7. Wyn
Wyn
For the first time since I’ve been wherever the fuck Rico has whisked me off to, I wake up and don’t feel like I’m in an alternate dimension.
I don’t know how long I’ve been here. I tried to keep count of each time the sun rose, but between whatever Rico gave me and whatever I had in my system before, everything is bits and pieces.
I swear I think I saw Summer. Shit, I swear I saw Fredo, too.
This morning, I actually feel… normal? Real normal, not normal for me.
That’s an important distinction.
Normal for me, is waking up, and looking for a morning pick-me-up. A bump or line, depending on how drunk I still am. More recently, something a little stronger. Then a blunt to balance it all out, and get ready to coast for the rest of the day.
Real normal, is just… stone cold sober.
I don’t necessarily feel nothing. No, not numb.
It feels like a rising tide. Things that have been washed away, buried under sand and waves are coming back to shore.
But for once, I don’t have the need to keep it at bay.
Slowly, I rise to a sitting position. Someone’s been in here; there’s a tray of breakfast on the table by the bed, and the blackout curtains have been opened and tied, only leaving sheer ones.
It’s drizzling outside, but I’m sure it won’t last. Briefly, I wonder what part of Belize we’re in, since I’m sure that’s where we are.
Rico has family dispersed all over the country. I could be anywhere.
I stretch, reaching toward the ceiling and yawning so hard that tears form in my eyes. When I drop my hands, my left one lands on something hard.
I curse, bringing my hand to my mouth, as I glare at the offending object.
Objects.
Notebooks. One college ruled, one composition book.
And a laptop.
I grab it immediately, letting the charger slide onto the floor. It’s fully charged, and there’s no password on it.
There’s also no wifi.
There’s not even a button to connect to it.
“Fucking dick,” I spit, closing it and dropping it next to me. Of course it wouldn’t be that easy, but a girl can dream.
I gotta get the fuck out of here.
I pick up the notebooks and flip through them. A piece of paper and a couple pens fall out of them, but otherwise, they’re empty.
Unfolding the piece of paper, I scoff as I read it.
There’s producing and recording software on the laptop, as well as that dumb ass simulation game you like.
Make some music. Write down some lyrics. Or journal your feelings, or how much of a fuck up you are.
No wifi, and no internet. No one is coming to get you. If you’re still bored, kill yourself. Make my job easier.
-Rico
I snatch the pen and go to the first page of the comp book, and let it fucking rip.
“Here’s some journaled feelings, for that ass,” I grit, writing shit as nasty as the shot I had to get in my ass because of this nigga.
Once half a page is full, my hand cramps, so I close the notebook. I admit, I do feel a little better.
Maybe I will start journaling my feelings.
There are five cameras that I know of in this room. Four in the sitting room closest to the door that stays locked.
Three in the bathroom.
He’s been watching me for I don’t know how long. Every tear. Every haphazard beat I’ve tried and failed to make on this outdated software. Every shower. Every shit.
I thought writing out how I feel about this gross invasion of privacy would stop my hands from shaking, but even now, with them pressed by my butt into the mattress, they’re still vibrating.
I stare into the small red light by the ceiling fan. Now that I know it’s there, I can’t miss it.
He’s probably watching me now. Wondering what’s going on in this head of mine.
His love for Auty is undeniable. Only she could have him holding me hostage, getting me clean so I can clearly hear her tear me down. I can be coherent when I’m begging for forgiveness I’ll never get. That I may not even deserve.
Rico once told me he wishes he put me down all those years ago. There’s no other reason why he’d have me under the same roof as his family, except to appease his precious Haze.
Envy burns through my veins, and for once, I don’t tamper it down. I once accused Auty of fucking him or Fredo, but no. Their love is created from pain and trauma. No sex needed for his undying loyalty.
Fuck them.
Mad bitches really link up. I don’t care what they say.
They’re only doing this because they don’t see me as a real threat. No, I’m not gang gang like Haze. I hated every second of using Pops’ rifles out in the woods. And most of the fights I’ve had have really just been hair pulling and scrapping.
No, they believe I’m more of a threat to myself than others. And I guess they’re right.
Or they were.
Now, I have all this anger and nowhere for it to go. I probably could kill someone right now. Mom. Dad.
Auty.
Rico.
My lips twitch at the thought. Sending Rico to Hell for eternity, forever separated from Fredo, who is for sure in Heaven somewhere. Me being the one to end him. How insane would that be?
Me killing Rico.
Different scenarios begin to play. Me throwing him off a cliff. Running him over. Shooting him once. Shooting him twice. Over and over again, they play.
I want to do it.
I want to kill him.
A final act of revenge. I’d probably die right after, and it may be a gruesome one, but I’d die happy. Because at least he’s gone, too.
I grunt, my heart simmering down just a little.
That’s not enough.
No… I don’t wanna leave my life in the hands of whatever psycho family he has around here.
I’ll kill us both.
My hands unfist immediately. My body agrees with my mind.
“How poetic,” I whisper, rolling my eyes.
Ah well. Better get on with it now while I have the nerves.
I heave myself up off the bed and crack my neck, then my knuckles. The lightswitch is a couple places to my left. I flick it on as I pass by, then unplug this ugly ass lamp on the nightstand.
A plan formulates quickly. A smile flirts with my lips, but I want to look determined on the cameras.
Maybe even resigned.
Wrapping the cord around the stem, I test out the base. The lamp is metal, and looks to be handmade.
Perfect.
I round the bed to the mirror, and rip off the sheet I put over it however many fucking days ago.
My eyes shift to the camera in the corner.
“Come on, Richard. Let’s play.”
Steadying my feet, I wind back and swing the lamp as hard as I can into the mirror.
It shatters, but all the pieces are intact.
I throw the lamp into the wall, the antique lodging itself into the drywall.
Then I reach up, and pull the mirror onto the ground.
Pieces of mirror titter out of the frame. I lift up the frame and set it next to the bed, and grab a medium sized piece.
It slices into my palm, but I don’t care. I hold it tighter.
Distantly, I hear the door to my suite burst open. Good. It took less time than I thought.
By the time I stand straight, my bedroom door flies open, and I’m face to face with my future victim.