Page 63 of Savage

“Come here to me Wynter,” he barked, holding out his meaty fist. I looked around him as I lowered my hands. Ronnie Hek was now forgotten at my feet.

My mother appeared at his side with her fingers on his arm, attempting to pull him away but he grabbed her by the wrist and dragged her back towards the bed. She shrieked, but I couldn’t make out what she said, her face was tear-stained and her lip was bleeding. The pain in her eyes was fierce and I shot to my feet, standing on my bear as I stumbled forward to try and get to her, but my father pushed me away. He kept his fingers wrapped around her wrist as my mother tried to prise his hands off her. She was so tiny in contrast to the Hulk that was my father.

Again, I moved towards her but he held up a hand with a grunt. He was keeping us apart, separating us. I wanted to scream at him, hurt him as he was hurting her. The anger inside my stomach burned like lava but I was still terrified and so uncertain. If I screamed for help, would anyone come?

The panic I felt inside my chest was so immense that I could hardly stand.

As I stood there shaking, feeling helpless, I heard more noise downstairs before that one sound that I was sure I would never forget.

There was a cracking sound as my father yanked my mother off the bed by her wrist. She yelled in pain and I remember kicking my father hard before the bedroom door burst open and my Uncle Adrian stormed in with another man.

Releasing my mother, my dad turned to prepare for any possible attack/interference and in the process knocked me backwards, the back of my head hitting something sharp and then everything went fuzzy. I could faintly recall seeing my mum’s blurred face above me as she drew me into her arms.

As nothingness overcame me, the sound of my mother’s wrist snapping echoed in my mind and all those times my father had physically hurt her came crashing back.

Fuck, I remembered. Everything my dad had done to my mum was clear now and with it the most excruciating need for answers.

As I sat with my legs dangling in the water of a pool that I suspected didn’t exist, I knew I needed to wake the hell up. Suddenly, an arm shot out from the darkness of the water and grabbed my ankle, dragging me off the side and under. I attempted to shake it off as it continued to pull, the water starting to suffocate me, entering my lungs.

Suddenly, I could breathe again and I was standing in a church, it was cold, freezing in fact. My mother was getting married, but why was everyone wearing black? Molly was there, she was standing with my stepbrother, and they were holding hands. I turned away, my feet sinking into the floor and I couldn’t move. It was then that I saw him, my father. He moved from the shadows of the pews, his hands wrapping around my throat, squeezing the life from me.

Wake up! I told myself.

Wake up! Jaxon! I tried to yell but my throat was dry like sandpaper.

“Wynter!” I heard the voice but it seemed so far away. I was going to die. Please help me, Jaxon, someone, please.

“Wynter—"

"—Wynter! Wake up, Wynter!" Something was pushing against me, rattling my body around the softness against my back. Alarmed and breathless, my eyes shot open and I gasped and struggled to focus.

Reality

When my sanity returned, I realised I was being shaken awake by two strong hands on my upper arms. The grip was firm but gentle, despite the way they rocked my small frame. There was a dim glow of light from a lamp and my eyes fell upon Jaxon's face; his expression was one of immense shock and the memory of what I had just remembered came flooding back. The truth caused my breath to leave my body so quickly that I became dizzy. I swayed against his body.

"Easy, calm down baby. I'm here. It was just a dream. You're safe," Jaxon coaxed, drawing me further against the strength of his chest. I immediately welcomed his warmth, the cruel twisted things I had seen in my sleep entering my system like a poison. I buried my head against his chest and sobbed; almost hyperventilating. I tried to speak but my tongue tripped in my mouth. All the while, I was aware that Jaxon was holding me, comforting me. My stepbrother, the one who had hated me was making me feel safe.

Jaxon remained silent, holding me tightly, allowing my tears to soak his skin and I felt his hand in my hair. "Shh baby. It's fine. You're OK." He stroked the strands as I melted into him.

Once I had regulated my breathing, I drew back. Jaxon was sitting on the side of my bed and I looked up into his features. They were drawn with worry. His body language suggested he was in full-on protective mode and it struck a chord inside me; one that was low, deep, and extremely painful.

“You were dreaming, having a nightmare,” Jaxon explained as I stared up into his face with misty eyes. “Do you want me to put the main light on?”

I shook my head, feeling so miserable that I could have forgotten something so important and tragic; aka a massive fucked up part of my life. There was a piece of me that wanted to call my mother, tell her that I remembered, hug her, and say it was OK. The other part wanted the answers to questions; loads of them. Why hadn’t she ever spoken to me about what had happened? She told me that her wrist was an old injury from the gym and so she’d lied. And that was odd, I had been there, and witnessed it. Had she not brought it up thinking I had forgotten?

“So, what was it about? It sounded pretty nasty,” Jaxon hushed softly.

I slowly withdrew from his arms and he placed them on the bed on either side of my legs which were still beneath the covers. I was surprised I hadn’t kicked them off. Pushing against the headboard, I rightened my body in the bed as Jaxon shuffled forward. He was watching me with keen interest. I managed to crack a slight smile as he pushed some of my hair back from my face; the gesture so caring I almost started crying again.

“I think you have something you need to tell me.”

And I did.

Jaxon listened intently as I explained about the abuse I had seen growing up as a child. All those times my father had hit my mother, or shaken her. I remember he threw water in her face one Christmas. Jaxon listened without interrupting; his face a mask, giving nothing away until I told him about the night Jenson broke my mother’s wrist. Lines of temper appeared on his face. I explained how I’d woken up in bed with my uncle Adrian and our local Doctor who lived in the house next to ours. My mother had been taken to A and E for her wrist and I was told not to worry.

Jaxon was supportive and said that I needed to speak to my mother. She was still delicate so I needed to make sure I didn’t get angry. Jaxon suggested that he believed Daisy wouldn’t have wanted me to remember if she’d thought I had forgotten. The hatred I felt for my father pumped through me and I knew that there was no way in hell I would see him now.

“Come on, you need to sleep,” Jaxon whispered running his knuckles gently down my face.

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