Page 38 of Before I Deserved You
I’ll gladly go to jail for the rest of my life if it means they never have to experience what I’ve been forced to endure.
My body is on fire. I’m literally burning up. Cracking my good eye open, I take in my surroundings and quickly realize the reason why. I’m sandwiched between my brother and sister, caught in a tangle of limbs. Their little bodies give off so much heat that I’m drenched in sweat.
Kicking the soaked sheets to the side, I carefully extract myself and sit at the foot of the bed. Everything hurts. Even the smallest movement is accompanied by excruciating pain. I give my stiff muscles a moment to loosen up, breathing through the discomfort before I gingerly make my way to the bathroom. When Icatch sight of myself in the mirror, I just about jump out of my skin. My right eye is completely swollen shut and surrounded by a litany of dark bruises. My nose is two sizes bigger than usual, as is my cheekbone, and an angry gash decorates my lower lip. But what is most shocking and immediately draws the eye is the perfect handprint around my throat. That one is going to be hard to explain away.
The left side of my body is also riddled with colorful marks, ranging all the way from a pale yellow to a bluish-green. In a sick way, it almost looks beautiful. I stare at the marred flesh—the evidence of my fucked up life—for what feels like forever, unable to take my eyes off my reflection. It’s like witnessing a horrible car accident and being unable to look away from the carnage, no matter how disturbing the sight may be. My bladder finally forces me to drag myself away, and I take care of business, breathing a sigh of relief when I don’t piss blood. Reassured that I’m not, in fact, dying from internal injuries, I turn the shower control to piping hot and let the water pelt my skin for as long as I can stand it.
Once dressed, I brush my teeth and exit the bathroom, where I find my previously overcrowded bed empty. My brows draw together when I notice the aroma hanging in the air. Is that coffee and bacon I smell? It couldn’t be. Our house doesn’t smell like food unless I’m the one doing the cooking. More than a little suspicious now, I make my way downstairs and step into the kitchen, staggering back at the sight of my father standing over the stove. He appears to be pulling out all the stops. Bacon, eggs, toast, beans. I kid you not. There’s even a platter of freshly cut fruit on the table where my siblings currently sit, nursing hot chocolates while they stare at him in wide-eyed wonder.
When my old man spots me lingering in the doorway, he wordlessly pours me a cup of coffee and expertly prepares it exactly the way I like it. Carrying the steaming mug to the table, he nods at my empty seat. I bite back a pained groan as I carefully lower myself into it, causing my dad to flinch. If I didn’t know better, I could’ve sworn I saw a glimmer of regret flash through his bloodshot eyes.
“You want two or three eggs?” Comes his gruff question, and even though he speaks directly to me, he can’t quite meet my eye.
“Two is fine,” I manage to croak out before I take a sip, sighing when the warm liquid immediately soothes the ache in my tender throat. My brother and sister look at me in question, and I shrug my shoulders, letting them know I have no idea who this strange man is or what he’s done to our father.
When Mrs. Johnson dropped Anna off last night, I’d sent Jude to open the door, hiding myself upstairs to avoid unwanted attention. My little sister looked visibly alarmed at the sight of me, but Jude took charge of the situation and quickly calmed her down by telling her I’d taken a nasty spill down the stairs and would be good as new in no time. He’d been so proud getting to play the Robin to my Batman—keeping secrets under the guise of protecting the innocent—it was both adorable and a little sad.
Once my father joins us and starts in on his own breakfast, he finally takes his eyes off his plate long enough to take inventory of my injuries. His Adam’s apple bobs on a hard swallow, and I can’t help but wonder if there might actually still be a human buried underneath the layers of unresolved issues.
“So, I’ll be heading in to work soon. I’ll drop Jude and Anna at school on my way. I’m guessing you’ll be staying home?” he keeps his eyes glued to the tabletop as he asks this, and I have no idea how to handle this timid version of him. Leaning back in my chair, I tilt my head and watch him chew a piece of bacon like it’s made of rubber.
“Well,” I start. “I think it’s probably for the best, at least until some of these bruises fade. This one, in particular, is a little hard to explain, wouldn’t you say?” I lift my chin to expose the ghost of his fingertips that still feel like a noose around my neck. It’s a bold move, mouthing off so shortly after I got my ass handed to me, but I can’t say that I give a shit. My dad’s troubled gaze drops, briefly snagging on the aftermath of his violence before snapping back up to mine. I glare at him, unblinking for a long, silent moment until he blows out a heavy breath and lowers his fork.
“Jude. Anna. Go get yourselves ready for school and give your brother and me a minute to talk.”
“But I haven’t finished my breakfast,” Anna whines, earning herself a hard nudge to the side.
“We can finish once we’re dressed,” my brother hisses, and Anna dutifully scoots out of the bench seat and follows him upstairs. Once alone, my dad visibly struggles to find the right words.
