Interference: Book One

  Interference

  Book One

  A.F Presson

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

  Copyright © 2021 by A.F. Presson Fiction

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or used in any manner without written permission of the copyright owner except for the use of quotations in a book review. For more information, address: afaithfictionauthor@gmail.com

  First Edition June 2021

  ISBN 978-1-7372433-2-8 (Hardback)

  ISBN 978-1-7372433-1-1 (Paperback)

  ISBN 978-1-7372433-0-4 (Digital)

  www.afpresson.com

  “There is no magic greater than the

  power of true love.”

  -Fitz

  1

  ⥈

  “You disgust me, Mercy.”

  With every chop of the knife, she spat bitterness and hate. I stared at the pitiful, massacred potatoes out of boredom. This was nothing new. Nothing I hadn’t heard before.

  Mom stood, angrily chopping potatoes and carrots across the counter from where I sat. The ratty yellow apron tied around her narrow waist, her faded brown hair pulled up in a clip she used in the nineties—she always looked the same. My eyes drifted over to the old wooden cabinets where the doors hung crooked by rusty hinges in our small apartment. I’d never known anything else.

  “You realize you need to graduate to get a place of your own, right?”

  I sighed. “Yes, Mom. I’m aware.”

  Trust me, I wanted nothing more than to get away from her. It’s not that I didn’t care about school. My grades were average, and I excelled as an athlete, but the school had suspended me for fighting—for the second time this year. A few months ago, I lost my temper. I still wasn’t sure how Randall Weatherby ended up with a basketball to his head and another to the crotch a few minutes later, but I wouldn’t deny it brought a smile to my face.

  He liked to taunt me in front of everyone. I never touched him, although I considered hitting him seconds before it happened. He wouldn’t run his mouth again anytime soon.

  I couldn’t explain the incident that morning. One minute Cynthia Matthews made a snarky remark about her boyfriend flirting with the school slut, the next, she held her broken nose screaming like a banshee. I didn’t touch her. She knew I wasn’t close enough to hit her, but she blamed me anyway. Cynthia had despised me ever since I won the sixth grade spelling bee. There was also the track competition . . . and the tennis tournament. Which is why I’d learn to keep my head down.

  Was it my fault? I still didn’t know. My frustration and anger brought out something dark and powerful inside of me—different from other girls my age.

  “I don’t even know what to say to you right now,” she mumbled.

  That couldn’t be right. She always had an insult on the tip of her tongue.

  “You’re a selfish, horrible girl, and you deserve what’s coming to you, that’s all I can say.”

  Ah ha. I knew she’d come up with something.

  “You’re no better than your repulsive father.”

  My blood boiled at the mention of my dad. I’d never met him, but I didn’t blame him for leaving her. Living with her was just as tortuous as walking into school everyday.

  She glanced up. “He was hateful like you.”

  Chop. Chop. “Selfish.” Chop.

  The hair on my arms bristled, and my nails pressed into my palms as I clenched my fists.

  “Arrogant.” Chop. “Trash.” Chop.

  “I hope he gets what he deserves, just like you will one day.”

  Chop.

  My skin flamed as her words raged inside me. How could she be so cruel? I had to get away from her before I lost my mind. A person could only take so much.

  “Probably dead in some alley after he messed with the wrong person.”

  Chop!

  A gruesome scream of pain filled the kitchen. I watched, hypnotized, as the red stream of blood ran off the white countertop and dripped to the floor. It would have been a beautiful contrast if it weren’t so grim. She grabbed for her towel, attempting to stop the flow of blood.

  “You! I know you did this!”

  Her accusation pulled me from my trance, the bloody hand wrapped tightly in a red-soaked cloth. Two small fingertips laid on the cutting board, unmoving with the diced potatoes. Did I do that? No, I couldn’t have . . . Could I?

  “Me? I’m sitting on the other side of the counter. You can’t blame me.”

  I ran over to help, pulling rags and anything else I could find from the kitchen drawer. She jerked the extra towels from my hand, snarling at my attempt to assist. Tears streamed down her pale face as she scrambled to control the bleeding. I reached for her cell as she pulled it from my grip.

  “Get away from me!” she screamed.

  I turned and stomped to my room, leaving her to fend for herself. If she wanted a selfish teenager, she’d get one.

  “Mark my words, Mercy! I am done with you! You’re going to pay for this!”

  I stopped in my tracks, tilting my head to the side, and slowly turning back to face her. “Are you threatening me?”

  The fear she’d hidden under years of hate showed in the way she stepped back, cradling her wounded hand to her chest. I almost felt sorry for her. Almost.

  I turned away from the miserable excuse of a mother, angry at the part of me that loved her—the part that wanted her to love me.

  . . .

  One Week Later

  Bright sunlight beamed through the white, sheer curtains—brightening the pale yellow of my bedroom walls and the popcorn ceiling overhead. After a long night of tossing and turning, I might have slept two hours. My dreams were always vivid, almost lifelike. Lately, it felt as if they morphed into something ominous. The memory of staring into a mirror, watching a knife slide along the front of my neck while my reflection grinned sadistically, brought a feeling of instability that couldn’t be healthy.

