Page 27 of Satan's Spawn
Rebecca Dawson.
Born in La Jolla, California. Turning eighteen at the end of the month. Father died of a heart attack and Mom’s a newlywed part-time hairdresser.
Okay, so I did more than a background check, because I had to know if this girl is related to me, somehow.
She’s not. But I still can’t figure out why the hell she has this effect on me.
Which is exactly the kind of thing my bullshit shrink would be asking me to figure out. You know, since the dick spent every hour of our sessions juggling between convincing me to take meds or asking me to do his job and explainwhyI felt the need to hurt people.
Why I lashed out the way I did.
The answer I gave him never faltered.
Because I fucking can.
Because some Bible thumping fanatic many years ago had the precious God she worshipped abandon her when some fucked up shit happened. Then made the choice to keep the tiny fetus growing inside her because of it.
Choice is what has all the different paths in life crossing ad-infinitum. A never ending series of events that could only be disrupted by ceasing to exist. Something I’ve contemplated more times than I’d care to admit.
Taking an even longer chug of the whiskey, I fall further down the rabbit hole until my throat goes numb.
Until I go numb.
It’s not long before I’m reaching the corner across from the park I usually escape to. There’s a few people in the dog area–which fucks with my plan to take a piss–so before I cross the street I dodge into the nearest alley between buildings to do my business.
Pulling up my zipper when I’m done, I wipe my hands down my jeans and pick up the bottle, stepping out into the light of the streets to be on my way again. I usually park the Raven here at night to write or escape my thoughts, allowing the scenery to whisk me away to another place.
Tonight I just need to breathe the freshwater air. It’s so much less stuffy than at Riverside.
Concrete turns to grass as I reach the brink of the park, and when I make it to my usual spot with the perfect view of the river, I feel like my lungs are finally able to expand to their full potential.
Sitting down, I stare off into the night and continue drinking, in an attempt to escape the very demons I’ve become.
8
BEX
“So, are you excited for tomorrow?” Mom beams from the other side of the table, where she and Roman are taking their time enjoying their vegan tacos and quesadillas.
I, on the other hand, am scarfing mine down like my bedroom holds an electrical chair.
With move-in day less than ten hours away, I haven’t had an appetite or lick of food all day. Luckily for me, hunger came back when Mom started cooking a late dinner for Roman since he was stuck at his art gallery with some piping issues.
It’s around ten-thirty, an odd time to eat dinner, but I’ll take what I can get when my nervous stomach allows it.
“Yup. Can’t wait.” I lie, taking another huge chunk of food. “So excited.”
Roman swallows, aghast as he watches me brutally assault my quesadilla. “You okay, Bex?”
No. I’m petrified to be on my own and living in the same building as some rude guy I haven’t been able to stop thinking about.
“Just extra hungry today for some reason.” I pause. “Probably PMS, who knows.”
I can sense the moment Roman regrets asking, because he’s practically recoiling at the sight of the tapatio hot sauce on his plate.
Way to go, Bex.
“Baby,” Mom cuts in, “you sure you’re okay? Did you take your meds?”
