by Lana Sky
Sorry. It’s a mythical word. One I never thought I’d hear from him—ever.
My heart thumps against the inside of my rib cage, unwilling to be confined. It’s too close in this car. My broken brain can’t process his body heat, and his wine-tainted breath, and his touch. Not all at once.
“Please…” I wiggle my fingers, clawing at the leather seat.
This time, he lets me go.
After another minute of silence, he starts the car and we continue the rest of the way to Thornfield without another word being spoken. Thank God.
It’s how we work best, Thorny and I.
By pretending the other doesn’t exist.
I’m not so pretty anymore. Two rows of stitches crisscross the skin around my left eye. One stretches from my hairline down, and the other slices my cheek. A purplish bruise makes it look like my face hit more than just an errant lounger. Maybe a fist.
Thorny said I needed to be spanked. Perhaps Mother Nature heard his plea and went in a more literal direction?
She sucker-punched me.
“Maryanne?” Thorny raps on the bathroom door.
I must be taking too long. A part of me wants to take forever. Never come out.
My only solace—vocabulary word #9—is that Thorny must think I’m one hell of an Oscar-worthy makeup artist to achieve this ghoulish effect. He’s waiting as I finally step into the hall.
I head for my room, but he follows behind. Too close. I hear him cross the threshold, forced to sidestep my scattered clothes. His nose wrinkles. It smells like damp clothing in here. Like must and Maryanne, the dirty little psychopath.
“I’m fine.” I crawl onto my bed, freshly dressed in a clean nightgown, and lie down. There—his job is done.
But he doesn’t leave. He stands there near the doorway, sucking all the air from the room and making it unbearably hot. My poor, damaged skin can’t stand the heat. I scratch at it, sowing more pain in little red lines.
“You shouldn’t be in my room, Daddy,” I murmur into my pillow. “How scandalous. What might the neighbors think?”
“Try to get some sleep,” he orders like a good general. Always observing the wounded from the front lines, but never close enough to get his hands bloody. “The doctor suggested that you shouldn’t be alone for the first few hours.”
And if there’s anything a good, stalwart professor like Thorny can’t ignore, it’s doing his assigned homework.
“If I promise I won’t die, will you go away?” I sneak a peek in his last direction when the silence between us has stretched beyond a minute. Then I scan the empty wall. The doorway… He left, thank God.
Or not. The broad outline of a shoulder teases my peripheral vision. He’s still here.
“I don’t need a babysitter.”
“You’re right,” he says, nodding. He heads through the doorway. “I’ll be back.”
In the morning.
Good. I have at least eight hours of freedom from his mock concern until then. And I thought Elaine was overbearing. Poor Thorny must be worried I might tell some nosy nurse or doctor all about the bruises on my bottom, caused by my last punishment. If I really wanted to hurt him…
Like really wanted to. I could always lie and say he pushed me. Hit me and came up with an elaborate ruse to cover it all up. I could. It’d be so easy.
His life is in my hands.
It’s more fragile than expected—no heavier than the pink sequin pill case I snatch from my nightstand. One by one, I open each bottle and dump the required number of pills onto my pillow without bothering to lift my head. Three trazodone. One Benadryl. One Ambien. They dance over the ivory cotton like beautiful sleep-promising candies—until a big, mean hand swoops from nowhere to snatch them away.
“What are you doing?” I claw at my pill case, but it too is snatched from my reach. “Those are mine!”
“I guess someone wasn’t paying attention to the doctor’s instructions,” Thorny grouses. Then he frowns, seeming to remember my bleeding, broken brain. His tone softens. “No sleep aids. No alcohol. No strenuous activity for at least forty-eight hours.”
“But, Daddy, I need my wine and painkiller cocktail to help me sleep. It’s a family tradition.” I’m only half-joking. I’ve been prescribed medication since the age of seven. My fingers twitch, my throat empty. “They’re prescription,” I say, attempting to sound more serious. “Call my doctor. They’re on the up-and-up—”
“No.” He shoves the case into his pocket but doesn’t leave. He circles my bed instead and sits on the window seat. The horror. He’s nearly within touching distance.
