Page 9 of Ripple Effect, Vol. 2

There was a time when my mom had long, shiny black hair and blue eyes without the dark circles that have become a permanent part of her face. Before my mom got really skinny and strung-out looking, she’d hook up with gang members on occasion. One guy spent a couple nights with us, probably in his twenties with tattoos and piercings and lots of muscles. He was hot. Really hot.

Now the guys she brings home are like the male version of herself. Greasy, dirty hair, bones sticking out, and really bad skin. I can smell them before they walk in the door.

We’ll be lucky to get ten bucks out of this guy, I’d bet.

The banging against the wall gets louder, faster, and my mother sounds like a strangled animal, so I cover my ears and close my eyes until it’s over. Usually doesn’t take long once things start going fast.

Ten, nine, eight, seven …

I dare a quick listen, and that’s when my mom’s scream climbs into something different. Something I’ve not heard before. Like pain.

“Dylan!” she screeches through the walls, and I choke on a breath, push to my feet, with Charlie in my arms, and run for the door. Before I can so much as turn the knob to my mom’s bedroom, the door swings back and the junkie she’d been screwing comes at me with a ragged-tooth smile. His shirt is off, revealing a skeleton’s chest, and he’s holding his pants up by the belt loops.

The room reeks of stale cigarettes, body odor, and sex. I shouldn’t know that smell as well as I do, and it curls my lip.

I take a step back for every one he takes toward me. “Where’s my mom? What happened?” My heart beats wildly against my chest and I swear I haven’t been able to breathe since I heard my name.

“Passed out,” he says on a long drawl, like he’s so high he can’t even spit the word out.

“What did you do to her?” I pat my pocket, just now realizing I left my knife in the other room.

“She’s just trippin’ out. Comin’ off the high.”

He’s lying. My mother’s never done this after being with a guy. She’s never screamed my name after.

“What’d you give her?” I try to look past him, into the room, but all I can make out in the darkness is my mom’s hand dangling over the edge of the bed. “What’d she take?”

“Moonrock.” He manages to get his pants buttoned and steps toward me again, smiling as I back up a step. “You don’t gotta be afraid of me, girl. I’m not … a pedderass if that’s what you thought. I’m a nice guy.”

“I want to see my mom.”

His face pinches to a frown. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Mom!” I watch for any movement—a jerk of her hand, the twitch of a finger. “Mom!”

“Now see.” He comes at me again, this time more determined. “You don’t need to be making all that noise.”

I ignore him. “Mom!” Heart slamming into my chest, I spin on my heel and bolt for the door.

The grip of my hair yanks my head back and the floor rushes toward my face.

* * *

“Hey.” The voice echoes inside my head in dreams, tugging me from the blackness, until my whole body goes stiff with the realization that it belongs to the junkie. “Tell him it’s done. Got the girl. Where you want me to drop her off?”

I can’t open my eyes. It’s like they’re glued shut. Can’t open my mouth to scream. My muscles refuse to obey my head, leaving me paralyzed, lying against the wooden floor, with the never-ending visual of my mother’s hand hanging over the bed.

Help me.

4

Dylan

Present day …

I’m eighteen years old today.

Assuming he’s not lying about having been out for a few days, then I actually turned eighteen four days ago, but who the hell is counting?