Page 50 of Something So Strong

“Sharon!” His voice is louder now.

Mom’s arm shoots forward to grab my door handle, but Dad punches it back open before it can latch, and the anxiety of his pending confrontation spouts from within me. Cherry schnapps, bile, and streaks of blood drown the shag in front of me.

“I’ll deal with him. Go back to bed,” Mom pleads, though he doesn’t hear her. His eyes trail down to my ripped and stained jeans and underwear, and the hatred he has for me at realizing what happened consumes him.

“You fucking faggot whore!” he screams, lunging towards me.

The only defense I have is to shut my eyes as he grabs a fistful of my hair and drags my limp body into the air.

“Stop!” Mom shrieks, but he cracks the back of his free hand against her cheek.

“This is your fault! You made him like this!”

“I’m sorry,” she cries like the bitch she is.

Shaking me—vomit flying from my chin—Dad curses my existence. Threatens my life. Vows he has no son. “No fuck-toy twink is living in my house!”

He spits in my face and grabs my throat.

My head spins as I gasp for air.

My feet find the floor, but I’m so weak it’s almost pointless trying to stand.

“Put him outside then,” Mom suggests with a desperate wail.

But that’s just the kind of pity I don’t want.

Too little. Too late.

I’d rather he wring the life out of me in front of her.

Dad releases my throat but keeps his grip on my hair.

He drops his arm and I collapse at his side. My body crumbles into a jagged pile before he marches down the hall, dragging me behind him.

In the kitchen, I’m slammed against the table leg when he cuts its corner.

He unlocks the back door.

Swinging open the screen, he lets it crash back into my face before kicking it open again, this time slamming the side of my head against the door frame.

Vertigo wracks me, and my vision fades.

Then, like trash, I’m thrown down the back steps.

Face in the dirt where grass should be—mouth obstructed—I try to breathe in, but blood slurps back through my nostrils.

I give up trying and let the morning’s frigid air embrace me in the hope—that with that final blow to my skull—I might die.

Sleep well…

Kai’s words have been circling me for hours, throwing me about my bed and slaughtering any chance I have at falling asleep.

Emotions are fucked.

Being rejected is fucked.

Especially when you weren’t truly rejected, but the night still ends with your face covered in pie.

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