“What are you doing?”
He leans back, resting his head against my white wall. The silver in his hair glitters in this lighting, clashing with the gold. It makes him look dangerously shiny, lurking there. A makeshift sun in what should be a pitch-black sky. “They suggested someone stay with you overnight.”
It sounds so harmless. Overnight.
“I’m fine, Daddy,” I say, mumbling through my sore lip. “Peachy keen.”
So get out.
“Good,” Thorny says. He leans toward the light on my nightstand and switches it off. Poof. Darkness descends, shrouding him completely. Or not. I can still sense him there, shifting over the thin seat cushions to find a comfortable spot. “This should be an easy observation, then, and you won’t have any complications from jumping headfirst off a twenty-foot balcony.”
I wish.
But it’s too late for that.
He is a complication, though stitches and fresh Band-Aids can’t heal the damage left behind.
It’s one thing to lie awake all night long. It’s another to be betrayed by your own fucking blankets and the squeal of a mattress whenever you toss. Turn. Breathe.
It lets the monsters in the shadows know you’re onto them. They can hear what their mere presence does to you, and you might be tempted to do something stupid in return.
Stupid like…
Throw myself off the balcony a second time. Intentionally fall down the stairs. Trip into the ocean. Hurt myself again. Hurt myself more.
Anything to prove he doesn’t really care. I still win.
It’s when the monster crawls out from under your bed that he becomes the scariest. When he takes a seat right beside you and pretends to watch you. Protect you.
Deep down, you know the truth: he’s just waiting for you to fail so he can utter those terrible words. I knew it. You were never going to change.
The moment I wiggle to the edge of the bed and place my foot on the floor, he’s upright.
“Where are you going?”
“To pee, Daddy,” I say sweetly. Or at least I try to sound sweet. The painkillers are wearing off. My face feels stiff. Blinking hurts. Trying to sit up hurts. Standing requires that I cling to the canopy and use it like a rudder to find my balance.
“Be careful!” He grabs my shoulder, steering me to the door and toward the bathroom. “They said you might be uncoordinated for a few days.”
But he’s worried. Forty-eight hours is a deadline he’s counting toward like a good uncle, waiting for the moment he can ship me right back to the ER.
Pulling away from him, I lurch into the bathroom and close the door behind me. “Does this mean no school today?” I wonder, shouting so he can hear me.
“I told Jane not to come to give you the chance to rest.”
Interesting. “Oh, but I’m already so far behind, Daddy…” I trail off when I see who’s staring back at me in the mirror: a monster with a bruised, bloodied face.
“You can finish up whatever work she gave you.”
“So I’ll be here, all alone?” I shouldn’t be frowning. I want to be alone. So I lift the uninjured corner of my mouth as high as I can. See? Happy face.
“I’m working from home today,” Thorny says. “I’ll be in the study.”
Oh. My frown returns, exaggerating my already pathetic appearance. I look so sad—that emotion an army of therapists charged m
y family’s estate thousands to encourage me to feel. It’s okay to be sad, Maryanne, they coached from behind reflective glasses, bundled in their pristine lab coats. It’s okay to be angry. It’s okay to cry.
It’s okay to admit out loud that you’ve been hurt.
“I’m bleeding,” I say, taking their advice. A patchwork of stitches and bandages can’t stop the bright-red liquid from dripping down my cheek. I smiled too hard.
“I’m coming in.”
My spine tenses as the door opens. “S-stop.”
Can’t he see? This room is too small for both of us. He barges in anyway, towering above as he snatches a clean washrag from the neat row on a shelf above the sink.
He wets it and dabs the blood away. Then he peels my bandages off one by one, clenching his jaw at what he sees.
“You’re not supposed to show your initial horrified reaction to trauma victims,” I scold. Yet another thing my therapists taught me. “You’re supposed to smile and lie and tell me that everything will be all right.”
“You’re going to scar,” he declares. My breath stills as he tilts my chin to observe me better. “But, knowing you, you’ll just use each one to your benefit.”
