Page 54 of Jig's Last Dance

“Oh.” I don’t know if I should be relieved that her end was less violent, but either way, they were murdered because of this life. What a cluster.

“Alice.” Sal swings back toward me, and I raise weary eyes. “You should stay away from that boy. If he was involved, it could be very dangerous for you.”

With his dismissal, I head upstairs and collapse against my bed. Jig’s cold as fuck stare followed me home, and I fight the dirty feeling that crawls across my skin as the sobs I’ve been holding back break through.

But he doesn’t get to judge me. None of them do. My father was a fucking hit man. He killed people as a career.

He was probably murdered for the very same. And still, I loved him so damn much. Because even as he was staining his fingers with blood, he was the man who chased away the bogeyman.

He tucked me in after I had a nightmare and watched cartoons with me when I was sick. He was my father. And he’s gone. None of the rest of this means shit.

Not Uncle Sal and his demands. Not Jig with his distaste. Not even creepy John and broken Iris.

I have mere weeks until I turn eighteen. Then every single one of these fuckers can eat dick.

∞∞∞

The next few days are quiet. I go to school and remain locked in my new prison. Shawn has been avoiding me and I presume it’s based on her brothers’ report but the reality stings.

Maybe I kept stuff from her, but I thought she was my ride or die. I guess now I know. Fuck, but the truth hurts.

In my boredom, I’ve taken to exploring the house. I make sure Uncle Sal is gone beforehand because I’m not looking forward to chatting anymore. I can only hope he forgets about me altogether until I can leave. Ha.

So far, I swam in the pool, an indoor monstrosity that’s heated year-round, but it reminded me of my day with Jig, and I haven’t been back. I’ve also been through a real-life indoor garden where I have a hard time imagining Sal spending time there. Room after room is filled with priceless art and books, and now I’m in another library tucked toward the end of a hall on the second floor.

This one has books closer to my age group, or at least the last decade, and running my fingers over the spines, I contemplate picking up a novel or two.

I haven’t read since my parents passed. Once upon a time, I loved to, but after that, I couldn’t sit long enough to finish a sentence. I think that’s why I turned to partying. I couldn’t be alone with my thoughts.

Every time I sat, the specter of them gone rose until I couldn’t stand to be alone anymore. And yet, I pushed everyone away. I had friends other than Shawn. I was popular. Hell, I was even a cheerleader.

But after, I couldn’t stand to be me, and that meant losing my friends, my life, everything that reminded me of them.

Now here I am, and I’ve lost so much of myself I’m not sure I can find my way back. Shit, even my brother doesn’t like me.

Turning back to the books because I’m fucking tired of me too, I stop on one that doesn’t fit with the volumes beside it. It’s thin and long, a picture book maybe?

Pulling it out, I frown and rub my fingers over the cover. It is a photo album but not what I was imagining.

No, this is the book I made for Sal years ago. Back when everything made sense, or at least it did to the little girl with love in her heart for an enigmatic megalomaniac.

Clutching the book to my chest, I settle on the couch and open the cover, smiling to find my adolescent cursive adorning the inside.

For Uncle Sal

Love, Ali

My heart fills with an ache I can’t rub away as I turn the page. Mom helped me put this together, providing pictures that we carefully attached to the sticky paper before enclosing it in plastic.

Memories of her soft voice, guiding me as I inscribed every damn picture, roll through me, and I wipe away a tear before it can land on the page. Where my dad was tall, strong, and gruff, my mom was soft-spoken, gentle, and tiny. I miss them so fucking much.

I miss the way my mom made my lunches every day and included a piece of chocolate because she knew I looked forward to it. I miss the way she used to sing to me while I was in the bath.

Fuck, I just missthem. There’s a hole in my heart where they used to be.

With a soft sigh, I turn the pages, running my fingers over pictures of Dad and Sal smiling into the camera. Ben and me before the Christmas tree. Mom and Dad and Sal playing poker.

We had so many wonderful times. Until it all went to shit.