"The Black Coyotes: Origin Story"

3. Nightmares

I woke up to an echoed yelling, my head was pounding and I felt a wave of nausea roll through my stomach.

"There you are..."

I jumped at the voice and the sudden light, clutching my new knife in my pocket, I looked around my room. Which wasnt my room at all but the back of a van with tools and rolls of carpet around me. I sat up too quickly, and had to close my eyes to swallow back the bile building in my throat. "Fuck..." I muttered, rubbing my palms against my eyes.

"Come on, Quinn. We don't got all day."

I froze.

That voice... his voice...

No... no no no no.

Though I could only see one half of the man's face from the breaking daylight behind him I knew this was worse than any nightmare I've experienced.

"What're- how-..." I swallowed thickly. He rolled his eyes. "Fucking come on, we'll do re- introductions and all that later." He reached in the truck and grabbed my arm. I ripped it back, stumbling. "Don't fucking! touch me."

"Oh big whoop, you think your all tough now. Big and strong, huh Quinn?" He grabbed my arm again with an intense grip and ripped me out from the back of the van.

I fell, smashing my face into the ground. I sucked a breath in through my teeth, pushing myself up.

He scoffed. "Nah... that family made you weak. They were fucking pathetic." I heard his footprints receding then the van I was in the back off pulled off with a screech. "Why don't ya come inside, Quinn? See your old bedroom. What do ya call it, nostalgia?" He said with a chuckle, like he thought anything about this situation right now was funny. I wiped at my nose a streak of blood appeared on my sleeve. "I'm not going in there." I didn't even dare to look past him, scared that old memories that I forced away over the years would surface. "Bring me back." I demanded. "Now."

He didn't say anything just glared back at me then flicked his cigarette to the ground. "I could... but there's no one there for you... anymore."

I clenched my fist, and swallowed thickly, hoping, praying and wishing the last thing I saw was a figment of my imagination. He raised an eyebrow. "You really think they loved you." He scoffed. "There's no such thing as love, Quintin... at least not for people like you or me."

"I'm not like you." My voice was a low rumble in my chest. "I was never like you. Never be like you."

"Get your ass inside before I fuck you up." He stomped in my direction and spoke through clenched teeth. I stood but didn't move, I wiped my face again. "I'm not eight years old now and I'm not your son anymore. I'm not scared of you."

He clicked his tongue. "Is that what you think, Quinn? Just because you lived with a prissy rich family that have their heads so far up their ass they think their doing everything good. News flash they "adopted" you because it made them look good not because they "loved" you."

"You're wrong."

"And I am your father whether you like it or not. I have the blood to prove it, you asshole. Now get. In. side."

"I-."

"Don't think just because your my son I won't shoot you either." He tapped a bulge on his hip, the metal of his rings made a clinking sound. I tried not to shiver as I walked towards him and inside the house, eyeing him.

I kept my gaze pointed upwards as I walked inside, I didn't want to look at the ground or the walls.

I wanted to close my eyes and blink to wake up from this nightmare.

The familiar smell, wafts of rotted wood or the smell of cigarette alone brought back more then I would've like to admit. I closed my eyes, puffing out my cheeks and holding my breath.

"Basically just how we left it, huh Quinn? Nostalgic ain't it?"

My face twitched as memories surfaced. I shook my head. Definitely not my definition of nostalgic, it shouldn't be anyone's.

"He's here!" My dad called. I whipped around to look at him, eyebrows raised. I opened my mouth to ask who he was talking to but heavy footsteps entered the hallway. "Nephew..."

I stood frozen, eyes wide, with fist clenched at my sides.

~~~
My dad and uncle, argued the whole way back to our house but I wasn't paying attention to what they were saying or where we were going for that matter.

I cried and cried and cried, more than I ever had before. I wasn't afraid of my father's threats to hit me or choke me or kill me from the front seat. I could barely hear them over my sobbing.

I cried so much I made myself sick and my dad told me to stay out back until I was done.

It didn't rain that night but I remember wishing it would.

"You done?" He asked me the next morning. I nodded, rubbing my swollen eyes. He grabbed my wrist and dragged me inside to the shower. "Wash the filth off." He said slamming the door closed after he walked out.

I stared at the red staining my hands, dry and crusted. I felt it in my hair and all along the side of my body. I tried to cling to her, tried to not let her go but they had wrenched me from her. Now I stood watching what I had left of her go down the drain. I didn't want to let it go and I stayed in the shower until it ran cold.

I watched as the last red disappeared from my hands as I heard the door to the bathroom open and close again.

From the corner of my eye I saw my uncle waking in. He closed the toilet seat and sat on top of it. "I know you're upset about your mother..." he said softly.

I could've mistook it as empathy.

How young and stupid I was.

"I know about a very special game to get your mind off of things."

I blinked and the rest of the color was gone. I almost shed another tear but I sucked in breath. I didn't want to cry again, I didn't want to think about it any of it. As long as I was stuck here anything to get my mind off the nightmare that was my life was a good thing.

Or so I thought.