“How?” I sound too curious.
“You know how.” His eyes narrow as whatever scenario he’s imagining unfurls in his mind. “You’ll spin some ridiculous lie as to their origin whenever it suits your needs.”
Of course. Something like: I used to be pretty, but then my crazy uncle pushed me off a balcony.
I used to be pretty, until my uncle tried feeding me to a pack of hungry bears.
I used to be pretty. Now, I’m not. Interpret my ugly scars as you wish—just give me attention. Now. Now. Now!
“I don’t want to be ugly.” Weird. My voice echoes, oddly hollow. Is that what the truth sounds like?
“You’re not,” Thorny says, scoffing at the mere idea.
My heart squirms behind my ribs. “Really?”
“I didn’t mean…” He eyes me for a second and sighs. “Let’s get this over with.” He finds the pack of materials the hospital sent home with me and crudely rebandages my wounds within minutes. “Come on.”
Downstairs, we enter the study. He found my notebook, my pen, and the book of lessons Jane planned. They’re all waiting for me, arranged in a studious row.
“I’ll be down the hall if you need me,” Thorny says before leaving.
If I need him.
Which I won’t.
I never do.
I flip my notebook open, listening to the pages swish against the silence. I run my fingers along the lesson plan. Then I pick the pen up instead.
Jane may be my teacher, but Thorny is the world-famous super author—therefore, his assignment takes precedence.
Craft him a juicy lie worth telling.
Dear diary,
I don’t think Thorny thinks of me the way an uncle should think of his niece. Sometimes I catch him staring too long. Too hard. It’s like he’s searching for something beneath my blouse, hidden in my skin. Dear diary, I don’t know what it is.
It…
I chew on the end of my pen as I recall the rest of his advice. “Describe it.”
It makes me feel…
Strange.
My skin feels hot when I know he’s watching, I write. My heart goes too fast. I can’t breathe.
Today, he touched my face when I said I was ugly. “You’re not,” he told me.
What does that mean?
Homework is tiring. I take a break to stare out the window. Someone rearranged the furniture on the balcony. One of the loungers is missing its cushions. There’s a mop and bucket propped against the railing. He’s been hard at work, Thorny.
I imagine him in his office now, writing his latest novel. About a murder, I bet. How original. Maybe the death of a young girl with an unflattering psychiatric diagnosis. She’d gotten what was coming to her, the surly old detective would deduce. Case closed.
Grandmama used to buy every novel of his on the day of release. She never read them, of course—crime thrillers were much too wild for her old-timey sensibilities. But she kept them on a shelf, lined up in a row for all to see. “My son-in-law wrote these,” she’d point out to her high-class friends and assorted peons. It wasn’t until after she died that I realized why. She was proud of him.
What a strange concept.
But, while I’m a barely literate teen with poor language comprehension, I know that Thorny hasn’t published a new book in years. Ten to be exact. He’s riding on the coattails of faded success.
Would Grandmama still brag about him now?
I open my notebook again and tap my pen against a fresh page. “Describe it,” he instructed, my wise professor of an uncle. Add more flair.
The other day, Thorny stuck his hand up my skirt. I told him not to.
But a part of me loved feeling his palm on my ass. At least he finally wanted to touch me.
Does that make me naughty?
I close the journal and shove it aside. A throat being cleared makes me look up and jump in my seat. Thorny is standing in the doorway, conjured by my bad behavior. So perfect he is, able to sense disobedience, even if it’s done in silence.
“Are you hungry?” he wonders.
“Why?” My fingers twitch, my nails tapping against the table’s surface. “Are you going to feed me, Daddy?”
“What do you want?”
I fidget some more. Strange. He has yet to call me out for my use of that forbidden word. Perhaps he didn’t hear me? “Something yummy, Daddy.”
“Fine.” He marches off, leaving me wondering. Stomp. Stomp. Stomp. His steps trail toward the kitchen.
