The Mafia's Mercy

My parents were good people. They made shitty choices, but they were good parents. You see, the problem wasn’t that they didn’t understand the gravity of their poor decision making. The problem was that while they understood, they didn’t care about the consequences so long as they were the only ones who had to pay for them.

Unfortunately, life doesn’t really work that way.

You know what happens to people who can’t pay off the loan shark? They end up dead.

You know what happens to the children of those people? Well…I won’t tell you because that would violate his rules.

What I can tell you is that the Mafia doesn’t go after little girls. Instead, the Mafia takes the son of their deceased clients, they turn him into like them, and his sister becomes the girl that no one wants to sit at the lunch table with because God forbid you cross paths with her brother.

Needless to say, loneliness becomes your shadow.

My name is Mercy—Mercy Carter. I went to college. Got myself a useless Bachelor of Science in Mathematics degree with only two classes short of a Master of Physics degree.

That’s the thing about the Mafia: they don’t care that you busted your ass for five and a half years. When they’re ready for the little girl that they weren’t interested in 10 years ago, even a degree in Nuclear Engineering becomes useless.

You would think that racketeering and drug trafficking would be enough to land you behind bars, but it’s kinda hard to incriminate someone who does a really good job at convincing other people to take the fall for him.

Here’s to being the lonely nerd at the front of the class. She had no idea she’d be taken by the man who told her he’d stay away. She had no idea that she’d become his to keep.

My name is Mercy—Mercy Carter—and I am the Mafia’s Mercy.

I’m gonna fail…

I glance up at the clock as its incessant ticking reminds me that I’m almost out of time.

I had spent the better part of the last two weeks studying for my Quantum Mechanics final, and though I’ve taken Adderall three times this week already, a part of me knew that no matter how long or how hard I studied, this exam would ultimately be the end of me.

With just enough courage to pick ’B’ on the last question that I spent the past three minutes staring at, I wrap up, closing my exam sheet and gathering my belongings. I feel my heart at my throat as I approach my professor and reluctantly hand him my exam packet and scantron sheet.

His perfectly wrinkled eyes squint as he offers me a warm smile, knowing that despite my hesitation, I more than likely out performed the rest of my classmates.

He’s a sweet man, and at heart, I’m sure that he means well, but God, do I want to punch him in the face.

Pretending that I don’t, I offer him a half-hearted smile in return and go about my way.

I’m smart, I know it. Naturally, I went through the motions of attending class, doing my homework, and taking exams as though it were as easy as getting through Kindergarten all the way through until I graduated high school. With a whopping 3.8 GPA, I graduated with my mathematics degree in four years, and now I’m at a solid 3.5 with only one semester away from graduating with my Master’s degree in Physics.

At the ripe age of 24, I’ll be the first and only in my family to have pursued higher education and graduated. All of which hardly means anything, seeing as I only have my hardass older brother to brag to—should he ever come back home.

The cool night breeze flicks my dark brown hair as I hurry to the bus stop. It’s just half an hour past 8 o’clock, and I’m more relieved at the fact that this is the last night class that I’ll ever take than the sound of the bus shuttle coming to a complete stop before me.

Being the only one waiting for it, I quickly board, offering the bus driver a small smile before hurrying to take the first open seat that I could find. The earbuds in my hands quickly find their way into my ears, and in the next moment, I’m blasting my alternative rock playlist as I shift ever-so-slightly with the bus’ steady ride.

Just before the lockscreen on my phone reads 9 o’clock, I find myself hopping off of the vehicle with my hoodie over my head and my backpack hanging off my shoulder. Being on the first floor of my apartment building, I quickly come to the front door, locking it behind me as I flick the light on.

It’s a small studio apartment, but it’s perfect for a young woman with no pets and no man to call my own.

As if I could ever.

I sigh softly at the thought of being alone for the rest of my life. This is how it’s been since I was a teenager: no matter where I went, so long as my brother showed up in the nick of time, any and all friends I made slowly but surely stopped being my friends—except the ones that so desperately wanted to date him and blamed me when he used them for the only thing they could offer: sex.

