Page 63 of Dmitri

My fear spikes and bile rises in my throat.

“Come over here.”

My legs wobble. At almost fifteen years old, I’ve been reduced to a terrified mouse trapped in a cage with a predator every time I’m home. If anyone suspects I’ve been neglected, it’s my fault. I have no clue how this could have happened, but it must have been one of my teachers at school because my friends keep my secrets. Except, I don’t speak to any of my teachers and none of them even seem to notice me. I keep my head down, mouth shut, and do my work. Even though I’m on the honor roll, I’m still labeled as a problem kid because of all the fights I get into outside of school. And I only skip classes on days I’m too sore to sit in a chair.

What if one of my teachers or some nosy parent suspectsabuse and has reported it?

Oh my God. My stomach drops out of my ass. Dad will find out about everything. I’ll get taken away. My parent’s marriage will be a wreck. It’ll all be my fault.

CPS. Divorce. Punishment. I have no clue what to expect to hit first, but once it does, my life will be over. I’ll lose my friends. I’ll lose everything.

“Do not make me repeat myself,” she seethes in Russian.

As the last bit of weakness escapes me in a trembling breath, I shut down and step forward to face the consequences.

I’m not real. I can’t feel.

I’m not real. I can’t feel.

I’m-not-real-I-can’t-feel.

“Take off your shirt.”

With trembling hands, I pull my ratty t-shirt off and work hard to keep my expression blank and breaths even. If I show fear, she’ll make it worse. If I show courage, she’ll still make it worse. There’s no winning this game with her.

I’m not real. I can’t feel.

Mom looks at my torso with cold, dead eyes that are the same color as my own. It’s an artic blast nothing can survive. I’m sure she’s admiring the bruises and cuts she put there. But some of the fresher ones are from a fist fight I got into last weekend. Will she ask about them, or assume those are her handiwork too? I’m not sure which is worse.

“Turn around.”

Blood drains from my head as I do what I’m told.

It’s four o’clock. Dad will be home in three hours. Whatever she does, I’ll get over it by then. I have no choice.

The smell of alcohol seeping from her pores grows stronger as she draws near.

Not seeing what she’s about to do terrifies me. It’s also probably for the best. I’d rather not know. Squeezing my eyesshut, I shrink inward and tense my entire body like I can somehow morph into a concrete wall.

I never fight her off because even though she’s hit me hundreds of times, I can’t find the will to hit her back. She’s a girl. A girl monster, but a girl. A woman.

Mymom.

For some fucked up reason, I protect her by keeping this secret between us, waiting for the day she’ll stop and apologize.

Others don’t know how good they have it. And I’ve been spending more and more time at Ryker’s house because there I’m safe and fed and have fun. I’m loved. Miss Ashley treats me like her own kid. She even keeps my favorite snack at the house just for me.

Why can’t Miss Ashley be my mom? Why did it have to be Anya?

These are the questions that swirl around my head, giving me something to focus on as I wait for the fist that will undoubtedly land on my kidney, or the back of my head, or wherever there’s a fresh piece of flesh that doesn’t have a mark yet.

“You’re a bad boy.”

Something presses against my back on the lower left side. The thud swiftly turns into searing, blinding, unholy pain that has me screaming until my voice cracks and quickly gives out.

I fall to the floor, gasping for air. My vision goes white. Saliva pools in my mouth, dribbling onto the carpet as I stay on my hands and knees, blinking back hot tears and trying not to puke.

“Do not go to school looking like you do. Be better. Cleaner. I will not have anyone saying I neglect you, and you’re certainly old enough to wash your hair and put on clean clothes.”

---