by S. K. Rose
I’m helpless against the raging storm that is my father, and worse, I’m a coward.
Andrew’s eyes lock onto me, and I prepare myself for anger at my cowardice, maybe a sneer of disgust, or worse, a look of despair. But on his face, I find none of these things. Instead, his mouth slowly turns up into a shaky smile as his gaze turns soft and reassuring.
He’s the one in danger right now, he’s the one in pain, yet he is trying to make me feel better? Trying to tell me that everything will be okay?
No, no, no, no.
“NO!” I scream as a soul shattering bolt of anger surges through my body, giving me a newfound strength. He’s always been there for me, wiping away my tears or turning my frowns into smiles.
He’s always saving me. Now it’s my turn to save him.
“Let him go, let him go right now, Daddy! You’re hurting him! Just stop!” I take a few steps forward until I’m screaming right in his face. Before I can take a breath to continue, there's a sudden pressure on my chest. Everything rushes past me as I fly backwards, landing hard into a patch of dirt, I struggle to breathe in the air that escaped. On my chest I find a muddy boot print. I look around in a daze. I see my father, and after studying his face for a brief moment, I realize he’s not even there behind those disconnected slate-gray eyes.
Knock, knock, nobody's home.
Raising my trembling hand, I stare with horror at the blood smeared on my fingertips. Scared that his kick did more damage than I thought, I examine my chest and see a dark red spot right below my armpit. My side is soaked in blood, which I must have touched at some point. Panic bubbles up as I rub my hand over my jeans, trying desperately to get the sticky blood off.
I don’t know when this happened. I can’t feel any pain. Why can’t I feel any pain?
“Tess?” The fear in Andrew’s voice jolts me out of my hysteria. Returning my eyes to the nightmare unfolding before me, I watch as my father proceeds to handle him like a rag-doll, violently shaking him as he commands Andrew to shut up.
I find my voice once again and try to reason with the man who’s become the monster.
“Daddy, please,” I whimper, “let him go, I promise I’ll never talk to him ever again. Just please let him go home! He didn’t do anything wrong, it was all my fault.” I’m rambling, but I'll say whatever it takes to calm him down, to make everything go back to normal.
“Oh, you say that now, sugar,” he growls. “But I’m gunna take a wild fucking guess here and say that you’re just like yer mama. She thinks she can be a whore and lie to my face. And now you, my only daughter!” His blotchy face morphs from red to purple. “Do you think I’m fucking stupid, Tessa? That your teacher wus the one giving you those nice books and gifts all these years? Ohhh no, now I know who they came from.” He makes a clucking sound as he violently shakes Andrew again, making him yelp in pain. “Yessiree and we both know how you thank a boy for a gift.”
“Daddy, no, it’s not what you think. Please just listen,” I beg as I slowly get back to my feet. My whole body trembles with fear, but I hold back the tide of tears that threaten to pour from my eyes. If I cry I will crumble and become useless, and Andrew needs me. I won’t let him down.
“In return, Tessa, you’ve given him yer pussy, and now my only child is an unclean little slut.” He shakes his head again fiercely. “Get this through your thick skull, girl, you are mine. I made you, and I own you.”
My bottom lip trembles as I stare up at his sneering face. My control cracks as a few tears squeeze out, and his words sink in.
For the first time in my life, I have a clear understanding of my place in this family. I’m an object to both my parents—not a daughter, but something that is simply owned, used, and put aside when bored. The realization hits me like a ton of bricks and the flimsy dam holding back my tears collapses.
My noisy sobbing snaps Andrew out of his shocked silence. Clenching his jaw, he glares up at my father with a newfound ferocity. Andrew suddenly yanks back hard in an attempt to escape, but my father's grip is like steel and he remains unfazed. Something small flies out of Andrew's hands, but in this moment, I don’t know or care what it could be. When yanking doesn’t work, he grabs my father's hand and begins trying to pry himself loose finger by finger. This is met with a dark chuckle from my father.
