“My life was pretty shitty. My mom was a drug addict, a bad one and a whore, stripper, whatever you can think of, she did for money. She even used us to get money. Most nights, my brothers and I would go hungry while she would fuck some guy literally in the same room as us before she shoots up so much heroin or did whatever else drug she could find. We grew up with holes in our clothes, shoes that were one size too small but all that wasn't the worst part. The worst part was our mother was such a useless junkie that she would also sell us. She would sell me."
“So, your introduction to sex and sexuality was rape,” I said frankly.
Malik gently moved me from his lap and got up, leaning against the fridge. He started to scrub his face. My heart ached for him. I was at least abused by strangers, people who didn't love me, but he was betrayed by his mother. I couldn't even fathom the thought of that. When he finally looked at me, I could feel the sadness in his eyes, and I thought I was being crushed by it.
I watched him from afar and it hurt my heart to see him so conflicted.
"Oh God, Trudy, I'm sorry I didn't mean to push you away," he said, rushing back to me, holding my head in his hands. "I've never told a single soul about this. Just dealt with it in my own way. I don’t even know why I’m telling you, probably just make you run the hell away."
I felt my heart constrict hearing the pain laced in his words. This vital, strong man, this protector, had kept his truth hidden in the darkest corners of himself. It was something I saw a lot with the kids at the shelter. So many of them hid behind their pain, mediated their emotions either through violence, humor, self-hate, or denial. All common signs of someone having been abused and victimized for years. Not many people channeled it into a real profession. Malik was a classic example of Freudian sublimation.
"It's okay. I'm not upset. I completely get it. It's so hard talking about abuse and trauma, especially when you've never opened up about it. Still, I promise Malik that I'll be here for you no matter what. I will help you through all of it."
"She would have men at the house when Gabe, that's Mavericks real name, was at school. She would keep me home, saying I had a fever and Rafa was too young to know what was happening. He would be off playing in his room. My mom would lock him in there. He was only two, and she’d lock him in there alone." Malik's hands formed in firsts before he punched the counter.
"Malik," I said, putting my hand on top of his so he wouldn't hurt his already angry and bloody knuckles. He brought his gaze to mine, and in his eyes, I could see past the big, strong, angry man and right down to the lost little boy who still lingered inside him and influenced how he lived his life.
"Every time I think about my childhood, I want to go back and kill her," he whispered.
"She's still alive?"
"God no, she died when we were kids.”
“And Gabe raised you from there?”
“Thank God we had Gabe. All of my sanity, my ability to function is because of him. After she died, I wanted to light the whole place on fire. Gabe held me back and dealt with my anger, and Rafa was so young that all he did was cry. Deep down, I know she did something to him too. He'd cry himself to sleep for years. Every night between his tears and Gabe's nightmares, I tried to hold on. Eventually, I discovered that tracking and killing people helped me feel like I was in control."
I could feel actual pain in my chest as he told me his story. "I'm so sorry." I never imagined that the cocky and handsome devil who was driving our getaway car would be bearing his soul to me in such an agonizing revelation.
"But what kind of sick fuck wants to bring his mother back from the dead just so he can kill her? I'm so fucked up." He ran a hand through his hair, and I admired his thick muscles, his physical strength that was likely just another one of his many defense mechanisms.
"No. I think wanting to harm our abusers is a normal consequence of being abused. What did she do to you, Malik?"
"When she was low on money, she'd have this guy Rich come over to the house. The fucker would rape me. He'd do whatever he wanted to me, and my mother didn't care cause he'd bring her crank and money. We lived like animals, used, discarded, uncared for. The only reason I think she kept us around is to use us as leverage for more drugs.”