Wrong Side of Heaven Read online

  Copyright © 2018 by Gia Riley

  All rights reserved.

  Visit my website at www.authorgiariley.com

  Cover Designer: Cover Me Darling

  Editor and Interior Designer: Jovana Shirley, Unforeseen Editing, www.unforeseenediting.com

  Proofing: Judy Zweifel, Judy’s Proofreading

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  ISBN-13: 978-1981852468

  To all the homeless loves.

  Contents

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-Eight

  Twenty-Nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-One

  Thirty-Two

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Other Books by Gia

  One

  Winnie

  On nights like tonight, when the thunderstorms keep me awake later than the shouting outside, I look at the stars on my ceiling, the ones I put there as a reminder that life’s bigger than the double-wide I’m living in. They light up just enough that I pretend I’m lying in a field of wildflowers instead of on top of this lumpy mattress. When I’m low, I talk to them, wondering if Dad’s among them or if heaven’s someplace entirely different. Someplace so far away and unique, it’s neither up nor down. It’s not an existence, but a choice. Maybe even a gift.

  Nothing about the trailer is giving. Not the people inside or the ones who lurk in the pathetic patch of grass by the mailbox, hoping to get a glimpse of Tess through the bathroom window.

  Like every other night, the front door slams, rattling the bells tied around my doorknob. I didn’t have to worry about bells when we still lived in the apartment. But Tess couldn’t keep up with the rent on her own, and we were evicted from the closest place to home I’d ever known.

  Moving was like losing Dad all over again, especially when I was forced to leave all of his belongings behind. All the things that reminded me of him were tossed in bags and sent down the garbage chute like they didn’t matter. Like Dad’s existence could be erased if we didn’t have to look at his things anymore.

  As soon as we moved to the trailer, Tess’s trashy friends invaded every room, making it next to impossible to fall asleep at night. More often than not, they’d wander into my room, looking to quench their thirst.

  When I couldn’t keep staying up all night and still make it to school in the morning, I ripped the little bells off my Christmas stocking and tied it around my doorknob. It’s the only thing that saves me when my eyelids grow heavy and my head hits the pillow before the house clears out. That little jingle wakes me before it’s too late.

  Because I learned my lesson the hard way. More than once.

  Some would touch.

  Some would watch.

  Some would just talk to me.

  They all had their vices, and I became their toy.

  “Jesus, what do we have here?” I heard his gruff voice and realized I was still on top of the bed, not underneath where it was safe.

  His rough knuckles ran down the side of my cheek, and his clothing reeked like he’d washed them in alcohol. The warm breath that crept across my face made my nostrils burn. I wanted to gag, but if he knew I was awake, he’d take whatever he wanted. I had a better chance of being left alone if I pretended to sleep.

  It took what little energy I had left to keep still. I had no idea what he looked like. One twitch or flicker of my lashes, and I’d give myself away. I had to stay still. But, if he tried to do more, I’d break his fingers and punch him in the face. He was so wasted, he’d never see the fist coming until it connected.

  But this guy was different than most.

  He wasn’t rough, and he didn’t force me to open my eyes and touch him back. He let me lay there with my eyes closed, never acknowledging him.

  That didn’t mean he didn’t scare me. I was still petrified of what I couldn’t allow myself to see.

  I heard the teeth of his zipper part, and with one hand, he gently trailed his fingertips down my stomach, toward the waistband of my cotton shorts. The other hand he used to stroke himself.

  As hard as he was breathing, I knew it wouldn’t last long, but I was already transported to the beach, imagining my toes sinking in the sand as the waves crashed over my ankles. Surrounded by blue sky, I was blanketed by sunshine, and for a few minutes, the rough pads of his fingers felt like a gentle breeze caressing my skin.

  Eventually, the breeze stopped, and the ocean was replaced by maddening darkness. I was back in bed, alone, and as soon as the door closed, I scurried onto the floor until I was underneath the frame and as far away from him as I could get.

  I was lucky—lucky he’d only touched and not taken. He could have gone further, so much further. And it could have been worse.

  Since those nights began, I’ve become a prisoner in my own body, held captive by my thoughts. Without a TV, there’s not much to do besides write, draw, and think. When I run out of paper, I get antsy, and I talk to Dad, praying he’s watching over me. Because, no matter how hard I try to block out the noise, the inside of my brain feels like a cluttered junk drawer full of odds and ends that don’t matter. A bunch of trash that’s stuck in a small space with no purpose.

  Sometimes, the voices are so loud, I pace in circles until the ratty carpet fibers stop laughing at me. If I don’t, I’ll end up in the bathroom with the blade against my thigh. On days when I can’t get the chatter to stop, I run the smooth metal over my skin and watch the blood seep out.

  Blood—the lifeline that unites a family.

  All my family is dead or gone.

  God, I hate the sight of blood. The smell. The consistency. The way it smears and stains everything it touches. But, once the blade touches my skin, I forget about Tess and how little I have. Suddenly, that little cut is all I can think about, and I love the way it silences the screaming inside my head.