“Let me go, you beast. Tessa deserves a better father than you. She deserves to be loved and happy, and I swear to God, if you ever hurt her again—if you or that dragon ever give her another bruise, I— ” He looks up at my father, and although his chin is jutted out in defiance, a single tear begins to roll down his cheek.
Time slows down around me to a crawl and all I can do is stare, gaping at Andrew in horror.
Why would he talk back to my father? Doesn’t he know it will only make him angrier? What is he thinking!?
As sunlight breaks through the clouds and washes over Andrew, strands of blond hair catch the light and begin to shimmer. His small face is turned upward with a set jaw and hardened eyes that dare to defy my father. As though the sudden sunlight washed away all his fears, he grips my father's hand once more and jerks himself away, this time earning his freedom. Only a few strands of his hair are still caught between my father’s fingers.
Raising up clenched fists, my green-eyed boy stands ready to battle in the face of evil.
Instead of dirty ripped clothes, I see shiny plates of armor. His hand now grips a sword of steel. A gold crown lay crooked upon his head.
He’s become the handsome and courageous prince that must go to battle with the fearsome beast, and much like in our made-up fairytales, he stands tall, ready to save the princess.
His princess, always.
Time speeds back up and the daydream vanishes. My father regains his composure, takes a controlled step forward, leans down inches from Andrew’s nose, and grabs him by the neck.
He roars into Andrew’s face, “She. Is. Mine!”
With his fingers firmly gripped around the nape of Andrew’s neck, my father flings him across the yard and toward our house.
He screams mid-air but goes sickeningly silent after he lands with a loud crack next to a broken lawn chair. His head comes into contact with the cemented patio; the rest of his body lands quietly in the soft grass.
With a scream of my own, I run to his side as fast as my legs allow. Thick, red blood trickles out of his ear and spills out from behind his head, switching out his gold crown for a bloody halo. He coughs, and red foam gargles up and slides down the side of his gaping mouth.
A small, unimportant part of me knows that I’m still screaming—a blood-curdling sound that resonates from the depths of my shattered soul.
My throat constricts and I can’t breathe. I claw at it in a frenzy as I continue to gawk in horror at the sea of blood before me.
The coughing stops.
His shaking stops.
All movement just. . . stops.
Trembling like a leaf, I lean over to look into his bloodshot eyes. He looks right at me, just like the first time we met.
But this time, he doesn't see me.
He sees through me as I become invisible to the world once more.
My throat burns and the crack in my heart splinters and widens into a gaping hole. I know deep in my bones that he is gone—that he’s gone because of me and my stupid birthday.
He’s gone, and it’s all my fault.
He was the light that flickered and burned bright in the darkness that was my life. He was the sunshine that brought me warmth and happiness, and just as I always feared, I went and snuffed it out.
He’s gone, and it’s all my fault.
I lean down, my braid brushes across Andrew’s face as I give his lips one last kiss. His warm blood coats my cracked lips. I hear, more than see, the half-naked redhead run out of the house screaming for an ambulance into her phone.
He’s gone, and it’s all my fault.
My father stands in the middle of the yard, staring toward us,
saying nothing. He still holds a beer bottle in one hand. He didn’t even need both of his hands—we were nothing to him, the way a gazelle is nothing to the lion. I don't know when my mother came outside, but I hear her now, too. She’s yelling at my father, pounding her fists on his chest.
He’s gone, and it’s all my fault.
I ignore them, tune out all the noises, and clutch my prince. I wrap my arms around him and lay my head onto his chest. I tell him it’s okay and not to be afraid anymore. I tell him I love him and that I will always be his princess.
The blood from the wound in my side seeps through my blouse and mixes with his, something I find oddly comforting. I close my eyes, unable to look at his lifeless eyes any longer.
I cry until blaring sirens pound in my ears and strong arms rip me away.
