Page 85 of Contention

Tired from the sun, Kara is almost to the street with the parking garage when she notices she has a missed call. Sickness, like a worm in her guts, twists inside of her, rotting.

It’s her father. Again. Her stomach turns to acid. This time, he’s left a voicemail.

There’s a sound of silence, then white noise, terrifying in its volume in her mind. With shaking fingers, she raises the phone to her ear, feeling herself shudder at the sound of a familiar, caramel smooth voice filtering in from the other end.

Conniving. Coaxing.

“Kara. It’s Daddy. What a busy girl you must be, missing my call again. I heard you’re finally practicing law; everyone isso impressed.” Kara shudders, her heart fluttering and dying all at once over his voice. There’s a pause in the voicemail as her father exhales slowly, artfully letting his words sink into her like poison. “Call me, Kara. We need to talk. I miss you, princess.Butdon’t make me call you again.” Soft, almost pleasant words. The intent hidden behind them is anything but. The dangerous drop in tone on the last words plain as the sun at noon.

A second call in only a few days. A voicemail. Telling her to call.What does he want from me? Why now? Why after all these years? He doesn’t miss me. He’s barely noticed my absence in his life. I’ve escaped his gaze for so long.

I paid my dues to be free of him.

The memories that assault Kara throw her mind sideways, like a concussion. Memories of Charlie waiting up for her in high school, in the dark, grabbing her when she walked in the front door, pressing her against the wall, hissing, ‘and just where have you been all night? You haven’t been screwing around with some lowlife boy, have you?’,all while he’d forced her mouth open with his hand squeezing her jaw, leaning forward to inhale, to see if her breath reeked of alcohol.

Anythingto solidify herunworthiness.

Even worse, while they briefly lived together after her mother’s death, how she’d delay coming home from university, how all his rules would suffocate her, how she’d scream at him that he didn’t own her. If he’d drank enough, he’d backhand her and tell her,but you do belong to me, I made you.You will always be mine.

Remembering his delusions of importance make her shrivel inside, make her feel like nothing, how she’ll never be good enough for her own father to love her, despite knowing he can’t, he can’t see anything but himself. It’s like self-flagellation, telling herself that maybe if she makes something of herself, so indisputably, he will see her as more than a possession…even though his disorder will never let that happen and she damn well knows it.

Kara’s body goes cold and numb and she wants the thoughts to stop, wants them to go away. She needs to lock them in a box and replace it with something else.

Lock them in a box, sure, Kara. That will protect you from him. What a grand plan!

She needs to forget; she needs it all to go away. Her mind is cracking under the weight of her own self-imposed trauma and she wants it buried. As if in a daze, she scrolls through her contacts and stops on the one that she’s been waiting to see pop up on her phone for days.

Now, she’s too far gone to care what he thinks of her reaching out to him. Now, she just needs what only he can provide to put her mind back in place. Dialing the number, Kara waits for a familiar rasp to pick up on the other end. “Nicholas,” he answers with a certain air of distraction, like he didn’t even check his phone to see who was calling.

Nicholas. Oh, he sounds sorefinedwhen he answers with his full name.

Blandly, staring at a crack in the cement, Kara utters, “Do you know the parking garage over by the marina?”

There’s a muffled sound, like he’s switching over to his phone from bluetooth earbuds. She can hear the outdoors in the background. He’s probably leaving a meeting. “Kara?” His voice comes back into focus.

“Well, do you?” She presses it, her mind on a dangerous, one track path.

Tunnel vision, like a horror show.

Make the memories stop, get his voice out of my head, bury me in misery of my own design…

There’s a pause and the weight of how Nickhasn’treached out to her since their encounter the other week at his penthouse slaps her in the face. A sliver of anger touches her, cutting through the numb, but at least shame can’t penetrate her walls, not this time.

Why hasn’t Nick called?

Why do you care?

She wants what she wants and she’s going to use him this time.

“I know it,” he replies slowly, suspiciously. Tasting his words. “Why?”

“Can you meet me there in fifteen minutes? Underground level 4.”

Another pensive pause. “And…what is it you’re looking for me to do, exactly?” The slow words of a panther, waiting.

“Distract me,” she says flatly, strangely empty. “And, don’t be nice.” Then, she hangs up.

A calm settles over her, like a blanket fresh out of the dryer. With slow purpose, feeling the weight of her mental baggage dragging behind her like a chain, Kara makes her way to the parking garage, minutes passing by.

---