  For those few seconds of peace, I forget that Dad’s not coming back, that Trey is gone, and how Tess isn’t ever going to be the mother I need her to be. I’m no longer lonely and afraid. I’m the girl who looks in the mirror and likes what she sees.

  I am me. Nobody else.

  Two

  Winnie

  One thunderstorm fades into another, and I keep my eyes on the stars, praying this one isn’t as bad as the last. It’s tornado season in Kansas—the only other force besides Tess that threatens me on a daily basis.

  The crack of thunder is sharp, and the flashes of lightning so close together, I know it’s almost time to get in the closet. There’s no basement. No shelter to run to with a secret door to the underground. It’s just creaky floorboards, dust, and a protective layer of
cotton pillows I bought at the dollar store.

  If the storm were to pull the roof off the trailer, there’s not much else inside my room for the wind to whip around. The only other piece of furniture I own is a dresser. But I learned, whatever I put in there, Tess will take, so I keep my clothes in the trunk in the closet. The little bit of money I have is kept in a secret compartment in the floor. It’s not much, but I save every penny I earn from babysitting jobs around the trailer park.

  Over the summer months, I try to pick up as many nights as I can because, without school, I spend too much time in the trailer. Too much time with Tess leads to problems.

  Last night, we argued about my chest. She said my boobs were getting too big and that my mother probably had a matching set, just like all the other whores in town. If I knew anything about my mom, I’d disagree, but Tess could be right, so I didn’t bother trying to convince her otherwise.

  As much as I hate Tess, she’s all I have. When my dad died, Tess decided to keep me. She said something about the money from the government helping to pay the bills. I’m not stupid. I know all that money goes up her nose and feeds her habit.

  Sometimes, when Tess is exceptionally bitchy, I almost wish I had gone into the foster system. At least then I’d have had a chance at happiness. Because living in Carillon is nothing but hell. A hell I can’t escape until I turn eighteen and graduate high school.

  Three hundred sixty-four days separate me and freedom.

  I am me. Alone and by myself.

  “Winnie, what’d you do with my dress? I can’t be late again.” Tess is standing half-naked in my bedroom, swaying from side to side.

  As she’s dressed in only her bra and underwear, I can tell why she was pissed about my chest. There’s no doubt my boobs are bigger than hers, and she takes her clothes off for a living.

  She grabs two handfuls and squeezes. “What? Like what you see?”

  If I roll my eyes, she’ll smack me, so I stare into her dilated pupils, praying the hate I feel for her doesn’t show in my expression.

  It’s not even dinnertime, and she’s wasted. If she didn’t work at the club as a cocktail waitress and stripper, she’d get fired from her job. But half of the park works at The Whip, and they’re all the same—junkies, addicts, or whores.

  From the condition her dress was in when she told me to fix it, some grabby-handed slug had taken more than she was offering. After I mended it, I washed the dress and hung it on the line like she’d told me to. It’s her favorite, the one she says brings in extra tips. I don’t know what it looks like on her because I’m always in bed before she leaves and gone for school before she comes home in the morning. Tonight, she must be working a few extra hours before her shift starts, meaning she’s doing some favors for more blow.

  It’s a never-ending cycle. The alcohol helps her loosen up, and the drugs transport her someplace else. I think the combination of the two masks her shame and numbs her from the inside out, so she isn’t reminded of what she’s lost and all that she’ll never have.

  “Here,” I tell her, handing her the repaired dress. “It’s sewn.”

  She doesn’t bother looking it over. My work speaks for itself. But, the last time she told me I was sloppy, I got pissed, ripped the dress back open, and handed it to her. Instead of telling me to fix it again, Tess threw it away. She hasn’t bitched about the stitches since. And I haven’t tested her.

  I’ve learned to pick and choose my battles. Just because I’m old enough to take care of myself doesn’t mean I don’t need this room, this bed. Without it, I’d be on the street, and I’d never graduate. Tess knows it, too. That’s why she holds all the power, and if I stand up to her, I’ll be forced to leave.

  “Thanks,” she mumbles before walking out of my room. It’s more than she usually gives me.

  Once the storm dies down, I hear the front door close, and I know she’s gone for the night. I sit on the window seat I made out of a couple of old crates and fabric from the thrift store, watching Tess’s wobbly ass teeter down the road, avoiding the puddles, until she disappears. Only then do I take a real breath and pull out my journal.

  I’ve been working on some drawings, some designs I want to try making when I save enough for a sewing machine. With the machine, I’ll be able to work twice as fast and do all kinds of stitches. Maybe I can even sell some shirts and dresses around the park for extra cash.

  I imagined going to design school after graduation, but now that Dad’s gone, I’ll be lucky to find a job that pays enough to cover rent and utilities for a place of my own. College is no longer in my sights, but I still plan on sketching so that, if things ever change, I’ll have a portfolio.

