Page 9 of Blood of Hercules
Slowly, I walked out into the kitchen where they were standing sipping their drinks, and I spread my legs wide.
I had no plan.
It took me a dozen tries before I finally found the courage to speak. “If you t-try and h-hurt Charlie, you’ll have to g-go through m-me,” I said. “I’ll tell e-everyone what y-you tried to do, and they’ll l-lock y-you up f-forever.”
No matter how much I concentrated, my stutter was always at its worst when I spoke to them—Charlie and Nyx were the only ones it completely disappeared around.
As if in slow motion, they turned toward me.
Their eyes were wide and unfocused. Black pupils fully covered their irises. Liquid clung to their lips. Shadows covered the emaciated planes of their wrinkled faces.
“What thefuckdid you just say to us, girl?” Father asked slowly.
Mother smiled, flashing rotting gums and three teeth. She threw down her empty glass. It shattered loudly across the cracked tile floor.
I jumped and swallowed a scream.
“How about we just kill you both?” Mother laughed. “We’ve got nothing to lose—we’re fucking starving to death anyways.”
Sweat streaked down the side of my face, then froze in the frigid temperatures. Every bone in my body wanted to turn and run.
I held my ground, turning frantically for a weapon—I grabbed the busted metal toaster off the counter and chucked it at them.
Father groaned as it hit him, and he stumbled back.
There was a shocked moment of silence.
Bad plan.
He kicked it aside.
“How... fucking dare you?” Mother demanded. Then they charged at me in a blur of screams and fists.
Far away, glass shards bit into my soles as Mother shook my shoulders back and forth while screaming obscenities. Her breath reeked of chemicals.
Father slammed his fist into my left eye, but I didn’tfeelanything.
Time distorted.
After a lifetime of pain, the brain learns how to suffer. I knew how to stay conscious through a beating. I’d had years to perfect my technique.
The key was tensing your core and buttocks.
Humming.
And nihilism.
Also, role-playing as a tortured nineteenth century musical prodigy in the imaginary throes of writing a violent opera helped.
A haunting melody started playing in my head.
Only I could hear the music.
I dodged, and Mother clipped my left ear with a punch. “You lazy, ungrateful whore, threatening us after everything we’ve fucking done for you...” A loud ringing sensation cut off her words (a shame; she was making some intriguing points).
I staggered and turned.
Another punch caught the left side of my head.
