Saxon’s Distortion by C.A. Rene
Saxon
“No!” Charlotte screams as she clenches her little fists and crinkles her brow. She’s three years old today and her favourite word is no.
“Charlie,” Ivy bounces her daughter on her knee, “be nice to your little brother.”
Yes, Charlotte is mine and Amelia’s biological daughter, and with IVF treatments, Ivy and Neil were able to have another son, Vincent Ray Jones. The children are eleven months apart and I can see how exhausted my sister and her husband are, but also how happy they are.
No one has ever questioned the validity of Charlotte’s parentage because she looks more like my sister and Neil than anyone else, it was like we were meant to have her for them. She has curly mahogany hair and ocean blue eyes, just like Ivy. She has warm sepia skin and a pert nose, just like Neil. Her attitude though? Our mother through and through. She lashes out with a slap or a punch when pissed off, and her haughty voice always sounds like she’s telling us off. She’s fucking perfect and I’ve never been prouder than of what my balls created.
Vincent is all Neil, his whole face was duplicated onto his son’s head, and we all laugh that he was cloned in the lab. I mean he was created in a dish. He’s more docile than his sister, and at two years old, he's never entered the terrible twos, and only wants to be left alone to do his thing. I guess he’s similar to me, too.
Cordelia and Amelia are still going strong, and in two months, they’ll be getting married, right here in my parents’ backyard. I have my spot in their equation and over the years it’s strengthened into something beyond comprehension. There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for the both of them, and no one I wouldn’t kill for fucking with them.
My life has been filled with Black Slaughter duties and that’s been taking me back and forth to New York. The last few trips were out to Idaho, week-long excursions watching the goings-on of the Canonites. Bruce Canon passed away years ago, but his son now runs the cult. I’ve made it my mission to take them down, bit by bit.
The backyard is crowded with our family, all fussing over Charlie, and my sights land on Gabe. He’s sitting in the corner, sipping on the same beer for the last hour. He didn’t end up going to college for baseball, as good as he was at it, he felt like something was missing. My uncles agreed even if I could still see the disappointment in their faces.
He’s now in his third year out of school, and still no future plans in sight. I can see he’s not happy, and I know what it’s like to juggle everyone’s expectations with your own happiness. He’s taken a liking to the needle—no not drugs, tattoos—and he’s nearly covered his arms and hands. Dark, depressing images projecting pain and turmoil. No matter what though, I’m sure he’ll find his way, and I will be here to support him through it.
Mom and Dad came back last night from a month-long trip to Brazil. The amount of travelling they’ve been doing makes me happy, and I can tell it’s strengthening their marriage. They’re still so fucking mushy together, it’s disgustingly sweet.
Dahlia goes off to University of Toronto in the fall, and as proud as I am of her, I will be stalking her every day for the first month or five. Every time I hear that school’s name, it makes me feel murderous all over again. Thinking of it always reminds me of Brian, and just how he met his end.
The cops found his body in Veronica’s room about a week after we killed him, due to a janitor smelling his decomposition through the door. As predicted, they pinned it on Veronica, and declared it a passion killing due to his repeated assault of her. When it was brought to court, she vehemently denied it, blamed it on me and Amelia, and sometimes even Cordelia. But in the end, she was deemed unfit to stand trial, and has been sentenced to live out the rest of her days in the psych ward. A fitting end for the both of them.
Carmelo’s son comes barreling through the patio door and shoves people aside to get to the jumpy castle in the middle of the yard. Jameson is a brute, and so much like his mother, there’s no way Cat can deny it. Then there’s Jonah, quiet and reserved, and at ten months, a complete flirt with the ladies. Cameron’s son for sure. Now, Cat’s stomach is once again starting to protrude, and I have to hold back the urge to tell her I told her so. She wanted to stop after one, and the guys were willing to do that, regardless of how they truly felt. Until I voiced my opinion. Now, they’re popping them out like Gremlins, and they’ll have three under three by the time this next one is born.
Dad sits in the seat next to mine, and tips back his beer, his greying dreads swinging behind him. It’s daunting to see my parents age, and it makes me worry all that much more about them travelling all over the place. I know they’re far from helpless, but I still worry.
“I saw you over there in that jumpy castle with Jameson,” I say to him and give him a smirk, “you better be careful you don’t break a hip; the elderly can die from that shit.”
“You better watch your fucking mouth,” he grins back, “or I’ll make a fool out of you right here and now in front of everyone.”
I snort and keep my mouth shut because he would, and I don’t feel like dealing with the embarrassment right now.
“How’s everything here?” He asks, “you and the girls okay?”
“Everything is fine,” I nod, “the girls are a handful and I’m happy I get to leave often.”
He chokes on his beer with my admission and looks over to Nana Jenna’s punch bowl. “You didn’t happen to spike that, did you?”
I roll my eyes because I will never be able to live that down, “not today.”
“Good, I don’t think your mother could take another session of me singing. I nearly killed her that night.”
“Ew, Dad.” I shake my head with disgust. “And no, you didn’t, she said you were begging her to go to sleep.”
“In her dreams.” He mutters, and I laugh at his facial expression.
As strange as our family is, we are fiercely loyal, and completely looney. There’s no limit to how crazy we can get, and I can’t help but be so fucking proud of it. Whitsborough has been home to us lunatics for generations, and we’re about to add another one.
“Looks like our family is breeding the next line of Whitsborough Rascals.” I mumble as I look around the yard.
“As fast as cockroaches, too.” Dad agrees.
Vin
There’s no owner’s manual to tell you how to raise your kids, most of it is trial and error, with a fuck load of errors. But, sitting here today, and watching my children, I am overcome with pride. My daughters are blossoming into beautiful adults, taking the world by storm, and my son has surpassed all expectations.
I was worried he wouldn’t find his people. I stressed that his personal life would feel unfulfilled as he filled it with the blood-soaked life of being Black Slaughter. I was wrong on both accounts, he’s a force to be reckoned with and he’s found the perfect balance for his happiness.
I still remember the day he was born, when he came out, he was so eerily quiet, and even the doctor commented on how observant he was at less than a minute old. He stared down everyone who held him, and when his little hand gripped my thumb, I was a goner. He looked like me, he was quiet, like me, and I thought, this one was born for great things. And he was. Just not in the way I expected.
When he was diagnosed with his mental afflictions, I thought for sure my genes were so potent, and my father was once again fucking up my life. I thought I would have a child who would be in a facility to protect himself and others. Again, I was proven wrong.
He is brilliantly smart, and his quick wit and humour is always on point, even when he’s in the middle of killing criminals. I still worry that one day, there’ll be one kill that pushes him over the edge, and I will have a massacre to deal with. That my father and Em’s father will make their grand entrance, and fuck with my kid’s mental state. It’s a stupid fear, but I have it, nonetheless.
“Dad,” Saxon whines as he looks over my face, “you’re looking like Mom does when she gets all broody. Yes, we’re all fine and I’ll be your little boy forever. Now, go get some of Nana’s punch and let me know when you feel like singing some Backstreet Boys.”
“You just said you didn’t…” I raise my brow at him.
“There’s only one way to find out,” he wiggles his brows and smirks.
And I’m back to wanting to kill the little shit.
