Page 97 of That's Not My Name

I well up the blood in my mouth and spit it in his face.

He rears back, and I follow Drew’s lead, bringing up my knee to plant my shoe on his chest. I shove as hard as I can, and he throws out his arms to catch himself, but it’s all open air.

I don’t wait for him to land. The second the weight of his body falls away from me, I roll over and pull myself up. I hear him land with a crunch I can feel in my bones as I launch myself into the kitchen.

My nose fills with the stench of rotten eggs.

All four knobs on the stove are turned to high, but the burners aren’t ignited. The stove is pumping the house full of gas.

And the fireplace is lit.

I’ll keep you pure and good if it’s the last thing I do.

We’ll do it together this time.

Holy fucking shit. He’s going to blow up the house with all of us inside.Fuck, fuck, fuck. I tear around the island, and slap off every single burner, but the air is thick with gas and I can’t stop coughing. I have to get the fuck out. I have to getDrewout.

I hold my breath and dash for the front door. I fumble with the dead bolt. It flips but the door doesn’t budge. Panic claws up my throat. I can’t breathe. I start to pound on the door, then realize I forgot to unlock the doorknob.

I flip the latch and the door opens. I gasp a lungful of fresh air as a fist grabs the back of my hair.

“No!”

Wayne’s grip tightens, and he drags me back inside. Pain sears through my scalp, and I feel whole chunks of hair ripping away. He pins me to the wall between his room and mine, looming over me.

And ooh is he a sight to see. His face is coated with blood. I got him good.

“Stop fighting me, Mary,” he screams, spitting in my face. “This is what you need!”

“Fuck you!” I throw up a knee—aiming for his balls.

He twists to the side, and I miss. He grips the front of my jacket and throws me over the top of the couch. I hit the coffee table, and it breaks beneath me.

Everything hurts.

I roll over, my cheek resting on the hardwood floor, and I gasp in dust bunnies and the stench of sulfur.

“You ungrateful bitch,” he says, from behind the couch. “Aftereverything I’ve done for you, this is how you treat me? I’m doing this for you! For the both of us.”

I scrape my arm across the floor, getting it underneath me. “I’m supposed to thank you for trying to kill me?” I croak. “That’s funny.”

“I’m trying tosaveyou!” he screams.

I get my knees under me. One of his boots pulls back for a kick that’ll surely break my ribs. I dive forward and twist my back against the wall beside the woodstove. He misses, stumbles, and tries again.

I grab the little metal shovel from the fireplace rack and drive it straight into his leg. He roars in pain, reeling back. Blood pools down the front of his jeans, and the shovel rips from my grasp as he steps back andtakes it with him, still buried in his leg. The force of his kick must have driven it through bone.

He bends to yank out the shovel, but I already have the fire poker. I grab the edge of the windowsill and pull myself to my feet. A wave of pain rolls down my legs, but I can’t pay attention to it. Not now.

I wield the poker like a bat, like I’ve been trained to do for the last six fucking years, and swing it up over my shoulder. I power it down and catch him in the forearm. The blow makes him drop the shovel and I swing again.

I catch him in the face. The metal reverberates in my hands as it hits bone. I drive him back across the room. He stumbles into the arm of the couch, then around it. I keep coming, pushing him back toward the basement door.

My arms feel like spaghetti, but I can’t stop, because if he gets the upper hand, I’m dead. Not later. Not eventually. Right now.

It’s him or me.

I step around the couch and swing again. His hand flashes out and catches the end of the poker in his fist. His eyes are wild and unfocused.He blinks three or four times, quickly, like he’s trying to see straight and can’t.

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