taron madox {d9 - fin}

TARON MADOX

I threw my first punch when I was seven. My dad caught it with his palm after he demanded I show him my strength. He always said he was gonna teach me how to defend myself, and apparently seven was a ripe age to start training. Our family wasn't in any danger, he said, and neither was I. But the streets could be dangerous, and it was his responsibility as my father to pass down his skills, blood to blood, in case the world ever decided to test me. I was young, so I couldn't fathom what "dangers" my dad was referring to, but I never questioned him. He was my dad; I trusted him, I listened to him, and I took all of his advice to heart.

Besides the bruises from fighting, I think I had a happy childhood. Even though dad was forcing me and my sister to train our asses off, he was caring and attentive. He disciplined us when we held our punches, but he also let us play around when we were too hyper on sugar to be productive. He said he was thankful that Taylor and I weren't overly competitive. I was cool-headed, and she was focused. She struck with more precision while I was superior at deflecting the worst of anyone's punches. We would be safe in the streets, at least.

That was the old, optimistic me. Taron before he was ruined. Now it's just Tae.

Now I am the danger in the streets.

They were like demons invading our house, men in all black with knives in their hands and guns in their pockets. Their leader was an ugly man, and claimed that my dad owed him a debt. Years ago he saved my parents from being arrested for old crimes. A life of silence and slavery in the capitol, he said. We all stood there in front of our couch, listening to his baritone voice. I thought he was going to kill us. My sister held my hand quivering as he began to decide our fates.

I still don't know what my parents did.

Neither of us had the courage to ask. It was like a slap to the face, knowing that our parents were like the criminals they wanted to protect us from. What else could warrant such a deal? The life of one of his children; that's a hell of a debt. A real life person, sold like a slave but for no money, and with his tongue still intact. I didn't think it was possible. It was up to my dad to decide, the man said, but he was eyeing my sister. I didn't like the way his heavy gaze slid from her eyes to her hips, savage and hungry. So I volunteered. My dad didn't need to decide, my sister didn't need to suffer, and I didn't need to think for another second what my life would be like knowing she was a slave.

He didn't protest. In fact, he was eager to have me. I was fifteen at the time, and he wasn't a day younger than twenty-five. He escorted me out with an iron grip on my arm, smiling like the devil I imagined in storybooks. My mom was in tears and my dad mirrored my own betrayed expression. I could see and smell the fear from my sister, but she understood. Neither of us wanted it, but her eyes were knowing. I was saving her. Whether she wanted that or not, it doesn't matter now. I was destined to be ruined either way.

I'm a slave, period point blank. I'm also in a gang, and therefore I'm a criminal by association. At least I was for awhile. Rudy, my boss and the boyfriend I never wanted, dangled my sister in front of my face to control me. I do what he says, and she stays alive. When words aren't enough to remind me of who and what I am, he beats it into me. I'm no longer a criminal by association because I had to learn everything there is to being his gangster dog. I'm a servant as much as I am his best man on the job. I already knew how to fight so the rest was easy. Learn how to shoot, how to stab, how to withstand torture, how to torture, how to survive in the place I was never supposed to be. The streets are a darker place with me around.

I'm not even flattering myself, I just know how many people I've killed. There is a higher number of people I've tortured.

The worst part is returning home to him. We live together now, like domestic partners. The first time he fucked me he left a rancid taste in my mouth, and it's been a hell of a time trying to make myself numb to it. That's the key to all of this, I learned. Feel nothing. Express nothing. When faced with a void, people either accept the challenge or recognize that it must be abandoned. My endurance has been tested - try and crack the kid who never smiles or grimaces, but the pain reminds me of what could be done to my sister. It could be her in a chair, her in his bed, her with blood on her hands.

I wouldn't wish my life on anyone.

I'm nothing but a piece of property. I obey, and I submit. I'm used, but also feared by those around me. I have too much power yet not enough. They're scared of me because I'm his favorite, but power over them means nothing to me. When I lie awake at night, I think of how I ended up here. Did my dad teach me all of this because he knew I would end up here? What did he do to end up in this situation? Why have children at all when one of them would be destined to this? There is no happiness here. Memories are what keep me sane, and that's all. People can preach about "hope" but there is none here, so I have to find other ways to compensate, or else I'll lose all of my sanity. I can't risk that. I can't fuck up. If I fuck up he'll lose his temper. He'll wrap his hand around my throat the way he always does and he'll find my sister again.

The next time I see my sister - if I ever see her again - I don't want it to be inside of a body bag.

If anything works out, it'll be me who ends up there first.