Page 1 of Riot’s Thorn (Sons of Erebus: Reno, NV #4)

RIOT

A ge eighteen. . .

Hysterical cries are the first thing I hear when I walk through the door. Instantly, my shoulders slump and my mood plummets. After hanging up my backpack and jacket, I walk down the hall toward where the light from the hallway shows her curled into a ball on her bed.

“Mom, I’m home,” I say, hoping that will be enough to calm her down.

“Oh, you finally decided I’m worth your time?” she snipes from her darkened room that smells of cigarette smoke and depression.

“I was only gone five hours,” I mutter, but it was the wrong thing to say because her wails get louder. She likes it when I do things for her, so I try again. “Did you eat dinner? I can make you something.”

“Don’t you dare act like you care now!” she snaps. “Not after I was nothing to you all day, not even worth a second of your precious time.” Her eyes do that thing they do right before she starts calling me names. “You’re no different than your father.”

I recoil in fear because Mom despises Dad, which can only mean she despises me, too.

“He’s a worthless piece of shit.”

“He only shows up when he wants something.”

“That loser will never get anything from me ever again.”

Yet, each time he waltzes back into our lives, telling her how much he loves her and how she’s the only thing he has in this world, she forgives him.

Then, like clockwork, he vanishes again to chase another woman, leaving us worse than broke.

How can I be like him when I don’t do any of those things?

“I had to work.”

She jumps out of bed, her sorrow turning to rage. “You said you’d always be there for me. You said you’d never leave me alone like he did, but you lied.”

I back up with each step she takes. “I’m here now.”

People have always been hard for me to understand, but Mom has never made sense. No matter what I do, it’s wrong, and no matter how I approach her, the reaction is always the same. She yells, gets violent, and kicks me out, only to later break down, cry, and beg me to come home.

But I know I’m not like Dad, so despite how difficult she is, I stay.

I quit school and got a job to pay the bills.

I do all the cooking, cleaning, and shopping.

Without me, we’d be living on the streets again.

Most days, she can’t even get out of bed, let alone hold down a job.

She hasn’t tried in two years, relying on me completely.

It wasn’t hard for me to find a job, and working at the cement factory pays good money. Plus, my supervisor says I’m an excellent worker, and it won’t take me long to earn a promotion. I don’t know how anyone could be a bad worker when all you do is load bags onto the rotary packer. It’s easy.

“What good is that job going to be when you come home and find me dead because I couldn’t take the loneliness anymore? Because that’s what’s going to happen! Then, everyone will know what a bad son you are, and for the rest of your life, you’ll have to live with knowing you killed your mom.”

I consider how life would be with her gone, and I don’t think I’d mind.

All my problems would be solved. Sometimes, people say things they won’t really do just to make a person feel bad.

Is this one of those times? Because the more I think about it, the more I hope she really does down a bottle of pills.

“That doesn’t make sense. I have to work,” I repeat. “We’re behind on rent, and if we get kicked out of this trailer, we’ll be living on the street. You gave Dad the car, so we have nothing to fall back on.”

“You know what?” She charges now, shoving me with all her might.

I trip but manage to stay on my feet. “You think it’s more important to impress your boss than be with your own mother during a hard time, then go.

I’m better off dead anyway. No one loves me, not even my own son, so what do I have to live for? ”

“I can’t go back to work; I’m not on the schedule. It’s Friday, so I don’t go back until Monday.”

“Maybe you should go find a second job then. You have me living in this trailer with stained walls and shoddy plumbing. I deserve better than this.” Shoving me isn’t enough, so she takes up smacking. “I’ve housed, fed, and clothed you your whole life, but when I need you, all I get is this dump.”

“I don’t understand. Do you want me to go or stay?” I flinch when her hands connect with my head from all angles, stinging my face and neck.

She scoffs. “Do whatever you want, Lucas. I don’t care. You’re just like every other man—selfish and abusive.”

I just wish she made sense for once. Does she do this on purpose because she knows it confuses me?

“Calm down. You drank too much. You should sleep it off.” I’m backed up against the front door and know if I don’t get this under control, the neighbors will call the cops.

The last thing I need is for them to haul her away for beating on her kid.

