Page 16 of Tainted Rose

Xander

I wake in a cold, sticky sweat, my entire body tense. I’m awash with fear before I realize what’s happening. It’s as if I sense the terror beginning before I’m even aware that I can hear it.

I lie frozen on the little twin bed in my bedroom, blinking, straining to hear. Please no. Not again.

My room should feel like a safe place. Mom and Dad recently let me redecorate it how I wanted. I chose a football theme. I freaking love football. It’s all I want to do, every day.

But even the new sheets and posters and football player lamp don’t stop the horror rising within me as the sobs from my mother enter my ears, along with the sound of skin striking skin. My father’s low voice sounds angry. Really angry.

His words travel from their room. “Stupid bitch. Did you think you’d get away with seeing him?”

Then hers. “I-I don’t know what you’re talking about! Who?” More sickening noises.

No! My heart hammers in my chest. No! Not again! Shaking, I throw back the sheets and comforter, sit up, and edge my eight-year-old self out of the bed. The hardwood floor is cold on my feet but I don’t care. Mom needs me. I’m all she has.

I tiptoe across my room and turn the knob, opening the door. Creeping down the hallway toward my parents’ room, the sounds of their fight continues. I pause on the other side of their door, sucking in breath. I can’t not go in there. I have to stop him. I’m the only one who knows how he hurts her.

The last time he did this, Mom had bruises for weeks. A split lip. Two black eyes. She’d had to stay home and make up excuses for why she couldn’t attend any of the events she usually does—no book club, no shopping with her friends, no yoga class, no dinner at the club. Not even grocery shopping. The longer she had to hide the effects of the fight with Dad, the more questions people started to ask. Then they’d started to ask me, too. I never know what to say, so I said she’s sick and at home in bed.

Of course, Dad knows darn well I have to go to school, so he never hits me anywhere anyone can see it. That way he doesn’t have to deal with me having to stay home. He doesn’t want me here anyway. He couldn’t care less if I exist or not.

So many days at school, I had to sit there on the hard seat and keep quiet. If I ever said anything, it would only make things ten times worse.

My tummy hurts. I feel sick, like I’m going to puke up my dinner. But I know Mom needs me. She needs me to protect her. To save her. I turn the knob to their bedroom door, worried what I’ll find on the other side. What I’ll see.

His hand is raised, and her eyes are wild. She’s scared. Trembling. Crying.

Before I know what I’m doing, a scream rips from my throat. “No! No, Dad! Stop hitting her!” I rush forward and launch myself at him, clawing onto his back, grasping at the hinge of one of his elbows to hang onto him. Sometimes I can keep him from hitting her so hard if I can hang on. “Stop! You’re hurting her! You’re hurting her!”

He’s so big, he shakes me off as if I’m no more than a gnat. A small, inconvenient bug. Something he’ll squash if given the chance. He overpowers me, but sometimes I can at least slow him down.

I scream until my voice is raw, knowing no one is around to hear me, but doing it anyway, as it fuels my fire. I use my fists to pound on his back as he slaps her around. The more she cries, the harder he hits her.

“Do it again, Isabella, see him again, deny what you’re doing, and it’ll be worse. Do it again, and I swear to Christ I’ll fucking kill you.” His voice rasps from his throat like he’s chewed on a handful of nails. He’s so incredibly angry, he’s blinded by it.

Then he stops hitting her, and whirls to face me. And now I know my nightmare is just beginning.

“Get. Me. The. Belt.” He gestures at the worn leather belt with the big buckle that hangs on the wall. It supposedly belonged to my great grandfather. I don’t know if it was ever used on anyone else, but Dad’s been taking it to me for years. He displays it proudly in their room like it’s some sort of trophy. If anyone ever saw it, they’d know exactly what kind of monster he is.

The kind who hides in a fancy home, who wears an expensive suit by day and an evil mask at night.

I shake my head, hate pouring out of my eyes at him. “No, Dad,” I cry raggedly. There’s snot running out of my nose, but I don’t care.

The heat of his gaze bores right through me, almost as if he’s not really seeing me—his son. Why can’t I have what Micah or Beau or Aria have? Nice, normal families where no one gets hurt and no one cries and no one has to lie about what’s happening right under everyone’s noses.

He growls, “It’ll be worse if you don’t do as I say, boy. Don’t make me go get it. You butted into business that isn’t yours. You’ll eventually learn not to do that.” His narrow gaze is unflinching, relentless, and downright terrifying—and every last bit of it is now focused on me.

Slowly, I drop my gaze to the ground in front of me, my shoulders drooping in defeat. One foot in front of the other, I make my way to the wall to fetch the belt.

“You’re not fucking crying are you?” he hisses.

I shake my head and swipe my hands at my cheeks. Oh no. I am crying. It’s always worse when I’m crying.

Why me? Why Mom? What did we ever do to deserve this?

The feel of smooth leather and the sound of the clanking belt buckle make me cringe as I pull the belt off the wall. I know what’s coming.

“Hurry up, boy. Don’t make me wait.”

---