonder if she’s even still alive. She could be anywhere, she could be with Ryan, doing god knows what to her. It’s sick and disturbing, but it’s the fucking reality of it. I even find myself praying that if she is in pain, that God take her so she won’t hurt anymore. I don’t know where she is and that kills me.