Page 4 of Beneath the Flames
It was one of his favorite pastimes—trying to catch me in a lie.
“Go ask her if you don’t believe me,” I said, immediately regretting the words and smashing my teeth together.
No, leave Mom alone.
His hand still gripped my wrist, and it suddenly intensified, twisting my skin around the bone.I hated crying out when my father did this, it only made him happy, but there was already a bruise where he held me, and it forced a cry from my lips before I could stop it.
He stepped closer, the scent of stale cigarettes wafting off him, and I instinctively held my breath.I was certain there wasn’t a scent I loathed more in this world than the rotten, putrid scent of his cigarette breath.Just the mere whiff of it was enough to send my body into fight or flight, though these days I basically lived there full time.
“Show me the list.”
Why couldn’t he ever just believe me?I had learned my lesson about leaving—the evidence was on my mother’s face.He knew that.Yet he still felt the need to control me, to grill me.
I pulled the crinkled paper from my back pocket and held it out to him, trying to control the tremble in my fingers.
He finally released his bruising grip from my wrist and ripped the paper from my hand, roughly opening it.His eyes scanned over the six items I was supposed to pick up.
I dared to study his face with his eyes on the paper.Lookingat him, I saw the death of all my dreams.When I was a child, before my siblings were born, and before my father’s abuse truly began, I used to adore fairytales where the princess was rescued by the handsome prince and they lived happily ever after.As a kid, love was the most beautiful concept, one that I dreamed about often.
But that dream quickly died.
My father proved that there was no such thing as fairytales.There was no happily ever after or princesses getting rescued by their true love.
If there was one thing I’d learned from my father in my nineteen years of life it was this—
Love wasn’t real.
If it were, he would never lay a hand on my mother.Or me.
My father suddenly ripped the paper into several pieces and tossed them to the ground, stomping on it with his poop-covered boots.He pressed his toes into it, shoving it deeper into the gravel for good measure.The crunch of tiny stones was like glass shattering in my ear.
“Be back soon.”
It was an order.A command.A threat.
I didn’t trust my voice not to waver so I gave a single nod, waiting for him to turn away so that I could crawl into the safety of the car.
It was a lesson I had learned the hard way.
Never turn my back on my father.
Another tense few seconds passed as my heart pounded painfully in my chest, until he finally spit on the ground and walked back toward the barn.I watched as he pulled a cigarette from his pocket and then disappeared behind the big red doors.
At least he’s not going in the house.
For the moment, my family was safe.
I waited several seconds to make sure he didn’t reappear, my lungs throbbing, waiting for me to finally breathe.I couldn’t bring myself to inhale fully until I picked up the pieces of the list, got in my car, and sped down the long driveway, turning onto the road that led into town.
I hated him.My father.
I hated this life.
I hated that we had to live like this.
But there was nothing I could do.
My mom had tried to leave him, and she'd almost died because of it.
