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you oughta know

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T hese things I know should have killed me long ago. They morphed into secrets, festering inside me like poison. Or maybe they were always secrets, and I’m the lie that grew around them. Am I the keeper of secrets or the harbinger of lies? Is there any fucking difference when both are killing you slowly?

How long can a person merely exist—a drug-riddled, empty shell with no soul? Someone who needs to obliterate her mind just to silence the screams of a conscience weighted with shadows of awful truth.

Fifteen fucking years.

I have died many times in those years. For a very long time, I wished one of them would stick.

At first, it was what Mama would call blind luck that saved me. Then, in several instances of happenstance—described by me as bad luck—paramedics revived me.

Now I know why death rejected me, why all my accidental overdoses —which were anything but accidents—never worked. Because I was meant to expose a tragedy buried so deep even hell couldn’t hide it anymore.

The truth of it is a common bond he and I share, one that needs to be severed with a knife.

I couldn’t live knowing what he did, so I merely existed. I pumped poison into my veins until I couldn’t feel—what I saw, what I know, what he did, and the blood that followed. Until I got clean… because dead girls can’t get revenge.

Now I know I’ll never find peace unless I atone. His sin is my sin too, because I held it inside me until it consumed everything—until it ate my soul and left nothing but hunger.

I will make this right, even if it means I die trying. Death at the hands of outlaw bikers was never my preference for how I’d leave this earth, but destiny’s a cruel fucking mistress with a taste for irony.

I’m no longer a greedy, selfish bitch. It no longer matters—my wants, my needs. God, did it ever?

Walking through those double doors into the Mayhem clubhouse feels like stepping into my own nightmare. The familiarity from my haunted past, when my mom, Nadine, was their best whore. The horror for all the years that followed—and that day the final shreds of my naivety and innocence were ripped away forever.

My name was Naomi Weston.

But who I am now is justice for all those innocents harmed—those like me, whose lives were forever ruined by an outlaw MC called Mayhem.

I am their comeuppance. I am the reaper.

And reapers never come empty-handed.