Or worse—for her to lie and say I was the one hitting her.

Both have happened in the past, and neither ends well for either of us.

“Don’t tell me to calm down! If it wasn’t for you, I wouldn’t drink at all!” she screams as she pulls my jacket and backpack off the hook, pushing them at me. “I want you gone!”

I take my stuff from her hands. “How will you pay rent without me?”

“You think I need you? I don’t fuckin’ need you!” The veins on her neck pop, and her skin turns red. “Don’t ever fuckin’ come back!”

I let her beat on me as I open the front door. We both know I could easily overpower her. She’s small and thin, while I’m tall and strong from moving heavy cement bags all day. I’d never take my anger out on a woman, though. No matter what she does to me.

She’s still screaming obscenities as I walk down the road, but I just pull my ball cap down low over my eyes and keep walking. This neighborhood isn’t a safe place to be during the day, but at night, it’s survival of the fittest, a lesson I had to learn the hard way.

A shudder runs down my spine at the memory of the first time Mom kicked me out. I was eight years old and terrified. The only place I knew how to get to was the corner store, so that’s where I went.

The second I walked in and the clerk spotted me, he yelled at me to get out. Because Mom couldn’t even hold a job back then, I often went hungry. When the hunger got too severe, I had to steal, so all the clerks knew I was trouble.

I thought I was lucky when someone heard what happened and approached me where I sat on the curb.

He said he’d take my money and get me the candy I wanted.

Minutes later, he returned with an armful of snacks, but not the ones I asked for.

He laughed at my protests as he got into his car and drove away.

Scared and lonely, I tucked myself behind the dumpster in the alley.

But instead of crying, I got angry. I vowed in that moment, with the stench of garbage in my nose from sitting on filth, that I was done trying to figure people out.

From then on, I assumed the worst of everyone—even my own mother.

Exhaling that particular memory away, I hoof it to that same corner store and buy some fried chicken and a Coke.

The clerks from nine years ago are long gone, and now that I’m working, I don’t have to steal.

There were times when things were lean, and we had to eat spaghetti every night for a week, but we never went hungry once I was in control of my fate.

With snacks in hand, I crawl behind that same dumpster, a place I’ve made my own.

It still smells like shit, but at this point, it’s more comforting than gross.

I pull out the pillow and blanket I keep in a small plastic tub tucked behind the big metal bin.

The employees must be too lazy to throw it away, since it’s been here for years now.

Shoving the pillow behind my back, I get comfy on the pile of cardboard I pulled out of the recycle bin and cover my legs with the blanket.

It doesn’t take long for my pets to join me.

I hear them squeaking before I see them, and soon, I feel the slight tug on my sweatshirt as they crawl up my body.

With yellow buckteeth and black, beady eyes, my rats stare at me, waiting for me to share my dinner.

The first time I felt one of them crawling on me, I was terrified.

Since I had no choice but to share the space with them, I brought food as a sort of peace offering.

I’ve learned a lot about rats since then, checking out book after book at the library.

They’re incredibly intelligent and can be just as affectionate as a dog or cat.

Now, I feel a kinship with them. Everyone hates them for no other reason than they don’t fit within societal norms. They frighten people because they’re misunderstood, and most people are ignorant about what amazing rodents they are.

It’s the same for me. People avoid talking to me and treat me like I’m nothing because I live where I live and only engage in conversations that interest me. Why is that a bad thing?

“Hey, guys. How’ve you been?” I ask, opening the bag of chicken.

You might think they’d attack and fight to get to the food, but they wait patiently for me to offer up bits to them.

I don’t know if rats should eat fried chicken, but I figure since they regularly eat whatever they can find out of the dumpster, fresh fried chicken should be okay.

“Tonight was a bad one,” I say, taking a bite of the greasy meat.

“You ever feel you’re everyone’s punching bag?

That’s how I feel. Mom, Dad, fucking co-workers.

All they do is try and beat me down. There’s only so much I can take, you know?

I can tell there’s something ugly inside me, and each time someone comes at me, it just grows and grows.

One of these days, I’m gonna lose it, and everyone will see I’m not the weak, pathetic kid they think I am. Just you wait.”