Page 27 of The Bully's Dare

He makes a noise, like a laugh, and his Adam’s apple bobs. “Is this for me?”

“Yes,” I whimper.

“You are desperate,” he sneers. He’s teasing me. Belittling me.

And in the safety of my dark fantasies, I spread my legs for more.

“You’re trouble,” he says. “And trouble has to be broken.”

When he pushes inside of me, he breaks me.

Are you broken? Are you broken, Kenzi?

“Kenzi.”

My father’s voice. The car stalled, engine growling.

His black eyes. His hand outstretched. “Get in the car.”

I don’t want to. His breath, his clothes, his whole car smells like liquor. Like someone opened up a bottle of scotch and just dumped it over the seats. There are spiderwebs of red veins around his eyes. He hasn’t shaved in days and his beard is uneven, patchy.

The passenger side door is open, but I don’t go towards it. I stand in the uncut front lawn of our house. I don’t want to make these decisions. I’m just a six-year-old with a backpack.

“You love me, don’t you, baby?”

I nod. My voice is stuck in my throat.

“Then get in.”

I don’t know what else to do. I start to walk forward—

“Kenzi!” My mother’s voice now, a wail behind me that stops me in my tracks. She grabs my backpack, pulls me backwards, and launches herself forwards towards the car. They talk for a minute—angry, rapid adult voices that blur in my ears. Then he calls her a sharp word and slams the door shut.

“Don’t do this!” she shouts. “I love you, John! I love you!”

But his wheels scream on the asphalt and the car takes off. My mother gets halfway down the road before she stops chasing him.

That’s the last time I see my father. His car will slide off the road that night, killing him and injuring two others.

My mother collapses on the lawn and cries. Her I love yous haunt me, even now.

This is what love is, says the primordial ooze of my six-year-old brain.

Love is what a man bribes you with to get you into his death-car.

Love is the strongest woman I know, brought to her knees, helpless and wailing.

Love is a child, alone, scared.

This is what love is, and I don’t want any part of it.

My tiny fingers turn to fists. I dig my nails into my palm.

“Wake up,” I say, gritting my teeth. “Wake up.”

My breath catches in my throat. My heart is pounding, my blood is screaming, and I blink at the low ceiling, the V-shaped walls, and struggle to remember where the hell I am.

I’m on a boat. In the ocean. My father is dead, and he can’t get me here.

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