  I stretched my arms over my head in the small twin bed as unfamiliar voices in the living room carried down the hall and piqued my curiosity.

  Mom always said eavesdropping was childish and nosy, but I never claimed to be mature, so I cracked the door to listen. We didn’t receive visitors often.

  “I can’t do it anymore. As a single mother, people don’t realize how hard it is for me to manage a daughter with mental health issues.”

  She had to be joking. Mental health issues? Well, maybe. But she wasn’t sane herself.

  “You’re doing the right thing, Ma’am. I can’t imagine how difficult this is, but please know that we will do all we can for Mercy. Insurance and grants cover our program, so we won’t expect anything from you.”

  “I appreciate you reaching out. How did you hear about my daughter?”

  A man’s voice faltered. “Oh, well sometimes the school counselors call us if they see a student struggling. We’re just here to help.”

  Help? How were they going to help me? My psychotic mother needed therapy, not me. Had I even met the school counselor? I didn’t think so. The reality of the conversation hit me. Mental health issues.

  She was sending me away.

  What I considered intimidation tactics and empty threats had finally become a reality. I closed the door as footsteps clomped down the hall, and I quickly climbed into bed.

  “Mercy, wake up. You have visitors. In the living room, right now.”

  I had no other option. If I didn’t go in there, they would come after me. Taking my time, I dressed in my usual jeans and cotto
n tee, brushing my teeth, and pulling my long dark hair on top of my head in a messy bun.

  My gaze took in the small, puke-green bathroom surrounding me. Rust chips crumbled in the sink from the old faucet while the crack in the mirror seemed to grow every day. Who would've thought I’d ever want to stay? I knew deep down I didn’t, but it had to be better than an institution, right?

  I racked my brain, needing a way out of this. How could I make them see the truth? My feet dragged toward the living room, weighed down by the fear of what she’d done.

  Mom huffed. “Well, thank you for gracing us with your presence.” Mother stomped past me, leaving me alone with our visitors. She didn’t bother introducing them.

  Two men in suits and one lady with a kind smile stared intently, as if they waited for a show to start. I stared back, refusing to give them one. Did they really think I was that bad?

  “Mercy? My name is Elise. I work at the Fremont Mental Health Guild in downtown New York, along with Dr. Brian Fitzpatrick and Dr. Gavin Lee. We’re here to help, okay?”

  Elise was a full-figured woman with dark skin and trustworthy eyes. A calm surrounded her, and I could feel my muscles relax as the tension eased from my spine. My eyes darted from her to the men who remained quiet and I raised my brows in question. Were they going to speak?

  “Hi, Mercy. I’m Dr. Brian Fitzpatrick, but you can call me Fitz.”

  I nodded, so he knew I’d heard him. The man called Fitz studied me, as if he were searching for something. His gaze traveled over my hair, eyes and fidgeting hands, assessing my every move.

  “Dr. Gavin Lee. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

  How different these two men were. Dr. Fitz’s short, salt and pepper hair fit his stern and observant expression, where the smiling Dr. Lee had wavy strawberry blonde hair and looked around ten years younger than his associate. He smiled brightly, without intensity or scrutiny.

  “I’m Mercy Monroe, and apparently crazy.” I shrugged my shoulders, unconcerned. This was my life. A constant battle of defending myself with snarky remarks.

  A giggle came from my right, and I turned to see Elise—lips tight—attempting to restrain her laughter. I liked her.

  “Mercy, your mother feels as though raising you is too much for her,” Fitz said. He leaned forward, clasping his hands between his knees, studying me. His eyes bore into mine as if he waited for a reaction.

  I wasn’t surprised by his words—she had made this well known. It still angered me, which typically brought forth an attitude I failed to keep under wraps.

  “Yes, Sir. I’ve noticed her angelic wings aren’t as fluffy as they used to be. Probably from living with such a demonic teenager like myself.”

  Dr. Lee lowered his head, trying to hide his smile. At least he had a sense of humor.

  “How would you feel about staying with us? Just for a little while so we can make things easier for both of you.” Fitz should have been a politician.

  “I’ve heard of Fremont. You treat crazy people. All I want to do is graduate high school and move out of here. I only have three months left until I turn eighteen, then I can check myself out of your facility. I appreciate your time, but this isn’t necessary.”

  “I’m sorry, but this isn’t your decision. You’re underage and your Mom has signed the admittance paperwork. You have my word you’ll graduate. You’ll finish your senior year in our classroom at Fremont.” Dr. Lee frowned, as if he hated being the bearer of bad news.

  “What? You’re saying I don’t have a choice?” I jumped at the thud of my duffle bag hitting the hardwood floor behind me.

  My mother smiled as if she’d won the lottery. “I’ve packed. You’re all ready to go.”

  I didn’t have to glance in her eyes to know she was still afraid, but she covered it with the knowledge I wouldn’t misbehave in the presence of guests. It killed me to know she was right. I wouldn’t do anything to make my situation worse. Sadness washed over me at the state of our relationship. My heart was exhausted and for the first time, I wanted to give up.

