Page 90 of Something Like Sunflowers

This is a living, abused animal.

And he is fucking drunk.

I step forward, red waves pulsing across my vision, my fight or flight responses kicking fully into gear.

And I lose it.

I swing my arm, landing a punch square in Garrison’s jaw. He stumbles back up the porch, and I feel my knuckles pop… or his tooth? I’ve never actually hit someone before, so I don’t know the dynamics of it all, but God, that effing hurts. I pull back my own hand in shock, and Garrison uses that spare moment to grab my wrist and pull me up the steps, slamming my back against the wooden door, the cold metal of the door knocker digging into the back of my head.

“You like it rough?” he whispers, the sour tinge of alcohol invading my senses and making me retch. “Ah-ah,” he says, squeezing my cheeks, cradling my chin in a bruising grip. “I know they want that damn cow. I’ll let ‘em have it forrra’ price.” His hips press into my pelvis, keeping me immobile while he trails his free hand down my side.

“Dad, let her go!” Jonathan screams, moving to rush the steps, but Ellie is so much wiser than her papa gives her credit for. She throws her arm out in front of him and keeps him back. Good girl.

“Don’t,” she says. “You don’t know what he’ll do to you.”

“Why do you care?” he asks, and Garrison huffs a laugh at that, his eyes still roaming my body possessively, licking his foul-smelling lips. It’s disgusting. I knee him in the balls, and it gives me a split second to turn out of his hold, although he still has my wrist. I wince in pain as he digs his fingers deeper around my arm.

“I care because this town is crazy,” Ellie snaps at Jonathan, still holding him back, in a bear hug at this point, as he threatens to break through her hold. “We have to take care of each other, right?”

And it breaks my heart that she gets it too soon. That Jonathan gets it too soon. But I’m proud of her. Pride that seeps into me and coats me in an armor I need desperately right now, pushing me.

Yanking my arm free from Garrison’s grip, I march back toward him and use my new position to shove him to the wall while he’s still groaning about his ball sack. That’s the thing about ball sacks. Vaginas can take a literal pounding, but a single tap to the balls sends men to their knees in agony.

And like, let us not forget that God makes no mistakes and all. That was a design choice.

“Now, I’m buying your cow or I’m telling the cops you drunk assaulted me. You pick.”

“C’mon, Devyn, all I wanted wazaa lil’ of that sssweet sss-southern pie you flash all over the TV.” He licks his lips again, and I hate the sight of him, so I slap him once across the face, and I watch as the blood drips from his lip.

“Who assaulted who now?” He grins, pushing his weight back against me and striding ahead, backing me against the wall once more.

“Please, let’s calm down and talk,” I try, but he’s no longer fighting me with his weight. He’s falling against me, using me to hold his body up, and he’s shaking.

Is he crying?

He slumps against my body with most of his weight, and I struggle to hold him up. He pushes until we’re against the wall and he’s hugging me in a way that’s not sexual in the least. I’m more of an anchor for him right now.

“Gone. Sheeee’s gone,” he cries. Goosebumps prick my skin, and I lower us to the deck floor, resting atop the welcome mat as he hangs across my lap, heaving tears and gasping between gargled words.

Jonathan approaches from the left and kneels beside me, a sad look ghosts his face. “Let’s get you inside, Dad.”

He tries to pry his dad’s arms from my shoulders, but Garrison snaps back, almost feral, alcohol holding captive any semblance of lucidity. He slips in and out of the present as he grips me tighter.

“No, you can’tttttake ‘er from me!” My heart races, and I don’t know what to do. He’s clearly not the sexual predator he seemed a few minutes ago, but he’s something quite possibly worse now. It’s a kind of trauma-based hallucination.

He needs help. But he’s unpredictable.

I need to get the kids away, most importantly. Adrenaline pumps through me, and I pray to God for whatever strength he gives all those women who lift fallen trees off their babies on YouTube as I attempt to wiggle free.

Garrison tightens his hold, sobbing and combing his fingers through my hair, and as much as I try, I can’t overpower him.

“Get Lemon and Shana!” I shout to the kids, finally realizing I can’t do this alone. I don’t want to do this alone.

I crack, tears of frustration finally breaking over my eyes and rolling down my face. “I don’t want to do it alone!” I scream, shoving all my weight against Garrison’s drunken form, but it’s no use. He’s twice my size.

The kids take off down the drive, but they stop in their tracks and begin to wave and jump when a honk sounds in the distance and a bright pair of headlights come charging up the rolling hills.

Not Lemon’s truck. This one is a rusted, ugly, white Ford that I’ve never been happier to see.

---