Page 10 of Crawl
Just in case, I put a knife in my back pocket. Then I scurry across the room, back to the stairs, those red, mechanical eyes watching me in the dark. My gut rolls as I lift my feet. I don’t care about breaking and entering. I don’t even care about stealing, because I know that what I’m doing is therightthing. But will proving that Cash is an abuser doanythingin the long run? It will take an infinite amount of time and money to put him in prison, and even if he is convicted, there’s a chance he’ll end up under house arrest in his glorious estate because of his wealth.
That’s not justice to me.
But I keep going, unplugging the upstairs hard drive, creeping with it to the end of the hallway. As I reach the stairs, my body boils over. I set down the hard drive.
Then I tiptoe back down the hallway.
His bedroom door is ajar. In the open crack, there’s a sliver of visibility: the moonlight shining through the newspaper-covered windows in dull beams. And there he is: a large lump in the shadows. My chest expands as my stomach churns, but I swallow it down, then push open the door, crossing my fingers that it won’t creak.
No sound.
No movement from the bed.
He’s still asleep.
I bump into a table next to the door, but quickly steady the lamp sitting on top of it. The base of the lamp is pure bronze, with a stained-glass shade decorated with red flowers amongst a green background. I gnaw the inside of my lip; if I had knocked into it, he would be awake, and finding me in his bedroom would be alotharder to explain than being downstairs.
But the lamp is solid. Heavy enough to put someone out cold. It can even kill him.
I’m supposed to be getting the footage. But a man like Winstone—a man willing to lay his hands on someone smaller and weaker than him—will never change. Once a man like that gets a taste of the power, they never let it go, no matter how much they promise or apologize. No matter how much they swear they love you. They will keep hurting everyone in their path until it’s too late.
Adrenaline rushes through my body. I’m not going to let it happen again.
I unplug that gaudy, awful lamp, using both hands to carry it. With each step I take closer to his blurry black figure, my heart pounds, each beat banging in my ears, my skin prickling with knives. I raise the lamp in the air, my muscles straining, the cord dangling to the side of me like a leash. I grit my teeth.
Instead of Winstone’s shadowy form, I see my stepdad’s light brown hair and blue eyes.
It should be you, Daddy,I think. Then I swing the lamp down onto his head.
The base lands, a dull thud behind it, dust rising to the sides like his soul is leaving his body. The silence envelops me, my limbs shaking as I bend closer. There’s no movement. But the room is dark and it’s hard to see anything. Resting the lamp on the pillow, I touch his chest to see if he’s still breathing—but it’s cold and hard like he’s already dead. I pull back the sheet.
White bags of different sizes lie on the mattress, full of dry cement.
“What the hell?” I whisper.
The ceiling fan’s light flickers on, the leafy blades whirring into motion, like a circular saw ready to slice me in half.
“What a performance,” a deep voice calls from behind me. I spin around. A handheld camera covers half of Cash’s face like a mask. His button-up shirt is undone, his chest chiseled with his hair groomed, his sleeves rolled up. Keloid scars splatter his toned stomach like he was burned or even stabbed repeatedly. What the hell happened to him?
No. He doesn’t deserve sympathy. He’s an abuser. His past doesn’t make that okay.
“Was that your plan? Use a lamp to kill me?” he asks, amusement leaking into his tone. “How original.”
“Fuck you, Winstone,” I mutter.
“How many times do I have to tell you to call me ‘Cash’?” He lowers the camera but keeps it focused on me. His tongue runs over his teeth. “Let me give you a hint, little cure. Playing nice may keep you out of jail.”
“I’llneverplay nice with you,” I snarl, my palm squeezing around the lamp’s base again.
“Ah, little cure,” he chuckles, a bemused smile curling his lips.
“Don’t call me that.”
“Remedy,” he corrects. “This isn’t what I expected of you.” He taps his lips, faking bewilderment. “Now, here’s the situation. You tried to kill me. I caught the attempt on film. That’s quite a predicament; don’t you agree?”
I glare at him, meeting his gaze, not letting him back me into a corner. I’m not afraid of him. Even if he’s a foot taller than me and at least twice my muscle mass, I have more anger than Winstone can handle, and you don’t mess with that.
He sets the camera on the table by the door, the lens still haunting me. Patting the top of the device with a smug air, he flicks a finger at the red light, reminding me that he’s still recording.
