44. Stetson
FORTY-FOUR
STETSON
February 23rd, 2024
I’m driving erratically, my hands shaking, my heart pounding painfully in my throat. Hopefully, I don’t get pulled over—I’m pretty sure I forgot my driver’s license on the table back at my apartment. I was in such a hurry, I grabbed my car keys and a pair of slip-on shoes, skipping the socks, and fled down the stairs two at a time. Now that I think about it, I don’t even know if I closed my apartment door.
The car whines beneath me, the small engine pushed to the max. During this time of night, and this stretch of dead land, I likely won’t pass another person for a hundred miles. And if I crash into an animal and die?
Good fucking riddance.
I’ve already been driving for hours—this drive takes about ten on a good day, and it’s only now I realize I don’t even have the radio on. My eyes feel dry and achy as I scan left and right, squinting into the night sky.
“I shouldn’t have moved so fucking far away. I shouldn’t have waited so long to go back,” I hiss to myself. If something happens to my mother before I can get there, I will never forgive myself. Some part of my mind recognizes that it isn’t my responsibility—my mother chose to stay. My mother always chose to stay, always chose him over herself or her own daughter. That isn’t my burden to carry.
Even if it does feel like a thousand-pound weight on my chest right now.
I know it’s not my fault, not really—I’ve begged her to run away. I’d come get her. But she always turned me down. And so, even though I know , I can’t help the angry, destructive voice in my head telling me it’s my fault.
If I had just been a better daughter. If I had just been a less nasty person, a less fucked up human, maybe the universe would have shifted the tides. Maybe if I had cleaned up my own life sooner, my mother would have seen what a good life could be like and would have left that demon. Maybe if I had stayed, I could have stopped him from hurting her, over and over.
But I hadn’t.
I fled like a coward, never looking back, regardless of the fact that he was slowly killing my mother. I allowed it to happen because I had been too afraid to face him.
This is my fault. I will have to live with all of this if something happens to her.
Stuff was already happening to her, over and over.
“Fuck!” I scream again. The car is eerily silent, and I have to fight the voice in my head telling me to swerve and hit the ditch. It would be more peaceful that way.
Earlier that morning
“Stetson, honey, it’s your mom.” I nearly drop the phone, my fingers gripping the flimsy plastic and metal, like I’m dangling over a canyon and it’s the only way up.
“Mom?” I whisper, my voice laced with disbelief. It’s been years since I even heard her voice .
“Shhh, honey, just let me get this out.” Her voice is hoarse and hushed so quietly I have to hold my breath to hear her. She clears her throat.
“This is it, Stetson. He’s going to kill me.” There’s no fear or sorrow in my mother’s voice—only finality, acceptance. Maybe even relief. There’s no emotion behind the words, as if she was calling to tell me it is still hot in Texas, not that this would be her last day on earth.
I remain silent, but my emotions begin to boil, raging and burning enough for the both of us.
“What?” I ask, unsure of what else I should say to such a thing.
“It’s been coming for years, baby. And I know he’s tired. He’s so tired and ready for it to be over.” I grip the phone tighter, the metal cracking in my grip. Even now, even at the moment where we are discussing her own fucking death at the hands of that snake, my mother is more concerned about him. Not for herself, and certainly not for the daughter she is leaving behind. Not the daughter she is dumping this final goodbye onto.
Why? Why is she this way?
“I know I haven’t been a good mother to you. I know you deserved so much more. I hope…” She pauses, this time a crack of emotion coming through the line. “I hope you found the family, friends, and life that you wanted. I hope you moved on. You deserve that. You deserve happiness.”
“Mom, stop. I will call the police. I will get help,” I plead, but I’m cut off by my mother’s harsh voice.
“No.”
“I don’t understand.” Tears fall over my cheeks, but I barely notice them.
“You don’t have to. It’s love. It’s what we do for love, honey.”
This can’t be love—willing to die for someone, even if it’s at their hands. I don’t know anything about love; I’m sure I have never truly felt it. But I know dying for someone, someone who is willing and plans to kill you, is not love.
“You don’t deserve this.” It’s all I can think of to say.
My mother laughs softly, her voice still scratchy and weak. “I deserve so much worse.”
Tears cascade down my face now, unchecked, hot and angry, racing toward the floor where they splash around my toes. Anger quickly replaces sadness, and I fight the urge to scream. Black crawls over the edges of my vision, my body vibrating with hatred and disgust filling me with no outlet.
Why can’t my mother love me enough? Why is she so okay leaving me for him?
“Why did you call?” Hatred, cold and bitter, fills my voice—I can’t control it, even if I wanted to.
