Page 80 of The Villains We Make

I smile. Mom and I watch The Gilmore Girls on Thursday nights. I know it’s weird but I kinda love it even though I let on I’m doing it for her.

“Yes, Mom,” I exaggerate.

Mom leaves, and I dump my bag in my bedroom before going into the kitchen for that snack. I’m always hungry these days. When I see it’s chicken empanadas, I smile wide. They are my all-time favorite. I have a seat at the counter and pull the big plate of them over, take three from the pile and dig in while I watch TV.

Ethan hasn’t eaten yet or there’d be a dirty dish and a ring of crumbs he’d leave for Mom to clean up. After I finish my third one, I take a fourth, so he only has two left. I’d eat them all, but then Mom would get in trouble, not me, and I don’t want that.

When I’m finished, I switch off the TV, wash my dish and wipe down my place at the counter before going to do my homework because there’s nothing else to do anyway. I stop again at those floor-to-ceiling windows.

One day, this is going to be mine. This view. A penthouse like this one. One day, I’m going to have as much as the Foxes. More. And I’ll get my mom out of here so I can take care of her like she deserves to be taken care of. Not stepped on like she’s a doormat.

I hate the Foxes. I hate all three of them.

Bitterness settles in my gut. It’s a new sensation and one I don’t particularly like. I push the thought away and turn to head to our apartment, but a sound from down the hall where the primary bedroom is catches my attention. I assume it’s the little shit and walk down there to see what he’s up to. His bedroom is down the other corridor.

I’m careful not to make a sound, planning on scaring him, and when I get to the double doors that lead to Sly and Mira’s suite, I see they’re not fully closed. I nudge one a little wider and I’m right. Ethan’s right there doing something, looking at something on the nightstand. For a second, I wonder if it’s the magazines Sly keeps under his mattress. Yes, I’ve seen them. There is a part of me that thinks Ethan is too young to see anything like that, but I remind myself who we’re talking about here. He’s a piece of shit like his dad. I’m surprised he doesn’t hear me but then I see his Walkman and realize he’s got his headphones in because he does some idiotic dance move.

I roll my eyes and think how I will relish making him jump when a sound from the front of the house startles me. My heartbeat picks up when I hear Mr. Fox’s voice, and I quickly dive into the linen closet just outside their bedroom. I’ve been caught down here before when I wasn’t even doing anything, and I couldn’t sit for three days.

Sullivan Fox is an asshole, if I haven’t mentioned it.

Ethan clearly hasn’t realized his father is home but, as Fox’s footsteps bring him closer to his bedroom, I don’t feel anything but anxiety for the kid because it’s too late for him to run. Maybe he can hide but he’d have to hear him and he’s stupid enough to go into that room neither of us is allowed in with music blaring in his ears. Fucking idiot.

Fox’s voice is just outside the closet now, and I hear him tell whoever he’s talking to that he has to go. I press my back to the wall, closing my eyes like that will somehow make me invisible because if Fox finds me, I’m done for.

But it’s not me he finds.

Adrenaline flushes my system and blood pounds my ears when I hear the door slam against the wall.

“Boy!” Fox calls out in that voice that makes me jump. I can just imagine Ethan hitting the fucking ceiling. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he roars, and I hear Ethan’s high-pitched voice as he blubbers his response, very clearly surprised by his father’s early return home.

“Dad. I… Uh… I…”

“What the fuck… Are you fucking stealing from me? Show me what’s in your hand! Now!”

“Dad, I wasn’t stealing it. I just… I wanted...” I open the door a crack, ready to sneak away while Fox is distracted, but I catch a glimpse into the room and stop because Fox has Ethan by the collar and Ethan’s face is bright red. Only the tips of his toes are touching the floor. “I was going to try it on. That’s all, Dad. You said one day it would be mine and?—”

“That day hasn’t yet come and won’t come until my body is cold in a grave,” Fox says, and snatches whatever Ethan has away. He tosses his son onto the bed, and I realize what it was Ethan was looking at. That stupid ring. The fox head with its sharp, pointy ears and red ruby eyes. Fox wears it on his little finger, looking like a fucking pimp if you ask me. But I know how he is about that thing. Even I know not to fucking touch it. How could Ethan think he should try it on? He deserves what he has coming just for being an idiot, I tell myself, but I don’t believe that. No one deserves what I know Sullivan Fox will do.

Once Fox has his ring back on his finger, I see him tilt his head and study Ethan. My body senses danger. I should run. I should run while I can. He has his back to me, but I can see Ethan’s face, and from the slightly green shade it takes, I can imagine what’s coming.

“Dad, what are you doing?” Ethan asks. “I was just trying it on. I swear.”

But Fox doesn’t let any opportunity to teach a lesson, as he likes to say, pass him by and with me and Ethan, he’s pretty hands on. Mom hates it, and she can stop him sometimes—at least when it comes to me—but not every time. I’m not sure if he’s ever hit Mira, but I do know he doesn’t touch my mom, and that’s all I care about. I’d kill him if he did.

“Dad no!” Ethan screams.

I feel myself tense when I hear the whoosh of Fox pulling his belt from its loops. A cold sweat breaks out across my forehead and under my arms.

“Dad please!”

“You will learn not to touch what is mine,” Fox says calmly as he raises his arm. Ethan is at least smart enough to turn his back because Fox doesn’t care where the lash lands. I jump when I hear the unmistakable sound of leather colliding with skin. I don’t see it because I’ve closed my eyes. I stand still, unable to move, and I listen to him beat his son, a skinny, little ten-year-old boy who is cowering before his six-foot-three father. I hate Ethan Fox. But I hate Sullivan Fox more. And I hate myself when all I can do is stand there, unable to move, to help, or even to run, almost feeling every lick of that belt myself. I hate this for Ethan.

When the beating is winding down, when Sullivan’s arm has tired, and Ethan isn’t screaming anymore—when those screams have turned to whimpers—I open my eyes because I need to go. I need to get out of here. But just before I do, I make the mistake of looking into that room and catching Ethan’s eye and freeze. And he freezes too, tears streaming down his face as he lays on his stomach on the bed. His backside, from his shoulders to his ankles, will be black and blue if it’s anything like what Fox did to me.

But he’s ten. I was older when he started beating me. I watch his body jump as the final lashes fall and it takes me a full minute to move. To run out of the penthouse and out of the building, onto the street. To run until I can’t run anymore.

29

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