Page 142 of Run Away Home: Tempered

“I don’t know where I’d go! I have no one! I don’t want to go to a shelter!”

“You’re not going anywhere. Not with my sweatshirt.”

“What?”

“Take off my fucking sweatshirt and start packing your shit.”

“No. I’m not packing! You can’t kick me out, Peter!”

“Oh, honey, I can, and I am. I’ve already spoke with the sheriff’s office about evicting you if you don’t leave on your own. Either you pack your shit, or I throw it out the fucking window and change the locks.”

“Peter! Please... Please listen to me! Danny can go to a foster home like Melissa’s just for a little while until I can prove I’m getting sober. He’ll be fine! Then you can take him back, like my mom took me back.”

“That is not happening. That’s never happening. I warned you months ago. I’ll choose him every single time.”

I fall on the floor and curl up into a ball, wrapping my arms around my legs.

“Cut it the fuck out,” he says.

“I... I can’t. I don’t...” I say as I try to catch my breath. “Tristian told you not to call the police that night, but you did! You motherfucker, you did!”

I jump to my feet and shove him into the wall. He looks surprised. I hold him there. He doesn’t struggle.

“I saved your life. You should be grateful,” Peter says. “Tristian wanted to let you die on the floor, covered in your own vomit. I’ve done all I can do for you, you fucking leech bitch.”

“Maybe I didn’t want you to save my life! For fucking what?” I grab his shirt by the collar, pounding my fists against him, but he doesn’t try to stop me or hit me back. He keeps his hands at his sides and lets me beat on him. He’s being extra careful.

“Are you done punching me? Or should I call the police again and have you removed right now? You’ll definitely have some place to go then. Maybe being locked away would help you straighten your fucking life out. You might find a roommate who’s nicer than me. Actually...I’m sure of it.” He smirks deviously.

“Tristian was right about you! I wish I could bash your fucking face in right now.” I try to catch my breath. I release my grip of his shirt.

“That would be bad for you. Worse than it would be for me.” He starts walking toward my bedroom.

“WHAT ARE YOU DOING?” I dive toward him.

He opens my door and goes right inside.

“Peter!”

He pulls all of my clothes out of the closet and throws them onto the floor.

“Stop! Calm down!” I yell. “Please, stop it!”

He doesn’t stop. He grabs a plastic tub from under my bed.

“Go ahead, start putting your shit in there. Go on.”

He rips out the drawer of my bedside table, dumping the contents into the tub, then he throws it onto the floor.

“Why are you doing this? You don’t understand!” I yell and I wipe my eyes.

“I understand perfectly well.” He kicks the empty drawer. “Seven fucking days.”

He storms out, slamming the door harder than I ever have.

I collapse onto the floor and wail into the carpet. The one person who I thought would always be there for me...and I’m having his baby. I should have known this would happen. He told me. He fucking said it himself.Danny comes first. Why didn’t I listen to him the first time?

Still sobbing, I pick up my phone. My tears left wet marks on the carpet. What am I going to do? Homeless and pregnant. Another one of those fucking statistics...

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