CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
I”VE NEVER KNOWN emptiness like this. It”s a void, an abyss that swallows every thought, every feeling, leaving behind a shell of who I used to be. My brothers, Dominic and Kevin, were my world, and now they”re gone. Dominic”s death hit like a storm, sudden and devastating. He had been the rock, the one who took on all of the responsibility after Michael was taken away. The pressure to keep our family afloat led him down paths he shouldn”t have taken, risks that cost him everything. Then, there was Kevin. Watching him spiral into the abyss of drugs, trying to escape a reality too harsh to bear, was a slow torture. I knew, deep down, that it was only a matter of time for him.
Rain droplets begin to pummel the canvas above me. This is not my first night in Dublin”s tent cities, and it won”t be my last. But moving is life and staying in one place too long is dangerous. The thought of taking a plane out of the country is laughable—I don”t even have a passport, and my finances are a joke. Sneaking onto one of the ferries has crossed my mind, but the risk of getting caught without knowing how long I”ll need to stretch my meager funds is too great. This tent, my makeshift home, was a find, a bargain from a secondhand store that”s become my biggest purchase in weeks.
I zip down the front of the tent and quickly zip it back up as raindrops try to enter as if they can find warmth inside my tent. They won’t. It’s freezing, and the angry gray sky doesn’t look like it’s going to give up pouring any time soon.
Hostels might have been an option, a chance for a warm bed and a shower, but they”d want identification, something I cannot give. The last thing I need is for anyone to know where I am. The fear of being found, of being dragged back into a life that”s already taken everything from me, is a constant shadow.
As these thoughts swirl through my mind, I find myself mechanically opening a can of premade pasta and sauce. I don”t even bother to heat it; realistically I have no way to do so.
Between mouthfuls, I shove my hands deep into the pockets of my worn jacket, seeking solace in the fleeting warmth. The cold has a way of creeping into your bones here, uninvited and relentless. Occasionally, I pause to take a sip from my water bottle. How anyone survives here in Tent City is a mystery. Two nights I’ve been here, and already I can sense death tapping away along with the rain on the tent.
The rain outside intensifies, its rhythm a constant backdrop to my rummaging through the clothes I picked up from the secondhand store. I”m searching for anything else I can layer. . My fingers brush against a slightly thicker sweater, and a small, triumphant smile crosses my lips. It”s a minor victory in the grand scheme of things, but it”s mine.
But as I layer the sweater on, the weight of my situation presses down on me with renewed vigor. Winter is approaching, and if I don”t figure out what to do, it won”t be the lack of a home or the constant running that will kill me—it”ll be the cold. The thought sends a shiver down my spine that has nothing to do with the temperature.
As the rain ceases, I finish my pasta and sit in the tent, knowing staying here will kill me. I need to walk around and get some warmth back into my body.I”m wary, all too aware of the little I possess and how easily it could be lost or stolen. I take what”s left of my money, hiding it in various parts of my clothing, securing it against my body. It”s not much, but it”s all I have.
Stepping out of the tent, the cold hits me anew, as if the very air sharpens its teeth against my skin. My breath forms a mist before me, a ghostly apparition in the early morning light. I pull my jacket tighter around me, huddling against the biting wind as I navigate through the camp. Around me, life stirs in muted tones, and a few faces lift in greeting, but I can”t afford the luxury of acknowledgment. I can”t let myself become familiar, become a part of something. The more I blend into the shadows, the safer I am.
Because of the cult that”s probably still searching for my mother and me, I don”t know where safety lies anymore.
As I make my way through the camp, a sudden commotion breaks out around me. People are scrambling, fear etched into their movements as they grab their belongings and flee. Through the sparse trees, the unmistakable shape of a gardai car becomes visible.
“Oh, God,” I whisper to myself, a prayer to no one. The last thing I need is to be caught up in whatever is happening. With the Garda here, the camp will no longer be safe.
Not that it ever truly was.
The presence of Garda officers is overwhelming, their figures materializing from between the tents like specters of my worst fears come to life. Panic sets in, a wild, thrashing thing inside me as I try to find an escape route through the chaos. Screams pierce the early morning calm. My heart races, each beat a loud drum in my ears as I dodge and weave, desperate to remain unseen. But luck isn”t on my side. After a frantic, brief chase, a firm hand closes around my arm, and I”m caught, the reality of my situation crashing down on me with the weight of a thousand bricks.
“Don’t struggle.” The deep male voice has me going still, and I look around as I’m led to a Garda car. I’m very aware that I’m the only one being arrested.
Sitting in the back of the Garda car, a mix of emotions courses through me. There”s a twisted relief in the warmth of the car. The thought of going to jail brings with it the possibility of a warm meal. But the relief is fleeting, smothered by the realization that being booked could lead to my discovery. If my name makes it into the papers, they will find me.