My mother sighs, a sound almost like relief filling her voice. “I understand you’re angry. I am sorry. I wanted to tell you goodbye. And I wanted to tell you not to come back here, ever.” My mother’s voice is soft, defeated, but I know she’s serious. She doesn’t want me to come for her, to come back to that ranch that has been her personal hell for over a decade.
But fuck her. She lost the right to tell me what to do years ago.
“I will do whatever I want.” Some part of me knows I shouldn’t be so angry, should be saying all the things I’ve wanted to from the years we’ve been apart—tell her I love her and forgive her. If this really is the last time I ever speak to her, I should make my peace and say my goodbyes.
But I can’t. No amount of personal growth could have prepared me for such an ending.
And I. Do. Not. Accept. It.
This is supposed to happen differently; my mother is supposed to get a different ending. I am supposed to get a different goodbye.
“I’m telling you, do not come back here. I don’t want you to come to my funeral. I don’t want you to face your father. I don’t want you to live or breathe this Texas air for even a second ever again. When we go, the ranch will become yours. But I forbid you from claiming it. Let it go, let it wilt up and die. Let someone else take it over. I don’t care, but don’t you dare come back here. Do you understand me?” I don’t hear a hint of fear or uncertainty in her words—no tremor or sadness. Just the hollow echo of death and loss—like she is already gone, calling me from the other side.
“Mom.” My voice breaks, searching for the right words to say, to stop her. To pull her back from the edge.
“I do not want you here.” Then the line goes dead, the dial tone blaring on the other end like she ripped the landline from the wall instead of hanging up.
My body trembles—sucking in a shaky breath, I reach for my car keys. I’ve always done what I wanted, and I’m not about to stop today.
I continue to replay the conversation over and over in my mind—her words the only sound filling my head besides my racing heart. I have to get there. I have to save her from herself. If for no other reason than to show my mother she deserves better.
Because if my mother doesn’t deserve better—a second chance at life—what hope is there for me?
I tear down the driveway, my knuckles cracking from the strangling grip I maintained on the steering wheel for eight hours straight. My nerves are frayed to the point of pain, my muscles aching and sore. I stopped only once for gas, not even bothering to go into the store. It’s like I’ve been out of my body for the last eight hours and I’m only now realizing I’ve driven all the way here .
I am completely out of my mind.
The sun streaks across the early morning sky, pale yellows mixing with pastel blues and pinks. Flowers blossom in every direction, the grass a vibrant green, and birds flutter about, ignorant of the evil of the world. As I get closer to the old house, it’s like the plague has spread, killing everything it touched; the grass is already dried and wilted, the trees hanging limply over the gravelway, and the fences lean to the point of falling.
I freeze, the tires of the car coming to a screeching halt. It’s been ten years since I’ve been back here. Nothing looks different, yet everything feels different. I am different. And it takes every ounce of will to not turn around and run like I have every other minute of my life.
“Remember why you’re here, you coward.” I don’t actually know what I’m doing—or what I planned to do once I got here. But now that I’m here, the memories clogging my senses, I know I have no choice but to get out and face whatever may come— whoever may come.
Stepping out of the car, the old metal creaking, my legs tremble. Will my mother be mad at me? Will Gibson be here? Am I already too late? That thought spurs me on, but I hold my breath, afraid to breathe the same air as him once more.
Driven by unseen forces, my legs break into a sprint toward the old barn. The paint is fading and chipped, and the corrals all but crumbled and falling apart. The barn door swings open on its hinges, and I know with a sinking feeling, Poppy is in there. Barreling into the barn, the shade from the roof making it hard for my eyes to adjust, my breath saws in and out of my tight lungs.
Every hair on my arms immediately stands up, and even over my own hammering heart, I can hear him… and his labored breathing .
My eyes adjust further, and I halt suddenly to stop myself from ramming right into his hunched back. He’s on his knees, greasy, stringy hair hanging over his face, head bowed. His rancid sweat and booze-filled scent nearly knocks me over, and I gag, unable to fight the downpour of memories washing through me.
Stumbling back, I reach for anything solid to steady myself.
He’s smaller than I remember, shorter and thinner, years of wear and tear breaking him down. I straighten, realizing I’m not as small as I once was. His skin is clammy, wrinkled, and a tinge green from all the years of working and surviving on alcohol—his liver has to be a black rock—and I silently curse God that he hasn’t died from it yet.
But maybe it would be a mercy, a kindness, and Gibson doesn’t deserve such things.
