Pixie, First Daughter of Anarchy: Book 2

Presidential Sanctions

WARNING: Mentions of death, blood, vomit, mental health issues, trauma. 

A woodsy, damp earth smell filled Pixie's nose as she slowly woke up, briefly wondering if she'd spent the night at Francesca and Viktor's farmhouse like she usually did if she needed time away from Bruce. Then the sensation of dampness hit Pixie, her purple corduroy trousers were sticking to her legs and her stump was painful and tight against the prosthetic bandaging. Confused, Pixie cracked open her eyes and raised her hands to her face, seeing an oak tree canopy above her set against a predawn sky. She felt something wet and cold against her left cheek, so blearily raised her hands up to wipe her cheek, a brown, dew-covered oak leaf came away on her fingers, and she winced as the cold droplets touched her skin and pain emanated from her fingertips. She focused on her hands, holding them up above her face, seeing minor burns on her palms and wrists, as well as bruises and soot streaks up her bare arms, goosebumps were there too, and it hit Pixie that she was cold, shivering even.

She was laying in a ditch in the middle of a forest covered head to toe in piles of dead, damp leaves. This wasn't right. She should be home, in bed, staring up at her white ceiling with her faded Winnie-the-Pooh light shade that she'd never gotten around to changing from when she'd been a baby. Bruce should be making coffee downstairs and whistling to himself like he did every morning. She should have Beary tucked against her and her purple duvet swaddled around her tired body.

Why was she here? This was all so wro-

"Run! Leave me, Pixie, just go!" Bruce's bloody form came into mind, laying out on her lap, his emerald green eyes losing their light, his chest heaving one last time and never rising again as blood poured from his heart. He was dead. Her dad was dead. Bruce Barcroft, the leader, the strength, the titan that could take on a room of bastards, the man who raised her, the smiles, the laugh, the words, the thoughts, the warm and calloused hands... all gone.

"No, no, no, no, no." Pixie repeated like a broken record as she sat up, a strangled cry leaving her throat as more memories came flooding back and she was thrown out of her hazy bubble of innocence. Viktor with his chest gouged out. Cliff dropping to the floor. Doc Doc impaled on wood. Teapot's arm peeking out from under a pile of tables, cigar still between his fingers. Lennon's round glasses cracked and twisted in the burning ruins, Smokestack running to the far end of the corridor, his arms on fire as bullets rang out. A sickening thud of his body hitting the floor. The sounds of men screaming, bullets firing over the roar of flames. Everyone was dead. So much fire and chaos, terror and pain. All of it gripped Pixie's heart and she gasped, clutching her chest as she rolled over, trying to breathe under the weight of emotion and grief as everything spun and her mind flashed images of the Sons, dead and burning, like a horrible slideshow she couldn't stop. Burning flesh tinged her nose and she gagged, dry-heaving as she sobbed, her stomach churning in pain and bile scalding her throat as she spat it out onto the leaves, choking as she tried to breathe.

Jimmy had come and killed them all.

Pixie could hear the sound of a wounded animal's harrowing cry ring out around her and echo through the trees, it terrified her until she finally realised the sound was emanating from her own aching throat. Her mind had no thoughts other than the deep sense of loss and death. Pixie felt as though she was dying and for the first time in her life, she wanted it. Wished for death. Wanted the ditch to come alive and swallow her up into the ground so she could be with her brothers, uncles, and Bruce. How was she supposed to go on when she was the only one left behind? She shouldn't have survived. Bruce was stronger, knew how to fight back, knew how to build on tragedy. Pixie didn't even know which way was up. She fisted her hands in her hair at her temples, eyes scrunched tight as the smell of dirt filled her nostrils and the leaves muffled her cries. Every atom of her body ached, she trembled and seized, the shock overtaking her body as she finally choked up bile and the small amount of food still left in her stomach. Pixie heaved herself up onto her elbows to give herself room as her body reacted violently and she tried to suck in breaths in between the stomach-churning heaves. Finally, when there was nothing left in her stomach and Pixie's body had stopped jerking, she slowly sat back into the damp leaves and tipped her head up to look at the canopy overhead, the beginnings of a sunrise starting to form in the sky. Even the sun felt wrong. The sun shouldn't be rising when the world is ending around her. It shouldn't be displaying beautiful colours of rich red, amber, blush pink, and lilac, how could something be so beautiful when so much tragedy had occurred hours earlier?