The officer”s phone call pierces the haze of my thoughts, a simple phrase that chills me to the bone. “I have her.” The finality in his tone, the implication that I am known to them, sends a wave of dread crashing over me. This isn”t just an arrest; it”s a capture. They know who I am, and this changes everything. He starts the car, and I want to argue, but I already know that there is no getting away from this.
The car pulls up to a building that strikes a familiar chord of fear within me—Wolf”s building. The realization hits me like a physical blow. Diarmuid has rejected me, discarded me to the whims of fate without so much as a backward glance. I am to be passed straight to the bottom, no bargaining, no chance of mercy. The officer”s demeanor is icy, his eyes never meeting mine, as if I”m already condemned, already nothing.
This is it—the end of the line. All my running, all my hiding, has led to this moment—the fear, the cold, the loneliness. Diarmuid”s rejection is a sentence worse than any jail could impose, a fate I”d been desperate to avoid.
As I”m led into the building, each step feels heavier than the last. The warmth of the car is a distant memory, replaced by the cold reality of my situation. I”m entering the lion”s den, a place where mercy is a foreign concept and survival is a game played by rules I no longer understand.
The sensation of not having to fight anymore washes over me with an almost surreal relief. For so long, I”ve been running, dodging, hiding—survival was my only goal. Now, as I”m led into the lobby by the officer, the fight seems to drain out of me, leaving behind a weary acceptance of whatever fate awaits.
Wolf is there.
“Thank you, officer,” he says with a fresh smile.
The officer releases me and nods at Wolf. His departure is swift, leaving me alone with Wolf, the architect of my current predicament. He gestures for me to follow, and I do, my body moving of its own accord, my mind numb to the implications of his command.
As we walk, a heavy dread settles in my stomach, a weight so profound it threatens to drag me down. I can imagine the horrors that might await me, each scenario more terrifying than the last. A voice in the back of my mind whispers that death might be preferable to what lies ahead.
Wolf”s voice cuts through my dark reverie. “I have a present for you.”The word sends a chill through me. As we approach a door, the sound of screaming filters through, a warning of the nightmare to come. He opens the door, and the scene that unfolds is something out of a twisted fantasy.
My mother, the woman who gave me life, is tied to a post in the center of the room, a spectacle of despair. Her eyes are wild, filled with an animalistic fear as she screams and twists, more monster than human. The room is lined with tables that hold an array of implements: weapons, syringes, bottles, blindfolds, and even a stereo. It”s a tableau of torture, a display of human depravity.
“I went to your home to find you, but I found your mother instead.” Perverse satisfaction laces Wolf’s voice.
Like a circus presenter, he holds out his arms towards my mother. “A present for you.”
The sight of her, so broken and lost, ignites something within me—a rage, a sorrow, a desperate urge to protect, even now.
As my mother”s gaze locks onto mine, the air shifts. The pitiable creature I saw moments ago vanishes, replaced by the all-too-familiar specter of anger and venom that I grew up with. Her curses fill the room, each word a barb that finds its mark with practiced ease. The years of verbal abuse, the emotional scars—they all come flooding back as she lunges at me, restrained only by her bonds.
In a moment of raw, unfiltered emotion, I clutch my jaw, stepping into the room with a determination I hadn”t known I possessed. My eyes fixate on one of the tables, and without thinking, I grab a bat. My grip is tight, knuckles white as I advance, every step fueled by years of suppressed anger and hurt. But before I can swing, my arm is caught in an iron grasp. Wolf”s smile is chilling, a silent reminder of the power he holds in this moment.
“When was the first time she hurt you?” he asks, his voice calm.
The memory surfaces unbidden—Dominic”s funeral, six years ago, a day when grief was met with cruelty instead of comfort.
“Six years ago. At Dominic’s funeral.” I say, still looking at my mother. She’s still struggling, still screaming at me, telling me I’m a whore. I’m useless.
“If you hurt her now, it will be over in a moment. A lifetime of hurt deserves a lifetime of pain.” He releases my arm as if allowing me to make my choice.
He steps behind me and speaks in my left ear.
“LSD is coursing through her veins. You could create nightmares for her.” He steps to my left.
“You could be the architect of her terror.” He smiles at me.
“Why? Why do this for me?” I ask a question that feels too small for the gravity of this moment.
He exhales and glances at my mother, who’s still struggling. “I feel a kinship with you. The world hasn’t been kind to either of us.”
The revelation is unsettling. To be seen, understood, and aided by someone like Wolf—a man capable of such cruelty yet ready to offer solace in revenge—is to stand at the edge of an abyss. The choice before me is stark: to embrace the darkness offered as salvation or to reject it.
I have no one else. No one who sees me like Wolf does. Diarmuid has cast me aside, and in the space of a moment, I make my mind up.
I hand the bat to Wolf. “The world has been fucking cruel,” I snarl and he smiles.