OWING THE DEVIL

I half expected no one to show up to dad's funeral. But to my annoyance and surprise, a dozen people sat scattered around the little church auditorium with unmasked boredom while the preacher hummed a sermon meant to make us cry a river and think of where we'd end up after we die.

I knew where Dad would end up. In hell. We all did.

He'd be best buddies with the devil! They'd have hot choco and gossip like little bitches.

He'd saved himself a seat there when he'd started getting drunk and hitting my mom and I.

"...Mr Monroe was a good Man, a friend to many and an enemy to none. He was a good husband, a loving father, a caring brother and an amazing uncle. He was loved by many and would be greatly missed..."

The fuck?

I couldn't stop the disgusted snort that eagerly escaped me.

either everyone here became delirious or just stupid.

Because why were they nodding like that paid preacher who didn't know Jack about my dad was right?

And why the hell was mom crying like he didn't punch her for breakfast lunch and dinner?

"Mom" I whispered "For God sake, why are you crying? Tell me you got something in your eye"

her fingers wrapped around mine like she was afraid I’d vanish if she let go. She hid her face in the crook of my neck, sniffling.

"Mom, you should be doing cartwheels or even twerking! The evil wizard of oz is dead!"

She pinched my arm in response.

At this point, I could swear I'd woken up in an alternate universe where my dad was the world's best father and husband.

The church smelled like old wood and cheap flowers. Too many lilies. Dad would’ve hated them. That gave me an unhealthy amount of satisfaction!

The preacher said something about forgiveness and I took that as my cue to stop listening.

He should've said that to my dad when he bashed my head in the wall because I couldn't afford his next bottle of alcohol.

The funeral passed in a blur, fake cries and fake empathy accompanied it.

Everyone seemed to be a paid actor, especially aunt Jones who wouldn't stop wailing even after we got to the house. Some tough acting on her part, I'd give her that.

But her fake cries didn't stop her from digging into the food I served. Hypocrite.

"Your mother always knew how to fix a mean plate" she moaned as she stuffed her tear strikened face with rice.

"And your brother packed a mean punch. Not that you didn't know right?" I retorted, a sarcastic smile smeared on my face.

"Matilda!" She whisper yelled. "Can you stop with this rude nonsense? Your father wasn't no saint but he tried his best to raise you into the woman you are today" she huffed, eyes darting across the room to make sure no one heard our conversation.

Everyone here knew dad got drunk and beat mom and I up daily, heck, his drunken buddies were littered around our little musky living room in tattered black clothes.

Between their tattered clothes and the tattered house dad left for us, it was hard to conclude which had seen better days.

The house was my dad's only legacy, and as with everything that belonged to him, he abused it.

Dad never saw reason to renovate the house.

The man couldn't even fix a broken pipe.

Every penny his unemployed ass could punch out of mom and I was used to sponsor his drinking habit.

Mom pranced around on autopilot, serving food and drinks to people who turned their backs on us when we needed them the most.

I prayed they'd choke on their food. I know, I'm evil.

A drunk guy grabbed mom by the arm complaining about something.

Mom looked distraught, like she was one second away from breaking down again. It was a mystery how someone as fragile as she could've ever been in love my rass, uncouth, good for nothing, asshole Father.

"Get your dirty hands off my mom dude!" I hurried towards them very eager to deck his nose. I guess that was another legacy my dad left. I'd inherited his madness, and to protect my mom and i, I'd harnessed it. But I guess it only took a measly alcohol induced heart attack to take him out. Such a weakling.

"I don't mean no trouble Matty" he raised his hands up in mock surrender. "I just needed a little top of on my drink.  no need to get all bitchy on a solemn day"

"Well you can keep your shriveled good for nothing--" The thunderous roar of engines cut me short.

A hush fell on the room as we turned to where the noise came from.

Everyone seemed visibly tensed, like we could all smell that whatever was on the other end of that door was trouble.

The door swung open revealing the weirdest thing ever.

