The Gang Leaders Daughter

The Scars She Hid From The World

REGINA MCBRIDE

The heavy iron gates of the Wilderness Correction Camp groaned as they released me after three years of state-sponsored hell. I stood on the dirt road, clutching a plastic bag that held my entire life, waiting for the family that claimed they sent me there for "rehab." My brother, Brady, picked me up in a luxury SUV only to throw me out onto a deserted highway in the middle of a brewing storm. He told me I was a "public relations nightmare" and that the rain might finally wash the "stink" of the camp off me. He drove away, leaving me to limp miles through the mud on a snapped ankle. When I finally dragged myself to our family estate, my mother didn't offer a hug; she gasped in horror because my muddy clothes were ruining her Italian marble. They didn't give me my old room back. Instead, they banished me to a moldy gardener’s shack and hired a "babysitter" to make sure I didn't embarrass them further. My sister, Kaleigh, stood there in white cashmere, pretending to cry while clinging to her fiancé, Ambrose—the man who had once been mine. They all treated me like a volatile junkie, refusing to acknowledge that Kaleigh was the one who planted the drugs in my bag three years ago. They wanted to believe I was broken so they wouldn't have to feel guilty about the "wellness retreat" that was actually a torture chamber. I sat in the dark of that shed, feeling the cooling gel on the cigarette burns that covered my arms, and realized they had made a fatal mistake. They thought they had erased me, but I had returned with a roadmap of scars and a hidden satellite phone. At dinner, I didn't beg for their love. I simply rolled up my sleeves and showed them the price of their silence. As the wine spilled and the lies crumbled, I sent a single text to the only person I trusted: "I'm in. Let them simmer." The hunt was finally on.

Modern Revenge Scheming

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"We understand death only after it has placed its hands on someone we love."

- Anne L. de Stael

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"Mia, wake up!" Whispered a soft, hushed voice.

In fact, it was so hushed I almost had thought I was just hearing things. That was until out of nowhere a loud door slam pierced through the silent hallway from the room right next to ours, creating enough force to vibrate the old wooden floors which we were laying on.

"Mia! Please wake up! I'm scared!" Panic flooding the little girl's voice.

I automatically knew who it was that was calling for me.

"Holly, where are you?" I whispered back, trying to look through the pitch black room. The foster people we live with don't allow us to have the lights on after 7:30. Trust me, I learned that lesson the hard way. You see, if you have the lights on after the restricted time, you'll get punished.

The punishments are plainly decided on how drunk Mrs. and Mr. Rockwell were that night. On a good night, punishments usually consist of not allowed to go to sleep until they decide they worked you long enough or going a couple nights without dinner, sometimes both. But if they start drinking the punishments become more violent. Mrs. Rockwell has never psychically abused any of the kids here but better yet she sits back and watches her husband do all the work, smiling.

I remember the first time James Rockwell hit me, I wanted to drop to my knees and cry out for my mother, but I didn't. You see when you've been in the system as long as I have you learn how to control showing your emotions. Because people like James and Martha thrive on seeing you break down, they get off on it.

Flashback:

"Come here you stupid bitch!" Mrs. Rockwell sneered at me.

"No, I'm sorry, whatever I did wrong I won't do it again! I promise!" I begged her.

"Damn right you won't do it again!" Martha laughed, the malevolent smile on her face sent horrid chills up my spine. The smell of alcohol rolled off her thin body in waves that were even making me dizzy.

"James get your fat ass up here, we got a newbie." Mrs. Rockwell wrapped her hand in my long brown hair, that was dirty because we are only allowed one shower a week, and pulled as hard as she could, pulling my head closer to her body.

I thought my heart was going to beat out my chest when I heard Mr. Rockwell's heavy footsteps slowly come up to the second floor. My breathing started to increase, and my lungs started burning for more air.

When James finally got to the second floor he had to hold the walls on either side of him to prevent him from losing his balance. His dark long hair was dirtier than mine, and I didn't think that was possible.

As he walked over to me a crooked smile started to form on his face, showing his yellow teeth. And if I thought the smell of alcohol was nauseating on Mrs. Rockwell, James was on a totally new level.

"Well, well, what do we have here?" James laughed and gripped my wrist in his dirty, rough hands. His eyes raked over my body slowly, I could basically see the devil coming out of him.

"She's out of her room after curfew, honey. What should we do with her?" Martha's voice sounded entertained.

"I just had to go to the bathro-" I tried to explain but was quickly stopped by the hard slapped that was placed on my left cheek. I silently winced as my face began to sting.

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