Page 27 of Bathed in Blood

Irreparably, even.

So today, when I stalked towards my office, I forced myself to continue. I could hear the disappointment in her voice as she thanked the girl who delivered her lunch tray, saw her smile die as I passed. She’dsmiled. I wanted to capture her screams, her fear, violence, anger. I spent years anticipating the way she’d shrivel as I forced her to perform for us. Instead, I made her smile.

That smile was the end of us both.

Me and Lana Marie Porter.

When I lift my eyes from the papers in front of me, I meet my father’s.

Hard and unyielding.

Seeing far too much, just like he always has.

Christian, Nine Years Old

The sound of snarling and screams jolts me from where I’d dozed off on the couch. When my eyes pop open, blurry from sleep, they focus on the color red pooling quickly in our pristine white living room.

Zeke, my German Shepard, is standing over my little sister, her blue eyes wide with fear as he snarls.

Hadley flinches, and that’s all it takes for his teeth to meet her shoulder, jerking and growling. Panic slams up my gut as I bolt from the couch, my throat tightening with fear as Hadley screams for Father, her tiny voice echoing off the walls.

My hands throb and ache as I yell, smack, and heave, desperately trying to dislodge my dog from her. It’s then that Zeke lets go long enough to let her body slump and for him to bear down harder on my little sister’s neck and shake, the force of his attack pushing her into the plush carpet.

“Hadley!”

The silence that follows is deafening and Hadley’s small hands, with her yellow chipped nail polish, are so still where they’re knotted in his fur, her neck bent at an angle between his jaws.

The silence only lasts seconds, but it feels like a lifetime before mom starts screaming. Father rushes in front of me, disrupting the scene of white splattered with red. His calm demeanor edgedby his own fear as he bends, wrenching his hands into Zeke’s mouth, fighting his jaws open seconds before his boot connects roughly with my dog’s neck. Zeke yelps loudly, still snarling frantically, trying to maul his way out from underneath my father’s boot. More panic now than aggression.

It's not until Mom gathers up Hadley, rushing her outside, away from the bloody scene, that my brain catches up. I realize I was screaming too, that I hadn’t stopped. Vomit surges up my throat, my hand flying up to stop it from spewing. The slick warmth of my hands smearing on my lips in the process, the rough texture of fur scratching at my skin. When Fathers’ eyes meet mine, he doesn’t have to give a voice to the look on his face.

This is your fault.

I’m frantically wiping the blood off my face, my body trembling. He’d nagged me for months to train Zeke, to keep him out of the family room where my sister played. He was my dog, my first dog, my responsibility. It was my job to correct him when he’d started nipping her. He’d only done it once; she’d pulled his fur. I…

I vomit on the carpet, heaving violently, and when I look back up, Father’s gone and so is Zeke, my head light on my shoulders as I follow the trail of blood outside.

Follow the sounds of the screams.

And later that night, when they come back from the hospital, their clothes remain smeared with blood, and they don't have Hadley with them. Mom doesn’t even look at me as she passes, a hollow agony in her bright blue eyes.

My tears are hot on my face, my throat burning from my sobs and apologies as Father leads me out to the backyard, forcing his gun into hands that never stopped shaking. As I approach, my dog's mouth is still crusted with Hadley's blood, and his tail wags excitedly. Father’s deep voice is thick with emotion.

His dark eyes are bloodshot and puffy. “Never let anything come between you and your family again, son.”

I won’t.

I swear.

13

Backing

Lana

When dinner rolls around, I find myself pacing again. My bottom lip is raw from where I’ve chewed it. He skipped lunch, which is fine. Entirely fine. Understandable, even. He’s a busy man, a busy man who I’ve shared a bed with for the past week and a half. The very man who’s fed me for nearly every meal. Listened attentively as he leaned against the opposite wall, cock engorged and arms crossed while I enjoyed a long shower, blabbering on for so long that my throat hurt, explaining different weather systems, some of the most catastrophic storms to ever hit land and why they happened, like I was trying to fit four years of silence into an hour.

In order for a tornado, tsunami, or hurricane to form, all the right ingredients have to be in place at the right time. Pressure systems, temperature… it all has to come together to make a worst-case scenario.

---