Page 66 of Mark & Don't Tell

“What are you doing?” I ask her, my body trembling with rage and hurt and betrayal. She’s supposed to be my mom. She’s supposed to love me. She’s supposed to love Marco.

She tries to grab one of the boxes, but it gets stuck on the corner of the bag, so she stabs the knife into the center of it and slices it open, cutting the cardboard shoe box in the process.

“Those are for Marco,” I tell her, stepping forward.

“Don’t you fucking dare,” she growls, pointing the knife at me. “We don’t need pity money from your dads.” Yanking the pair of white-and-blue cleats out of the box, she slams the knife into the heel.

Marco makes a sound that breaks me. Making me suffer is one thing, but making him suffer too? I don’t think so.

“Stop!” I shout. “He needs those.”

“No, he fucking doesn’t.” She huffs and see-saws the knife, since it’s too dull to cut through the sturdy material of the shoes, but the damage is done.

When I race forward to grab the bag, she rips the knife out of the shoe, bits of material flying all over the place, like splatters of blood, and slashes at my hand. I yank it away, narrowly avoiding getting stabbed. That was too close.

“What is wrong with you?” I ask, tears spilling over.

She tosses the knife on the counter and surges forward. I stumble back into the wall and drop my purse in the process. She grabs my shirt by the collar. “I told you to shut your fucking mouth,” she hisses, her breath reeking of beer and whiskey.

My stomach turns.

“Mom.” Marco’s voice shakes.

“It’s okay, Marco,” I tell him. “Go get in my car.”

“I’ll fucking gut her if you leave,” Mom says, glaring at him.

My heart skips a painful beat, and fear trickles through me, icy cold and real. What does it say about her that I’m scared she’ll actually do it? “Mom, please.” Mentally, I curse the break in my voice. I hate that I let her see my fear.

I hate everything about this moment. I hate the way her knuckles twist my shirt until a soft ripping sound hits my ears. I hate the way the scent of whiskey covers her skin. I hate that Marco is here. I hate...I think I hate her.

She rounds on me, eyes dilated in a way that’s terrifying, like the evil living inside of her has finally taken hold. “Get out of my fucking house, Daria,” she whispers, pushing me against the wall before storming down the hall and slamming her door closed.

I scramble and grab the box of cleats she didn’t destroy. “Here.”

Marco shakes his head and backs away when I try to hand them over. “I don’t think I should.”

“Marco,” I whisper. “Take them and hide them. I’ll take the bag and everything, and she doesn’t have to know, okay? She’s drunk enough, she may not even remember.”

He glances at her door, chewing on his cheek. “Okay,” he says, voice so soft, I can barely hear him.

Pushing the box toward him, I quickly gather my things and the shredded bag and shoe she destroyed. “Do you want to come over?”

“I should probably stay,” he says. “She’ll only get angrier if I go with you.”

I nod, swiping at my damp cheeks. “You call me if you need me, okay?”

“I’ll be okay,” he reassures me, and that only hurts me more.

Why is a fourteen-year-old trying to spare my feelings? Why is he living like this? I don’t have any money to try and start a custody suit. I could probably scrounge together enough evidence to show she shouldn’t be taking care of anyone, but I’m not about to call CPS and put Marco into the system. At least we know the monster he lives with now.

And she’s never hated him the way she hates me. He doesn’t remind her of the life she used to have.

Glancing around, I blink rapidly, forcing back the tears. “Call me,” I tell him. “I’m serious. I’ll come, no matter what.”

“You should go,” he says, pulling me toward the door. “You can’t be here if she comes back out.”

And to spare him from witnessing more of the shit show, I listen and flee, taking my bleeding heart with me.

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