Chapter 6
─────
I hear someone calling my name, but when my eyes finally crack open, all I see is white.
With a burst of hope, I wonder if I’m dead, too.
Opening my sensitive eyes a little wider, I spot a familiar sink and streaked mirror.
It’s not heaven, it’s just my stupid bathroom. At some point, I’d curled up into the bathtub and passed out. Everything has been a blur since Andrew was taken away. My side was cleaned, stitched, and bandaged by an EMT in our kitchen while my dad was escorted away in handcuffs. I hardly felt a thing, but remember screaming bloody murder any time they tried to put me in an ambulance.
The only pain I have is the cavity inside my chest, a wound that can’t be stitched up or bandaged over. Pain that feels as if someone is stabbing me with a dull knife over and over.
I hear the bathroom door open softly and a man with caramel skin, short dark hair, and a shiny badge walks in. Squatting down next to the tub, he displays the caution of someone approaching a timid animal. The officer slowly places two fingers underneath my chin, angling my head up until I’m looking into a pair of sympathetic brown eyes.
“It's okay, Tessa, you're gonna be okay.” His voice is grounded and comforting, but I still look away toward the grimy tiled wall. “How is your side doing? You sure raised hell with them poor medics. If you’d let them take you to the hospital, they could have done some nicer stitches, girl. Now I fear you'll have one nasty scar.”
I shrug in response. It can join the rest of them.
He removes his hand and takes a seat on the edge of the tub. He stares off into space, not saying anything else for what seems like forever. Eventually, I sneak a peek over my shoulder to inspect him. He looks sad, but I can’t figure out why. He didn't know Andrew, it isn’t his best friend who’s gone forever.
He’s gone, and it’s all my fault.
He looks over, giving me a tired smile. “I have a daughter about your age, her name is Lisa,” he begins. “She’s always had a fierce look about her, a fire in her eyes that I recognize when I look at you. It was brave what you did young lady, don’t you ever forget that.”
He’s wrong, there’s no fire in my eyes or within me at all. My fire was stolen and carried away in the form of a broken boy.
“My partner found something out there in the yard, it’s got your name on it and everything.” In his hand he holds out a small, white box with my name scribbled on the top. “Thought you might want it.” He holds it out to me, but I don’t move a muscle. With a sad sigh, he drops his hand back down. “Your father will go away for a long time. You won’t need to worry about him hurting you anymore.” He bristles when saying the word father. “We’ve questioned your mother extensively. She showed us her bruises and we know now that he’s been threatening and hurting you both for a long time. But I’m gonna be honest—there was a lot of bad stuff in this house, so I need you to tell me the truth.” I can feel his eyes on me now.
I continue to say nothing.
“Your mama says she was forced to do bad things, that you and she were both victims to an evil man. We have no reason to distrust that, Tessa, but I need to hear it from you. Did your mama give you any of those. . . marks on your skin? Has she been hurting you, too?”
This is my out, my single chance to get far away from here. I can tell him everything and escape the dragon’s clutches once and for all.
“No.” I lie, and I’ll keep lying until I’m blue in the face.
This is my punishment. I deserve this hell now.
He scans my face for the truth and seems satisfied with whatever he finds. “Okay, good. I told your mom this, and I’ll tell you the same, a nice lady will be in to check on you both for a while, just to make sure you’re still doing okay. You and your mama will need to stick together. She can help you through this pain and you will heal together.”
An angry laugh threatens to bubble up my throat. She was always the worst threat to my health and sanity. Still, I say nothing.
“I’ll be back next week to check on you both as well. Here is my number.” He hands me a little white card with fancy black writing. “Don’t hesitate to call if there is anything you need.” The officer gives me one last soft smile before he leaves.
I’m alone again, just me and the small, white box now sitting on the edge of the tub where the officer used to be. Adjusting myself, I turn my back to it, curling up on my good side. I lay my head against the cool porcelain and cry myself back to sleep.