“I know you have no reason to believe me, but I am sorry about yesterday,” he says in a low rumble. “I had a few beers after work and started in on a bottle of Jack once I got home. It was our twentieth wedding anniversary, and I was in a pretty dark place when Jude walked into the kitchen, giving me lip about something. I can’t even remember what it was about,” he admits with a self-deprecating chuckle. “Anyway, it must’ve pissed me off because the next thing I remember is making a grab for him. Things get a little murky after that, but by the looks of you, I’d say it’s pretty obvious that I took it too far. I just want you to know that I’m sorry.”
Did my father just apologize to me? If I were to look out the window right now, would I find pigs whizzing through the air? I’m too stunned to form a response, and even though I appreciate him showing even a shred of remorse, we both know nothing he says can fix us. As far as I’m concerned, our relationship is beyond repair. It’s too little, too late. I mean, what am I supposed to say? Hey, no worries, Dad. You’ve had an emotional day. I totally understand that you felt the need to beat your own son to within an inch of his life. Everyone needs to let off a little steam every now and then. No hard feelings.
Besides, I’m not ready to let him off the hook. What about all the other times he took his frustrations out on me? All the years he’s made my life a living hell. Nah, one measly apology would never be enough. I sip my coffee and stab at my eggs, letting him stew in my silence.
“I said I’m sorry.” And there he is. Just when I thought there might just be some empathy beating in that cold, dead heart of his. It took the real RobertNelson less than ten seconds to make a reappearance. I can’t help but find his impatience amusing. Is he really getting mad that I didn’t immediately accept his half-assed apology? That I didn’t just forgive and forget over a few mumbled words? That self-centered son of a bitch.
“I heard what you said. I’m not deaf. I do seem to have a little trouble speaking this morning. You know? Thanks to you crushing my windpipe in an attempt to choke me to death with your bare hands.”
My dad opens his mouth to speak, but I’m just getting warmed up.
“Do you really think a simple ‘I’m sorry’ is going to make this right?” I ask, pointing a finger at my battered face. Yanking my shirt up all the way to my chin, I give him a glimpse at the mottled skin beneath. “What about this? Would you say a little show of remorse is going to make me forget the way you drove your boot into my torso until I threw up from the pain?” My dad’s eyes widen in horror as the evidence of his outburst stares him in the face. For reasons I can’t quite explain, his genuine surprise only enrages me more. “I can’t leave the house because I can’t risk anyone finding out just how unhinged you really are. I continuously have to look good people in the eye and lie to keep your dirty little secret. It hurts when I talk—when I breathe—and I can’t fucking see out of my right eye, but you know what? Even if I was somehow able to overlook all of that,” I say, making sure he feels every ounce of resentment directed at him before I continue. “You lost any chance at my forgiveness when you laid a hand on Jude. That’s a line you can’t uncross. You don’t fucking touch them. I don’t care what day it is or how desolate you might be feeling. You. Do. Not. Touch. Them. I will not stand by and watch you fuck them up the way you did me. If you so much as look at them in a way I don’t like going forward, I promise you, Dad, I’ll show you what real regret looks like. Get your shit together and stop using Mom as an excuse to act like an asshole. You are not the only one who misses her.”
I don’t care that my voice breaks or that my father appears to be on the verge of tears himself. I have to get this out before it kills me.
“She was our mother. We loved her more than anything, and unlike you, she loved us back. If she could see the way you treat us now, she’d fucking strangle you.” My dad emits a tortured sound that soothes the burning anger in my chest more than any apology ever could. I want him to know what it feels like when someone who’s supposed to love you refuses to show you mercy. “Jude and Anna didn’t just lose their mother the day she died. They lost their father, too, and they’ve been through enough. Goddamnit, I’ve been through enough. So, I’m begging you, Dad. If there’s even a shred of kindness left in you. Please, get help and end this nightmare before someone else ends up dead.”
Sucking in a sharp breath, I clench my fists at my sides to keep them from shaking. My whole body is buzzing with pent-up rage as I stare down at the crown of my father’s bowed head. Needing to put some distance between us, I rise to my feet with a pained grunt. I’ve said my piece. No need to suffer his presence longer than necessary.
“I’ll be in my room. If you need me to do anything related to Jude and Anna, you know where to find me. Other than that, I’d appreciate it if you could leave me the fuck alone. I need rest, and frankly, I can’t stand the sight of you right now.”
With that, I leave my father’s shaking form behind. That he seems to be hurting gives me little comfort. In fact, it doesn’t feel nearly as good as I thought it would. I make my way upstairs and collapse on my bed, staring at the ceiling with unseeing eyes. Alone for the first time since last night’s smackdown, I picture my father’s blazing eyes as he stood over me and glared at my sprawled-out form. Brimming with contempt and raw hatred. And again, the only question cutting through my foggy mind is,why? What have I ever done to make him loathe me this much? Why couldn’t he have been the one to die in that fucking car wreck? Why, why, why?
I don’t hold back when the first sob tears itself from deep within my battered soul. Curling into the fetal position, I finally give myself permission to let go. I ignore the screaming pain in my ribs as my body convulses with the sheer forceof my emotions. I don’t have to be strong for anyone right now. There’s no one here to put on a show for. And once I’ve purged myself of everything I’ve tried so hard to suppress, my body finally allows me to drift off into an exhausted sleep.
Twenty-Six
Tessa