  That’s when I made the decision to go peacefully. I needed to get away from this woman so badly, I would live with mental health patients to do it. It honestly couldn’t be much different from living with her.

  I cleared my throat, struggling to say the words. “Three months. When I turn eighteen, I’m gone.”

  They regarded each other as if disturbed. Were they waiting for an opportunity to pull out a sedative? A reason to restrain me? I wouldn’t give them one.

  “You are a surprising young lady,” Dr. Lee stated. “All of this talk about how dangerous you are, and you’re not even putting up a fight?”

  I met Dr. Lee’s eyes. “You sound disappointed.”

  “Maybe a little.” He grinned.

  2

  ⥈

  Mercy- Six Years Old

  “What is she doing here? She’s weird.” Susie’s pretty blonde pig-tails and white lace dress was a stark contrast to the ugly snarl on her face.

  “Mommy made me. She said I had to invite everyone.” Bethany rolled her eyes dramatically and spun away from the sight of me in her kitchen.

  I watched as the frilly ruffles on her pink dress twirled around her—the white silk ribbon tied snug around her waist. Bethany’s beautiful red hair hung down in ringlets and I wondered if my hair would curl like that.

  I knew they didn’t want me there, but Mother wouldn’t listen. She told me to make an effort. Blend in. I kept my head bowed, like usual, and refused to make eye contact—just like Mother told me. The thin threads of my cotton shoes were not as pretty as Susie’s glitter sandals. What would it be like to wear something like that? I couldn’t imagine. Did Susie feel special? Like a princess? I bet she did.

  A sharp pain hit the underside of my arm, and I flinched as Mom’s fingers twisted my skin. I hated when she pinched, but I never reacted. It would be worse if I did.

  “Move, Mercy. You’re standing in everyone's way.” Her eyes narrowed as a thin brown curl escaped from the banana clip in the back—the one she always wore. She blew the hair out of her face and spun, as if the sight of me nauseated her.

  I shuffled toward the corner, admiring the ivory tile floor and pale pink balloons scattered about. I had never seen anything like it, but I’d never been invited to a party before either. It was my first. White and pink streamers twisted above the brown cabinets, while a large poster, painted with Bethany’s name, stretched across the wall.

  Everyone looked nice. Fancy. My brown wool skirt hung from my hips and covered all but the toes of my worn sneakers. Mother found it at a thrift store downtown and said I would grow into it. I’d tucked my white cotton shirt into the waistband, hoping to keep it from sagging, but continued to pull at the material as it slid down my thin waist.

  Self-consciously, I patted my long hair, hoping it wasn’t sticking up. I hated it. Susie told me only evil people had hair that dark, so that meant we couldn’t be friends. I knew the truth though. I wasn’t pretty like those girls. I wasn’t good enough.

  “Happy Birthday, Princess!” Bethany’s mother called out.

  Bethany, Susie and several other girls squealed at the sight of the tiered pink cake lined with Strawberries. It was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. As the girls rushed forward, I stared at the cake in a daze as excitement welled within me. I took a step forward, but Mother jerked me back by the neck of my shirt.

  “Where do you think you’re going? You’re lucky to even be here—don’t push it.”

  I nodded, knowing she was right. I watched the crowd belt out happy birthday and cheer when Bethany blew out her candles. She grinned, proudly. She deserved it—all of it. Everyone loved Bethany. I wished we were friends.

  Bethany’s mom cut slivers of cake and lined the plates along the counter. I wanted one so badly—I wanted to know what cake tasted like. Would it be savory like meatloaf or did it taste like cornbread? Had I ever wanted anything more? I didn’t think so.
<
br />   I stood in the corner of the kitchen, focusing on the beautiful strawberry cake. My gaze traveled from face to face as they closed their eyes, enjoying every bite of the soft, delicious dessert. The kitchen began to darken, as a gray cloud blocked the rays of sunshine. Bethany’s mother glanced out the window, concerned at the sudden change of weather.

  Bethany and Suzie ran and bounced around the kitchen, oblivious to anyone else. The loud conversation from parents combined with screaming from excited children collided into sensory overload. I breathed in and out, as the sky darkened and the cake sat on the counter—tempting me.

  The thought of a delicious bite pulled the platter closer, as if it longed to reach out to me. Inch by inch, the pink delicacy slid its way across the counter. I glanced over at Mother, but she was preoccupied, faking interest in another’s conversation.

  Susie sneaked toward the counter, laughing. She grinned at Bethany, then grazed her finger through the sweet icing before sucking it off her finger. It wasn’t fair! She’d already had a piece!

  Thunder broke across the sky and guests jumped in shock from the sudden lack of electricity. The strawberry layers toppled off the counter, covering Susie and Bethany in pink icing as they screamed in horror.

  Kids ran. Parents shouted. The dark kitchen erupted in chaos as hard rain pelted the windows. I took a step toward the dining table, where a half-eaten piece of strawberry cake sat—alone. After glancing around, I slid the plate from the table and crawled underneath, out of sight.

  The first taste was magical. A creamy sweetness I’d never experienced. I ate bite after bite, hiding under the large oak table as hysteria continued outside my private bubble of strawberry cake bliss.