Chapter 7
─────
Thirteen Years Old
Shit, is the first word that pops into my head as I lay awake on my mattress, staring up at the popcorn ceiling.
I can’t be awake, not today. I refuse.
I hear the muffled voice of a man walking past my door towards the dragon’s bedroom, which isn’t surprising. She’s either fucking or drinking since Dad got sent to prison, especially since she’s been subject to random drug tests over the past year and can’t fall back on her favorite devices.
The drug tests aren’t the only call for change; we also get CPS visits quite regularly. So, along with forcing me to keep the house spotless, she’s become an impressive actress.
Fat, old Mrs. Roberts comes along, and she appears to be the perfect adoring parental figure. Mother dearest should hit Broadway because the act is pretty damn convincing, from baking cookies (that I never get to eat), to helping me with my math homework (worst grade I ever got. I think she snorted away all her brain cells). So, every couple of weeks the house becomes a circus of fake bullshit.
To say it has been infuriating for her would be a vast understatement. However, after the first visit, when she realized I wasn’t going to rat her out for being the abusive sick fuck that she is, my punishments started coming back in full-force—in the form of verbal abuse.
Mocking me for getting my ‘boyfriend’ killed, accusing me of being a whore and describing the sick things I must have been doing to Andrew for him to like me, and of course blaming me for my father’s prison sentence. Don’t get me wrong; she still doles out some physical punishment. Since she’s had to be sober, she’s able to think a little clearer and can skillfully hurt me without ever leaving a single mark.
Which I guess is good. I probably have enough scars.
Over the past year, I’ve been blissfully numb to most of the physical or emotional pain she tries to inflict. Now that I think about it, I’m numb to any feelings at all, really. Boy, does that piss off Mommy Dearest. Apparently, it’s quite infuriating having a zombie for a daughter when you get off on making her suffer.
I never yell or cry out; my face remains blank and impassive every hour of every day.
Truth be told, I almost look forward to the physical pain, it gives me something different to focus on and think about for a while. It’s a form of relief, something I can count on to always happen.
She hates me now more than ever, blaming me for everything. We have that in common at least.
Unfortunately, all good things must come to an end because it’s now been exactly one year since the murder of. . . of him, and all the pain I’ve been succe
ssfully blocking out crashes down on me with wave after wave of crushing thoughts and memories.
It’s too much for my stomach to handle. I quickly lean over and puke into the rusted trashcan next to my mattress. Once my stomach is emptied, I expect to feel better, but I don’t.
It’s a school day today. I ditched yesterday, might as well ditch again. I can’t handle seeing my classmates or teachers anyway. I swear to god I’ll lose my freaking mind if a single person wishes me a happy birthday.
Body and mind revolt against me, keeping my eyes wide open when all I want is to sleep. I don’t want to feel shit—I could sleep every day away for that matter.
Flipping onto my stomach, I shove my hands underneath the lumpy pillow to get comfortable. My fingers brush against something small and familiar. Impulsively, I throw my pillow across the room and sit up cross-legged. I stare hard at the small, white box with my name on it. It’s never very far. Sometimes, in the middle of the night when I wake up in a cold sweat from the nightmares, I clutch it in my hands and fall back to sleep.
But today is my birthday—that horrible, shitty day, and the crater in my heart widens with each second, threatening to swallow me whole. Memories of his death push forward and threaten to repeat over and over inside my head until I go insane.
So instead, I fix all my thoughts on having the balls to finally open this little white box. If it must be my birthday, then I’m going to open a birthday present. Normal birthday bullshit.
Better late than never.
Take the tiny lid off. Go ahead. Just do it, Tess, you damn pussy.
After wiping my sweaty palms against the sheets, I grab the box and cradle it in my hands. I brush my fingers across the lid where my name is written in a familiar messy scrawl. With a deep breath, I remove the lid to find a small folded piece of paper.