  As I begin a new design, the roar of a motorcycle catches my attention, especially when it stops at the vacant trailer across the street. Dressed in head-to-toe leather, the guy leaves his helmet on as he unlocks the front door.

  We haven’t lived here all that long, but the trailer’s been empty. I’m not sure if he’s here to check up on the place or if he’s moving to the park.

  Who the hell would want to come to Carillon? It’d be easier to drive the extra eight miles into the city. At least there, you’d get a decent place with good neighbors. You wouldn’t have to look at dry patches of grass and faded paint chipping off worn-out siding. You could have a three-bedroom house, white picket fence, and a big backyard.

  The American dream.

  But this guy doesn’t strike me as the dreaming type. I picture him holed up in a garage most of the day, working on cars, with grease stains all over his T-shirt. If that’s the case, maybe this is the place for him. He’d get a lot of business with all the piece-of-shit cars and trucks breaking down in the trailer park.

  He comes back outside fifteen minutes later with his helmet on, so I can’t tell how old he is or what he looks like. It’s okay though. If I’m lucky, he won’t come back, and the place will stay the way it is—peaceful with one less person for Tess to lure into her web of lies and deceit.

  After he slings his leg over the bike, he revs the engine and takes off as fast as he came.

  Alone again, I go back to working on my designs until the sun sets and I can barely see my sketchbook. If it were up to me, I’d turn the light on, but I can’t. It’d be an open invitation for one of Tess’s friends to come back and finish what they started.

  Instead, I sit in the darkness, nibbling on pears straight from the can. If I buy the ones with the pull-open tops, I don’t even have to worry about wasting money on a can opener. Even tuna fish comes in pull-open pouches.

  But what I really want is one of Dad’s steak dinners with a baked potato and corn on the side. Even the wormy-looking onions he loaded on top of the meat that stank up the apartment long after they were cleared off the plates.

  He was a great cook and an even better dad. His only downfall was loving Tess. She was decent to him, and he was even better to her. But, Dad couldn’t say no to her, not even when she pissed him off and made him batshit crazy. And when they fought, it was ugly.

  Tess blamed their problems on me. Dad blamed Tess. It was a lethal combination of arguments and disagreements that always ended up in the same place—with them trying to chase away the leftover pain with a bottle of Jack and an assortment of pills in a baggie.

  The night I lost him, they’d just made up after a three-day fight. One of the knockdown, drag-out kinds that seemed to bring out the worst in their personalities. But, as soon as things were back to normal, the apartment was full of friends, and the alcohol was flowing again.

  If I had known that would be the last time I’d ever get to talk to my dad or see him alive, I’d have taken him to his favorite fishing hole and told him how much I loved him so he’d always remember.

  Tess’s screams woke me, and I ran from my bedroom and into the living room, falling to my knees next to the only person who mattered to me. There was no bringing him back though. His lips were already blue and his skin pale. A needle was st
icking out of his arm, and his head was slumped over his shoulders. He was gone.

  “What did you do?” I screamed at Tess.

  She covered her face with her hands and wailed so loud, every person in the building could probably hear her. Trey, the next-door neighbor and Dad’s best friend, flew through the door and saw for himself why Tess was out of control. Trey was on his phone in seconds, but help was too little, too late. Dad wasn’t coming back.

  I left my father on the floor and ran into the bathroom, closed the door, and locked it behind me.

  Without thinking, I reached under the sink and pulled a fresh razor from Dad’s bag. I’d done a tiny cut on my leg once before and sworn I’d never do it again. But what I’d just seen in the living room was plastered on the backs of my eyelids. Every time I blinked or closed my eyes, all I would see was the needle and his blue lips. The way his chest was still, no longer rising and falling.

  For a minute, I wanted to go with him, and if I ran the blade up my arm, through the veins, I could make it happen. The paramedics were already on their way, and they’d find me, bleeding out on the floor. But how much blood would I lose before I fell asleep? And how long would it take to happen? How bad would it hurt?

  I didn’t want to die. I wasn’t ready. And, no matter how hard I tried to press the metal into my skin, I couldn’t make the cut. The best I could do was a little nick over the scar on my thigh. I didn’t feel it even though it was bleeding, and I thought maybe, if I cut another line, it would be just as painless as the last. I was right.

  The next slice, I went a little deeper. That one little cut across my porcelain skin made my entire body numb. Numb enough that I could do one more without blinking. Two more with half a smile.

  The euphoria filling my lungs pushed away the demons sitting on my chest.

  One cut dissolved Tess’s panic.

  Two cuts erased the echoes of her screams.

  Three cuts claimed revenge because this was all her fault. Tess had killed my father. She had stolen my future, and I had so much hate churning inside my veins that, if I did one more cut, I believed I might find something close to serenity. But I wasn’t ready for that because, no matter how many times I sliced my skin, I would still be on the wrong side of heaven—even if the blade made me the happiest girl in hell.