Page 25 of Brutal Lies

She sags into the chair, and my body relaxes a little, knowing she’s safe from his anger.

“Useless little fucker,” he spits out when he takes hold of the back of my neck, then his hand tightens around me, and I try not to panic, but I can’t breathe or stop the tears that fall from me.

When I hear her sobs, my eyes shoot open, and we both remain frozen as his body moves above mine. I’m sure she doesn’t realize it, but the strength she gives me with her presence stops me from wanting to permanently drown in my misery.

I’ve even considered ending my life, but the thought of never seeing her again twisted me up inside with the hope that I mean as much to her as she does me.

For some reason, her being here gives me power, and that’s one thing I’m pretty sure I don’t have, but when I’m older, I’m going to take her as far away as possible from this place.

I’m going to do everything I can to protect her; nobody will touch her but me.

When he finishes, I sag against the coffee table in relief while I wait for the sound of his zipper, then he snags the bottle of beer off the table, switches off the video camera, and gives my unstable legs a swift kick. “Hurry the fuck up and get your ass upstairs.” He doesn’t pay me any attention as he moves to walk up the basement stairs. Then he stops in his tracks, and when his lecherous stare lands on Tia, my pulse triples in speed, but my body is frozen in fear. I’m unable to move, and I hate myself for it.

“I’d sell your pretty little ass.” His words are taunting, with a hint of something more to them, then he takes a swig of his beer. “Fuck keeping you for himself.” A loud belch erupts from him, and he laughs before stomping up the stairs, leaving us alone.

Dropping my head into my hands, I want to sob at the pain lancing through me, but it’s nothing compared to the thought of her getting hurt by my dad or his friends.

It feels like it’s only a matter of time before it happens, yet I’m always too weak to be able to save her.

At least Martin said he wouldn’t touch her until she’s older. By then, she’ll have probably moved on. Besides, I’m older than her, I’ll make sure nobody hurts her.

“I got you something.” She doesn’t even know my name, and I prefer it that way. When I finally save her, I’ll tell her. That way we can pretend none of this ever happened.

I lift my head but grimace at the pain that transcends down my spine. The fucker really hurt my neck bad this time.

“I’m scared he’s going to kill you,” she whispers. “So, I got you something,” she repeats as she fidgets with her hands in her lap.

If I was to tell the truth, I’d say I’m scared he’s going to kill me too, because the pain doesn’t stop when we leave here. He doesn’t stop.

In the past, I would have wanted him dead, welcomed it even, but not now. Not now that I have her.

Sniffling, I swipe the snot from my nose but make no move to cover my bruised naked body, unlike usual when I scramble off the table to cover myself up so she can’t see me.

It’s as if she knows how bad this time hurt. All my energy is drained, and I barely care about anything, anything but her being harmed.

“What is it?” My voice sounds weak, pathetic.

I’ve never had a gift before, not that I can remember anyway. When I used to go to school, kids talked about their birthdays and what they were getting, Christmases too. I’m not even sure when my birthday is.

When I lift my head again, she’s in front of me, holding the blanket from the couch in one hand and something else in the other. Then she throws the blanket over my body and crouches down so we’re eye level, and our gazes are like magnets, the pull so great there’s nothing else between us. It’s just us, just how it should be.

Then she slides something past my coiled fingers until it slips into my palm. It’s smooth, and I find myself intrigued, so somehow, I find the strength to lift my head and open my palm, and there sits a penknife.

A gift.

Tears well in my eyes because it’s so much more than that.

In my hand sits hope.

With this knife, I get to carve out a future.

Our future.

A smile tugs at my lips, and she smiles back at me.

“Make it brutal,” she whispers.

My heart stutters on her beautiful words, the significance in them greater than she could ever know.

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