Chapter 3
Octavian
“Ah, yes, here we are. Bed eight.” Father Guy says as he stops at the end of a small twin mattress set in an iron frame.
“Here’s your combination lock, paperwork, and fresh bedding.
There’s a locker with the corresponding number to the side of the headboard, you’ll want to use the lock for that to keep track of your belongings.
The paperwork is a simple sign in sheet.
If you leave with intent to return, you’ll be responsible for logging when you go out, when you think you’ll be back, and the time you actually return.
Hang the clipboard on the hook at the foot of the bed.
If you don’t, we wait twenty-four hours then divide any abandoned items between the various pantries here at the church. ”
I nod absently, my eyes moving from the three foot tall locker to the end of the bed.
I scan the mattress, trying to ignore the various unknown stains in favor of being pleasantly surprised by its thickness.
It looks like it could be more comfortable than what I spent the last decade sleeping on, and I should be grateful for that.
“There are four, single-person shower rooms through there.” He motions to our left, pointing out the clearly labeled door frame sitting in front of a thin hallway that contains the rooms referenced.
“Each has a double lock on the inside for privacy. Toilet, sink, shower. You have to sign up for a time to use those as well. There are standard bathrooms over there,” the priest says as he points to the right. “Four sinks, six individual stalls.”
I shift the stack of items in my arms and push my glasses up my nose, squinting at the three doors; Alpha, Omega, Beta.
It’s a little surprising that they’re labeled like that, but then again, they made sure to get my designation when I went through intake.
For safety purposes. I can’t imagine it’s a perfect system, but I appreciate the effort the church people have put into making this shelter private and safe where they can.
Look at me, Mr. Positivity.
I roll my eyes then follow the priest’s movements as he drones on about the kitchen and dining room, meal times, and all of the other necessary details I’ll need while I’m staying here.
However long that may be.
During intake, they said the church keeps its doors open to anyone who follows the rules as long as they need but I get the feeling that only goes so far. They really push the job placement program, which isn’t exactly a bad thing, but I’m sure it doesn’t work for everyone, and not right away.
I follow his gestures as Father Guy goes over the rules and expectations, things like no drugs or weapons, no inappropriate fraternization with other people staying here.
He explains that all of the staff are volunteers, what their various roles are, and each of the shift times that really don’t mean anything to me.
I’m not looking to make friends, or get to know anyone while I’m here.
This is temporary.
Extremely temporary if I have any control over it.
When I left Illinois, I didn’t really have a destination in mind. I loaded up Gran’s ancient boat of a Cadillac with my very meager belongings, said goodbye to the woman herself as I dug up my life savings—$3,593.76 to be exact—then took off like a bat out of hell, and just as angry.
I should have more than that.
I was still giving lessons at Jerome’s right up until the day I split, and I’d been working nights washing dishes at a local all night diner for the last four years.
Neither paid much, but I’d been saving every cent I could for what felt like such a long time, and when I counted what I’d hidden with Gran, I got pissed.
It didn’t take a brain surgeon to know Mandy was stealing from me whenever she could, always before I had a chance to bury my money, but I didn’t realize just how much she’d managed to lift.
My savings should be at least double that based on my math.
I never splurged. Every dollar I was forced to spend was purely for survival’s sake.
I wore my shoes and clothes until they fell apart then bought what I needed from thrift stores.
Duct tape and super glue held my glasses together until I had no choice but to get new ones.
I got all of my food from Dollar Dave’s in order to keep my grocery bill at minimum.
Which means I’m way too skinny and the only reason I’m not emaciated is because of Jerome and his pack making sure I had at least one home cooked meal a day, or the fry cooks at the diner tossing wrong orders or forgotten takeout at me when they could.
I hate handouts, hate having people pity me or whatever, but I’m not stupid enough to be ungrateful for the miniscule number of kind souls I’ve been fortunate to come across.
Growing up the way I did, it made me into a weird combination of bitter and jaded while still trying to recognize what Gran called blessings or miracles when they happened.
The day I left Galena was miraculous on its own.
I almost couldn’t leave.
I only had two lessons at Jerome’s, right after the kids got out of school so I finished early enough to pick up one last shift at the diner.