I continue to stare at him, fear and anger warring through me, and his shoulders continue to rise and fall, his chest heaving. The sounds of liquid filled lungs dragging across his rib cage, his body all but given out. He’s frozen, not even noticing me, his eyes glued to the floor.
Pulling my gaze from his back, I trace his line of sight and nearly collapse. In my hurry to get in the barn, and then scramble to get away from Gibson’s back, I didn’t notice the figure lying on the floor.
There, my mother is sprawled out, her body covered in a pale green dress that fits so loosely to her rail-thin frame. Bones push angrily against the skin on her shoulders, wrists, and jaw. She’s so drawn in and skinny that I wonder when the last time she ate was.
Did she want to die of starvation before Gibson could finally kill her? If so, she was unsuccessful.
No matter how gruesome it is to see her so skinny, it is the bruises around her neck that keep drawing my eyes. Finger-shaped marks layer around her throat, ranging from a faded yellow to crimson, to a deep purple that borders on black. They layer so deeply that it looks like she’s wearing a collar. Her eyes, once a beautiful pale blue, are wide open as she stares at the ceiling, sunken and surrounded by dark purple pillows.
She looks worse than I could have ever imagined. And now the vision of her like this will forever be branded into my mind, my soul— the fabric of my every thought and feeling.
“She should be waking up any minute.” My tear-soaked eyes snap up to look at the man now standing over my mother’s body. When did he get up? His voice is hoarse and shaky, as if he’s scared. Scared she won’t wake up. Scared he has finally gone too far.
I snap, rage like I’ve never known pouring through my body.
“Are you out of your fucking mind? You fucking killed her!” My voice is a violent whisper, shaking with my rage. Gibson doesn’t turn around, his breathing seeming to come a little faster.
“She always does this. She’s gotten more dramatic, too, taking longer and longer to wake up. But she always wakes up. She wouldn’t leave me. She wouldn’t fucking dare.” His voice cracks, the emotion in it making me shake. Tears drip off my chin, grief and hatred making them fall swiftly from my sore eyes.
“She left you. She’s never waking up!” My voice grows in volume, bordering on a scream now. He turns on me, and I know it’s not the sound that broke his trance, but my words .
His head tilts, his hazy eyes raking over my body, as if noticing me for the first time.
“I always knew you’d come back.” It’s all he says before he lunges at me.
I’ve been afraid of this moment my entire life, and now that it’s finally happening, I feel like I’m moving in slow motion. This time is different—I’m different—and even though I’m not convinced I deserve it, I will get a different ending than my mother.
I jump back, both faster and far more sober than Gibson. His eyes widen, as if he’s realizing I’m not the same caged girl he chased ten years ago.
Did time not pass for him? Doesn’t matter—it did for me.
Something cracks in my chest—the sensation flooding with me with a warmth that spreads just under my skin. Acceptance. I welcome its heat; this is always how my story was supposed to go. For better or worse, whether I make it out of this alive or not, I was always meant to be the one to exact my own justice.
Some small part of me recognizes how fucked up that is. It’s not morally right to consider the ways I might get my justice for the crimes this evil man committed to me and to my mother all those years. But I lost interest in doing what’s “right” when it came to this snake the first time he wrapped those bony fingers around my neck.
I am no victim. I may have been once, but that girl is gone and dead. I am the villain of my own dark and twisted story, and I will get the ending I deserve, even if it earns me a permanent place in hell. I have no one to lean back on.
And in this terrifyingly still moment, I see with clarity that I don’t need anyone.
I can be my own monster.
“If you come near me, I will fucking kill you.” Fear courses through my veins, but my voice does not waiver. A slimy smile creeps across his face, and I have the good sense to run. But I’m not running because I’m afraid of when he catches me; this time I will be ready.
Racing toward the tack shed, my feet pounding harder and faster than they ever have before. How many times have I run from him and feared he would catch me? How many times had he caught me and I did nothing?
That ends today.
He’s on my heels, his breath wheezing, his feet sloppy and slipping around the barn floor. I can easily outrun him. He’s old, weak, and drunk; I’m strong, faster, angrier. I don’t run too fast, though. I want him to catch me. I want to show him the woman I’ve become, not because of him, but despite him.
Sliding to a stop along the far wall, I wrap my steady fingers around the end of the metal branding iron that leans there—leaning in the same place I had set it all those years ago, dusty and unmoved. If there ever was divine intervention, this is it.
Within seconds, I can smell his putrid breath filling the space around me. He chuckles, weak hands extended out, more falling toward me than reaching for me.
“You’re next,” he hisses.
But I won’t be. No one else may choose me, but I choose me.
And then I swing the metal iron, smashing it into his head with twenty-eight years’ worth of despair.