A group of men in black leather jackets and ridiculously ripped black jeans stood outside.

The tattoos on them reminded me of a graffiti wall.

Behind them were the most amount of bikes I'd seen at a time, all packed forming some kind of pyramid.

"What the hell" the drunk bozo beside me squeaked. He'd gone pale. We'd all gone pale.

I doubt anyone expected to be staring at a biker gang on dad's porch, on his funeral.

Was dad in a biker gang? Did they come to pay their respect?

Ha! Even the thought was ridiculous.

The only gang dad belonged to was already in the room, his alcohol and gambling buddies.

“This is Caleb Monroe’s place?” A leathered jacket man asked. He was ridiculously tall and broad. His eyes were the most electric shade of blue.

Nobody answered his question, so I had to.

“Yes.”

His eyes landed on me. Stayed there. Curious.

“He died,” I added. “if you're here to pay your respects, you're late, he should've started decomposing right about...now”

I checked my watch for the time. 6:18 PM.

I could hear the shocked gasps from people in the house.

Yeah yeah, I'm a sociopath.

Mom’s fingers clutched my arm in silent protest.

Aunty Jones looked at me in horror like I killed him. I wish. Honestly? I wish.

The leathered man hummed like this amused him.

He had a tattoo stretching across his left eyebrow to his forehead. a white bear.

Who the fuck drew tattoos on their forehead?

“Shame.”

Not sympathy. He said it like he'd said it a million times. Like he could care less about the death of my father, or the entire human race.

He pulled out a folded document and set it on the table. Right beside aunty Jones plate.

“Your Father had Outstanding debts,” he said. “The House is collateral. We've come to collect what is ours”

He spoke in drawled syllables. Like he was bored.

Mom shook her head. "We don't know about this debt. What house? Please, there must be a mistake."

The man finally looked at her. His expression didn’t change.

“ it's all in the contract"

He finally looked round the house, taking in the moldy walls and the torn carpet floors.

He was probably regretting his decision.

“We’ll clear the property in seven days,” he continued. “Everything inside included. You should start moving already”

Nope. He didn't regret anything.

The room erupted in hushed murmurs.

Mom's leg gave out and I had to seat her down on the couch.

"Mom. Calm down. Like you said, there's been a misunderstanding and I'm going to fix it. So calm down. Take deep breaths"

But her eyes stayed on the men at the door. She was having a panic attack.

"Hey!!! Ruth Monroe!" I snapped my fingers in her face "look at me! I said take deep breaths. In out in out"

She finally looked at me, tears already streaming down her face. She nodded, following my breathing exercise.

The men had started to back out of the house, boots smacking against the wooden floors.

Like they hadn't just ruined everything with their dramatic appearance.

"You!" I called stopping them in their tracks.

I stepped forward, heart pounding but spine straight.

I'd learned from a little age to be strong. To protect my mom. To fight my dad.

I wasn't going to let a group of gangster wannabes bring chaos into my life.

“Who’s in charge?” I asked looking between them.

The man’s lips twitched. “You don’t get to meet him.”

So he wasn't even the boss? Bitch ass errand boy.

“I didn’t ask for permission,” I said. “I asked for a name.”

For the first time, something flickered in his eyes. Interest. Respect. Something darker.

“Gideon,” he said. “And trust me, sweetheart…”

He leaned closer, voice dropping.

“You don’t want his attention.”

I held his stare. If he thought I'd cower, he'd thought wrong. “Too late. He's got mine"

He chuckled darkly, throwing his head up in mocking laughter.

"You're looking for trouble Lady, and in these streets? That's the last thing you should be looking for."

Outside, another engine roared to life.

He took that as a cue to leave.

I watched them as they loaded up on their bikes, raising dust as they zoomed off.

I looked around the house. At the walls that had watched my childhood break in pieces.

At the people that had looked away when it all happened.

Looks like you’re still ruining things, Dad.

But this time?

I was done being quiet.

Who's this Gideon. And how do I get my house back?