“Do you remember how my mother died?”
“You said she died in a house fire.” I nod. My heart feels like it’s going to fly out of my chest.
“She did.” She nods, “that fire was started by my father as soon as he got out of prison.”
“He killed her?” I breathe and slowly sit down beside her.
“Yes, then I was sent to live in Whitsborough until the night he found me and kidnapped me here, that was the same night I met your Uncle Carm.”
“Here?” I ask her.
“I was kept in this very room, a prisoner, and I was forced to fight in the ring. Only those fights weren’t regular fights and I wasn’t prepared for what he would make me do.”
“What did he make you do?” I ask her.
“Each fight was to the death.”
“You had to kill people?” My stomach turns at the thought.
“Or be killed. So yes, I killed people. My last fight was against Uncle Tommy and I couldn’t kill him, so Carm shot him for me.” Her eyes become glassy.
“But Uncle Tommy is alive.” I shake my head in confusion.
“Yes, but I didn’t find that out until a few years later. When I thought they had killed Tommy, something inside me flipped and I became the very thing my father craved. He had tried to mold your Uncle Emmett into a cold hearted killer, but it didn’t work and here I was the exact thing he wanted, only he was my target.
“That night, I tortured and killed my own father. I was found covered in his blood with a gun in my pocket.” She surprises me when she looks at me and smiles. “That’s when my life became what it is today.”
“What do you mean?”
“I began to crave the feeling of killing people. I wanted to feel the blood slick between my fingers and watch as life leaves a person’s body. I knew it was wrong and I knew I would have to suppress it or find another way to express it.”
“To express killing people, Mom?” I exclaim, “do you know how crazy this sounds?” I stand to my feet, “does Dad know?”
“Baby,” she chuckles, “I killed your dad’s father for the abuse he put him and your Uncle Travis through, you bet your sweet cheeks he knows.”
“Mom, who the hell are you?” I feel the tears run down my cheeks.
“I am Black Slaughter.”
“What does that mean?” I can’t seem to take a full breath and my chest is starting to hurt.
“It means, I wanted to get rid of the people like your grandfather Greene, the ones so sick and twisted, and at the same time calm the darkness inside of me. You know it,” she grins, “I see it in you too, Ivy. That feeling deep inside yourself,” she taps her chest, “and it burns to be set free.”
I know exactly what she means and it’s scaring me to think this feeling inside me would make me want to end people’s lives. I couldn’t hurt anyone, no matter how vile they were.
“How many people have you killed?” I ask her.
“Is that what’s really important right now?” She raises her brow at me and the room spins, that means a lot.
This woman sitting in front of me is nothing like the mother I know. She seems aloof and a bit psychotic. Dean was asking me about the Black Slaughter and now I know he was talking about my mother, he couldn’t know it was my mother, and I bet he’s scared shitless if she has no problems killing pedophiles.
“Why did you bring me, Mom?” I know the answer and my insides freeze as I wait for her answer.
“Dean Thompson.”
“Fuck.” I sit back on the bed. “You want to kill him.”
“No,” she shakes her head and stands up. “I want you to.” Then I stare at her as she walks out of the room.
She wants me to kill my pedophile rapist.
It’s six in the evening and we just watched as Dean’s secretary got into her car and drove out of Johnstone’s parking lot.
“He’ll be alone now.” I whisper. “How did you find out?”
“Trent and I received a tip from a co-worker about the dean of Johnstone Academy and how much he likes to punish his girls.”
I feel fucking sick.
“Trent does a lot of recon work and he found out that much of what the tipster said was true. He found videos, photos, and even some mementos.”
I know those mementos, sometimes it was a lock of my hair, and sometimes it would be a pair of my panties.
“You were a part of his collection, Ivy.” Her voice shakes and she takes a deep breath, “I failed you because I thought our name was enough to protect you, I’m sorry.”
“Mom,” I try to make her listen, “I can’t kill anyone.”
“You may change your mind, but I won’t force you,” she turns her tear filled eyes on me, “but understand, he will not be breathing when we leave his office.”
“Okay.” I concede.
“Pull your hood over your head, the makeup conceals your face but our hair can still be distinguished on camera.”
I flip down the visor and look into the small square mirror. Mom painted my face into a decorative skull. It’s gorgeously grotesque. My eyes are blackened to resemble sockets, my nose is tipped in black, she’s coated my lips a bright red but black lines through it resemble teeth, and on my forehead is a bright red rose. She called it a sugar skull and said it came from our Mexican heritage. My face is a mirror image of her own and we look like a pair of Trick or Treaters.
“Let’s get this over with.” She rubs her hands together and we get out of the car.
The doors to Johnstone Academy are still unlocked