I clocked in around seven and started working my ass off, got completely in the zone and hustled through the 2AM rush then everything came to a screeching halt.
Mandy showed up.
Honestly, she didn’t just show up, she came crashing through the kitchen doors like the drunk she is.
I don’t know how she got past the girls behind the counter, or anyone else out front for that matter, but she did, and then Mandy made a beeline right for me.
“Octy, my sweet boy,” she slurred as she grabbed my arm. “I need a favor.”
I rolled my eyes and kept washing the pot in my hands. “Ask your pimp.”
Mandy stepped closer as she hissed, “I should slap you for that. I’m still your mother, and you should treat me–”
“Like the drunk, leather faced, drug addicted tweaker, gutter whore you are?”
Her nails bit into my arm, digging deeper with each word as she clenched her teeth.
“Or should I treat you like the absolutely broken piece of shit woman you are? The one who got knocked up with a bastard son by one of the thousands of johns you serviced almost two decades ago then decided to abuse and sell him until he was big enough to fight you off?” I glanced at her over my shoulder, her eyes narrowed on my face before they started to dart around the room.
“Clarify for me, Mandy. I’m not sure how to treat you anymore. Direction would be helpful.”
“You ungrateful son of a bitch.”
“Exactly.”
She let go of my arm, her hand lifted and ready to connect with my cheek but before she had the chance to make good on her threat, I quickly turned to face her and flinched in her direction, causing her to jump and recoil.
I chuckled morbidly as I pushed my glasses up my nose. “You’re pathetic.”
Mandy sniffled, forfeiting her tough guy act for the poor me one, and attempted to lay on the guilt. “Octy… Octavian, please. I need your help.”
“I don’t owe you shit.” I went back to the sink full of dishes. “Never have, never will.”
“He’s going to kill me.”
I paused, so briefly I didn’t think she noticed, the last thread of connection between us pulling tight before it snapped. “What am I supposed to do about it?”
“I need money, Octy.” She shifted on her feet, glancing over her shoulder like she was being followed before her eyes pinged around the room. “If I don’t pay him, he’s going to kill me.”
“What else is new?”
“Please,” she begged as she grabbed my arm and forced me to look at her. “I can’t take another beating, Octavian, and he won’t stop there this time. Please.”
She wasn’t wrong when she said that.
Mandy looked like shit, she had for most of my life but it had gotten worse the last couple years before I left, and that was because she’d gotten hooked on something harder than she was already addicted to, which meant she was stealing from her pimp more often.
Apparently she was into him for almost ten thousand dollars.
She told me that while she begged me to give her money. Money I didn’t have since she’d spent my inheritance from Gran and had been taking every cent she could find in my bedroom.
Mandy told me her pimp was going to kill her over ten thousand dollars while begging for my help, right before she pick-pocketed my car keys and stole Gran’s Cadillac from the back parking lot.
I didn’t know that until I got off work around eight in the morning.
Walking out to no car—and none of my shit because I’d already packed the car—sent my blood pressure through the roof and I saw nothing but red.
I went looking for her after a few minutes, though.
Checked all of the crack houses she frequented, the corners she worked. I hit the truck stops and gas stations, every liquor store I knew of, all while trying not to assume the worst.
The worst being that she sold my shit and the car after she found my cash in the lock box under my seat, and I’d be stuck in Illinois for the rest of my life.
That’s when I went back to our shithole apartment and found her.
Mandy had crashed the Cadillac into the lightpost out front while she was actively overdosing, and I pulled her from the driver’s seat, tossed her and her shit in the yard, then drove to the nearest mechanic.
I did call paramedics when I got there, but it was anonymous, quick, and as detached as I felt.
A couple hundred dollars later, I had new headlights, a patched up radiator, and the front end of the car held together with bungee cords but I was finally on the road. On the road and thousands of miles away from Mandy.
I don’t even know if she survived the OD, but I don’t care. I don’t give one single shit, honestly, and there’s even a part of me that hopes that bitch finally died. Mandy Jones has more lives than a fucking cat, I doubt I’d be so lucky.
I don’t have to deal with her anymore, though. Dead or alive.