Don't Know If I Bleed
family matters
My mother was still in high school when I was born, condemned by her conservative family for shaming them and becoming a harlot. She named me Jordan, after the river in Israel, hoping I’d be her freedom. Jesus had been baptized there by John the Baptist but I was no such savior. And over time, she grew to detest me for it.
She’d fallen in love and ran off with a soldier. My father was ten years her senior and a true Taormina, faithfully serving his country the way his father and grandfather had. He used to tell my mother horror stories of what he’d seen in Vietnam, tell her about Agent Orange and all the deformed and stillborn babies that resulted from it. My father wasn’t a religious man, but while my mother was pregnant he’d pray that I wouldn’t come out that way. My mother used to tell me I turned out much worse.
When I was a baby and I’d cry, my father couldn’t stand to be around me. He’d returned to California four years earlier with post-traumatic stress disorder, said the sound of me crying reminded him of all the women and children he’d been forced to kill. He loved me, though. I know he did.
I was eleven when he became one of the 294 U.S. soldiers killed in the Gulf War. Life had been okay up to that point; it was never okay again.
My mother had never been a drinker but it’s all she could bring herself to do after ’90. She cursed the country and our president, scorned the Marine Corps, said to Hell with God and then turned her wrath on me. She got a new boyfriend who turned her into a junkie and beat the shit out of her. Sometimes me, too.
Almost instantly, I was drawn to Gemma. She was the strong matriarch I’d always wanted my own mother to be, but in her regression I knew she could never live up to my expectations. The first time Jackson introduced us, she had me figured out. All she had to do was take one look and she saw everything — the pain, the abuse, the desperation. Her response was kindness. Sometimes I think I’m the only person who ever truly received it.
“Something’s going on with Jackson.”
My eyebrows raised, watching Gemma as she brewed a fresh pot of coffee. “What do you mean?”
“He’s been weird ever since you picked him up from Stockton the other night.” My stomach turned. I hadn’t spoken to Jax about what happened, hadn’t confessed my sins to anyone. “Wayne said some guy got his stomach opened outside the bar. You know anything about that?”
Every movement had a purpose. She crossed her arms over her chest, watching, waiting for me to flinch. All I could do was balk. “Something happened and I took care of it.”
Gemma nodded. “You did good, sweetheart.”
Behind her, Jax watched as Lowell worked on an old Harley. I couldn’t bring myself to look at Gemma, couldn’t bear her judgment. There was nothing I could do to shield her son; the truth hadn’t set him free. Our punishment was to live with what I’d done and who I’d become.
“Did he hurt you?” My eyes left Jax and settled on his mother. “The guy you killed,” she clarified.
“He tried to.”
“Where was Jackson?”
I laughed bitterly. “Passed out in the passenger seat of my car.”
Gemma shook her head and looked behind her. There was nothing she wouldn’t do for her son, and I wondered how all-encompassing that kind of loyalty was. Was it such a burden that not everyone was equipped to handle it, and was that why my own mother would watch idly as her significant other left me bruised and bloodied?
But I knew; I felt it. There wasn’t anything I wouldn’t do for Opie. I would’ve put myself between Jackson and a bullet if that’s what it had come to in Stockton. It wasn’t a burden, it was pure instinct.
“He would’ve killed that bastard himself if—”
“I know,” I said. “I know.”
I’d relived those few minutes a million times. What if I started screaming, would he have gotten nervous and left me alone? What if I’d cut him on the arm or face instead of sticking my knife into his goddamn intestines? What if his blood had been on Jax’s hands instead of my own? Would it still feel the same or would I not pay it any mind?
And then I come to my senses, because it was either kill or be killed and I reacted. He deserved to die. My only regret was that I didn’t stop to enjoy it more.
Maybe my mother had been right all along. Maybe I was something much worse.
She’d fallen in love and ran off with a soldier. My father was ten years her senior and a true Taormina, faithfully serving his country the way his father and grandfather had. He used to tell my mother horror stories of what he’d seen in Vietnam, tell her about Agent Orange and all the deformed and stillborn babies that resulted from it. My father wasn’t a religious man, but while my mother was pregnant he’d pray that I wouldn’t come out that way. My mother used to tell me I turned out much worse.
When I was a baby and I’d cry, my father couldn’t stand to be around me. He’d returned to California four years earlier with post-traumatic stress disorder, said the sound of me crying reminded him of all the women and children he’d been forced to kill. He loved me, though. I know he did.
I was eleven when he became one of the 294 U.S. soldiers killed in the Gulf War. Life had been okay up to that point; it was never okay again.
My mother had never been a drinker but it’s all she could bring herself to do after ’90. She cursed the country and our president, scorned the Marine Corps, said to Hell with God and then turned her wrath on me. She got a new boyfriend who turned her into a junkie and beat the shit out of her. Sometimes me, too.
Almost instantly, I was drawn to Gemma. She was the strong matriarch I’d always wanted my own mother to be, but in her regression I knew she could never live up to my expectations. The first time Jackson introduced us, she had me figured out. All she had to do was take one look and she saw everything — the pain, the abuse, the desperation. Her response was kindness. Sometimes I think I’m the only person who ever truly received it.
“Something’s going on with Jackson.”
My eyebrows raised, watching Gemma as she brewed a fresh pot of coffee. “What do you mean?”
“He’s been weird ever since you picked him up from Stockton the other night.” My stomach turned. I hadn’t spoken to Jax about what happened, hadn’t confessed my sins to anyone. “Wayne said some guy got his stomach opened outside the bar. You know anything about that?”
Every movement had a purpose. She crossed her arms over her chest, watching, waiting for me to flinch. All I could do was balk. “Something happened and I took care of it.”
Gemma nodded. “You did good, sweetheart.”
Behind her, Jax watched as Lowell worked on an old Harley. I couldn’t bring myself to look at Gemma, couldn’t bear her judgment. There was nothing I could do to shield her son; the truth hadn’t set him free. Our punishment was to live with what I’d done and who I’d become.
“Did he hurt you?” My eyes left Jax and settled on his mother. “The guy you killed,” she clarified.
“He tried to.”
“Where was Jackson?”
I laughed bitterly. “Passed out in the passenger seat of my car.”
Gemma shook her head and looked behind her. There was nothing she wouldn’t do for her son, and I wondered how all-encompassing that kind of loyalty was. Was it such a burden that not everyone was equipped to handle it, and was that why my own mother would watch idly as her significant other left me bruised and bloodied?
But I knew; I felt it. There wasn’t anything I wouldn’t do for Opie. I would’ve put myself between Jackson and a bullet if that’s what it had come to in Stockton. It wasn’t a burden, it was pure instinct.
“He would’ve killed that bastard himself if—”
“I know,” I said. “I know.”
I’d relived those few minutes a million times. What if I started screaming, would he have gotten nervous and left me alone? What if I’d cut him on the arm or face instead of sticking my knife into his goddamn intestines? What if his blood had been on Jax’s hands instead of my own? Would it still feel the same or would I not pay it any mind?
And then I come to my senses, because it was either kill or be killed and I reacted. He deserved to die. My only regret was that I didn’t stop to enjoy it more.
Maybe my mother had been right all along. Maybe I was something much worse.
♠ ♠ ♠
A little bit of background on Jo and her relationships with everyone in the club/SAMCRO family. I'm still toying with the idea of turning this into a romance. What do you guys think? Any suggestions for who you'd want Jo to be with?As always, comments are extremely appreciated! A huge thanks to everyone that has commented so far! I love you all to the moon and back.