My phone clicks against the bathroom counter as I set it down, my gaze finding my reflection in the mirror as I turn the faucet on. Small shadows paint the bags under my hazel eyes, and the blush from the chilly December weather that reddens my cheeks and nose is the only reason my pale skin doesn’t make me look as dead on the outside as I feel on the inside.

I’m depressed, and I know it. I’ve been depressed for what feels like ten years now, which I’m sure has everything to do with my parents’ tragic death.

I cup my hands under the running water, bringing them up to my face as I drown my soft features in the cold puddle. It feels good against my eyelids, and as I allow the water to slip from between my fingers, I rub my hands down my face before moving to shut the water off and taking the hand towel resting beside my phone on the counter.

With the soft cloth against my face, I dry myself as I move to the small piece of furniture beside my bed, taking the small metal box and lighter resting atop of it. From my hand, the towel gets tossed onto my bed and I move to open the set of balcony doors at the far end of the room.

The golden doorknob is cold against my touch as I turn it in my hand and push it open. As I step out onto the concrete floor, I bring my unoccupied hand to meet the top of the metal box and pop it open, revealing the neatly rolled joint I’d prepped before I left for my exam earlier.

It’s Friday night, but even if it wasn’t, my scholarship and financial aid pays my bills. So every Friday evening, I come out here and smoke myself as close to comatose as I can get.

It’s easier this way.

With the joint between my fingers, I snap the box shut and stick it into my hoodie’s pocket. Swiftly, I place the roll between my lips and light it, inhaling a quick and short breath. Smoke fills my lungs, almost instantly dulling what already feels like numbness in my chest.

I hold it, allowing my eyelids to fall shut as I exhale slowly to the beat of the music still buzzing from my earbuds.

“I love you, sissy.”

My eyes gloss at the memory of the sound of my brother’s voice ringing in my head.

It’s been like this since I moved to this small college town and he left with him.

I remember the day like it was yesterday, and it’s been the one thing keeping me up at night.

I walked the stage at my high school graduation earlier that day, and Levi and I were sitting on the black leather couch in the living room, watching my favorite episode from The Office for the third time that week. With an empty box of pizza we’d shoved down our throats resting on the coffee table, I leaned into him as he threw his arm around me.

I hate myself for it, because I knew that it was coming. But I kept pretending that it wasn’t. I pretended that the timer my brother was on wasn’t ticking and about to go off.

But I knew.

I knew that when my parents were shot before my own eyes, it fell on him to drop out of his junior year of high school to work and pay the bills. He refused to let me help. He said I’d make something of myself some day. He said I was too smart to throw my life away, and since he became the man of the house, it was his job to take care of me.

He did.

What he thought I didn’t know was that the money he was making was from working with the same man who was responsible for our parents’ death. What he thought I didn’t know was that that man only let my brother stay until I graduated high school and that night would be his last night by my side.

It kills me.

I take another hit, attempting to stop the knot from forming at the edge of my throat. It’s enough to settle my nerves, but it’s hardly enough to stop my mind from going to places that I really wish it would stop going to.

It all happened so fast.

One minute we were laughing at Jan and Michael arguing in the Dinner Party, and the next, the front door was flying off its hinges.

I jumped what felt like five feet in the air, scrambling up to my feet as Levi rose to his. He harshly took my arm into his hold and dragged me into his bedroom where he shoved me onto his bed and ran to grab the gun from his nightstand.

My heart hammered in my chest as he waved his finger at my face, his hazel eyes darkening as he warned me, “Shut the fuck up and don’t come out.”

He was serious, and I knew it.

He never spoke to me that way unless I was about to do something he warned me not to—which was always. That time, however, he left no room for argument.

With the gun in his hand, he hurried to the door, and just before walking out, he turned to me and said, “I love you, sissy.”

That was the last I saw him—the last I heard from him.

From that moment on, I did the only thing he ever pushed me to do: study.

And five and a half years later, I’m still doing it: studying and missing him.