I picture him rummaging through drawers and sniffing out whatever morsels Elaine tucked away in the fridge. When he returns an hour later, he’s holding a sandwich on a plate.
His version of a watercress.
“Would you believe I’m allergic?” I ask as he places the food beside my journal. Though I can’t resist fingering the spongy surface.
Unlike Elaine, he left the crusts on. And added ham. And replaced the cucumbers and watercress with a chunk of cheddar cheese.
Memory, that pesky thing, sneaks into my brain again.
“Eat,” someone insisted, shoving a ham sandwich into my hands as they wiped my tears and pushed the hair back from my face. “Come on. Eat.”
“I hate sandwiches,” I tell him, shoving the plate aside.
“What a shame. You should get back to work, then.” He grabs my journal, flipping it open to the first page.
“Hey!” My rebellious fingers try to snatch it back, but he moves to the opposite end of the room and leans across Jane’s desk. As he starts to read, all I can do is shove one end of the sandwich into my mouth and bite down.
I chew mechanically as he turns the page.
Munch.
Swish.
“Better.” He looks up, an eyebrow cocked. In surprise, I think. No frown, either. “Not as stiff. But you still lack the right…perspective.”
I stop chewing. Try to swallow. My tongue aimlessly pushes chewed bread around my mouth, hunting for a good enough comeback. “L-like what?”
“What’s my motivation?” He snaps the notebook closed, mulling it over. “Am I a sexual deviant? Or are my intentions more nefarious? ‘It’s like he’s searching for something beneath my blouse, hidden in my skin.’” He does his best to parrot my voice and I feel my mouth wrinkle.
Do I really sound so bitchy?
“Pick up the pen.”
My book lands in front of me, knocking my sandwich out of the way.
“Now, put yourself in my shoes,” he commands. “What are my intentions when I look at you in this way? Do I want to kill you? Or do I want to corrupt you? Pick one.”
“Just one?” I parrot. “Why can’t it be both?”
“Because you aren’t skilled enough,” he snipes. “Pick.”
He’s too close. His creeping
heat nibbles at my open pores, sneaking inside. This sensation doesn’t feel thrilling enough to scribble on paper. It makes me want to crawl from the window. Away.
“I’m young and pretty,” I say, meeting his gaze directly. “So of course you’d want to fuck me, Daddy. You’re a pervert.”
“Oh? Then prove it.” He doesn’t even flinch. His pointer finger taps the blank space beneath my neatly penned paragraphs. “Make the audience believe it. How does a person look at someone they want to fuck?”
Hmmm. Maybe they stare a little too long only to glance away when they’re caught. They might bite their lower lip hard enough to punish themselves—because they know it’s stupid. They know it’s wrong.
But then they look again, focusing on a dangerously stern mouth. They want to make it move, even if it’s into a frown. Anything.
“Oh, I don’t know, Daddy,” I say, folding my hands over the table. “How does someone look at who they want to fuck?”
A rare expression sneaks into the corner of his mouth. Part frown. Part sneer.
My lungs ram against my rib cage in protest until I remember how to suck air in again.
“You don’t have much experience with the opposite sex, do you?” he asks.
“W-what?” Something inside my belly twists and squirms. He couldn’t know my naughty secrets. Could he? “You said it yourself, Daddy. I’m the girl who got caught fucking a boy in the principal’s office.”
His name was Sammy Kean. He had rich, chocolaty hair and eyes the color of seaweed. Most days, he chewed peppermint gum too loudly and smelled like vinegar. Did he ever look at me with fuckable eyes?
No. He preferred to sneak glances at Mr. Gammer, the headmaster, when he thought no one was looking.
“You tell me,” I say, turning the tables on Thorny. Before he can counter, I grab the pen and press it against his fingers. “I’m just an innocent little girl. So teach me.”
His eyes flash in that stunning, hateful way. I expect him to throw the pen.
He snatches it. “Fine.”
Then I watch as the nib glides across the page, forming words as it goes.
It’s like his gaze is glued to my skin, tracking me. His eyes hover over my chest when I breathe, my lips when I speak.