by K. L. Savage
COPYRIGHT © 2020 DOC BY KL SAVAGE
All rights reserved. Except as permitted by U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without prior permission of the author. The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, establishments, or organizations, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously to give a sense of authenticity. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. DOC is intended for 18+ older, and for mature audiences only.
ISBN: 978-1-952500-12-1
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CONTROL: 2020920880
PHOTOGRAPHY BY WANDER AGUIAR PHOTOGRAPHY
COVER MODEL: PHILIPE
COVER DESIGN: LORI JACKSON DESIGN
Editing by MASQUE OF THE RED PEN
Formatting by Champagne Book Design
FIRST EDITION PRINT 2020
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Author’s note
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Epilogue
Bonus Chapter
Acknowledgments
Also by K.L. Savage
To everyone who is exhausted because life is too heavy sometimes. To the people who fight and all you want to do is give in. We know pain isn’t only skin deep. It roots itself in the soul and eventually it becomes a part of your life, a part of a memory. A sliver of it always seem to remain. A tiny piece no one can force out. It’s just there. All the time.
It’s okay to be tired. It’s okay to take the time you need to figure out how to breathe again.
Don’t ever give in.
It’s okay not to be strong all the time. It’s okay to have someone lend their strength.
Sometimes, figuring how to heal is a war we, as humans, can’t do alone.
It’s okay to wrap yourself in someone’s safety for you to feel safe.
The best is all we can do in a world that tries too hard to be strong.
But in order to be strong, we have to fight the moments of weakness.
Together.
And to Dr. Gary W.
Thanks for always keeping me in working order and caring enough to take the time to during your busy day to ask about my Kings. It means more than you’ll ever know, knowing you have my books in your office.
National Suicide Prevention Hotline:
If you or someone you love is experiencing suicidal thoughts and tendencies, please reach out to: 1-800-273-8255. There is help 24 hours a day, 7 days a week.
Sixteen-years-old
What’s that saying? There isn’t a love like a mother’s love? It’s true. My mom will do anything for me, but there’s one thing I’ll never be able to tell her. If I do, Dad will make me pay. And I have to make sure his abuse stays directed at me so I can protect Mom. She doesn’t know his ways or his harshness.
I have the scars to prove it, wounds that I’ve hidden from her for years. We pretend to hold hands at the table, say grace, and laugh. Dad tells us about his day at the hospital and all the lives he saved because he’s a surgeon.
And he practices his techniques on me.
Like right now.
I can’t stop the tears that drip down my face. My entire body hurts so bad. I can’t handle the pain. My skin is raw, cut open, and I know the evening is just starting.
“You were a bad boy today, Eric.” The surgical tray clinks when he picks up another scalpel, one that’s probably sharper so it can cut through my skin like butter.
I shake my head and do my best to hold in my emotion. The more I cry, the more he cuts me. Boys don’t cry. We aren’t allowed to show emotion. This is supposed to make me stronger. “I wasn’t. I wasn’t bad; I promise, Dad. I made all A’s—” My explanation dies when the tip of the scalpel digs into an open wound. I bury my face into the mattress and scream.
“You’re lying. I know you are because your teacher called me today and told me you made a B on a test. No son of mine is going to be anything less than great, Eric. Do you understand me? I won’t have an embarrassment for a child.” He slides the scalpel down my back, and I roar my agony into the pillow-top mattress. I grip the sheets with my fists until my knuckles pop.
I’m going to vomit.
No, I can’t. He’ll punish me more if I do.
“Yes, sir,” I say, blinking away the sweat stinging my eyes.
“You say that every time, and you continue to disappoint me. How are you going to be a doctor if you can’t make an A? How can I count on you to carry on the legacy? You’re weak. You’re pathetic. You’re a baby!” He stabs the scalpel into the meat of my shoulder, and a murderous blood-curdling scream leaves my throat. He’s never stabbed me before.
“Dad, please,” I beg him to stop. “It’s too much. It hurts. Please, stop!” I cry, unable to stop the flow of teardrops that seep into the mattress. On reflex, I yank against the restraints, but it only causes the scalpel to dig deeper. I bite the sheets and swallow the scream until it’s nothing but a vibration of needles in the back of my throat.
“Does it hurt? Good,” he taunts. He releases the handle of the scalpel. My flesh burns, and the pain explodes into something more, something unbearable.
It hurts so much I can’t feel anything at all.
My body is numb.
The slide of another scalpel leaving the metal tray has my body shivering. “How I raised a son like you is beyond me.” The cold tip of the blade meets my neck, and he drags it along my side. “I bet you’re a bottom bitch, aren’t you?” he seethes, yanking my pants down until my bare ass is exposed. “Is that why you’re so weak and incapable of doing anything, Eric?” The sensitive flesh stings as he cuts along the new part of me. I’d rather him cut along my back. It hurts when he opens new scars, but it doesn’t hurt as bad as when he creates a new wound on fresh skin.
“No! No, I swear. I swear. I swear! Please, stop. Please!” I sob as he continues down my right butt cheek. He stops, only long enough for me to draw in a ragged breath. He moves to my left side and cuts.
He exhales and tsks. “You know what? I don’t believe you. You’re gay, aren’t you? You take it up the ass; is that your problem? It makes so much sense, Eric. Your defiance against me, your unwillingness to do as you’re told.”
I always do as I’m told. Always. But he picks apart everything I do. Even when I’m an angel, he looks for something to punish me for. “I swear, I’m not gay.” I wish I had a dad who didn’t care about that sort of thing. I don’t have a problem with anyone who’s gay, but I’m glad I’m not or he’d kill me.
&nbs
p; My life would be easier if I died. I’ve thought about it a few times. I thought about killing myself. My pain would end. I’d be at peace, but then I think about my mom and how she needs me. I can’t leave her here with him, and that’s the only thing keeping me alive.
“I’m not going to stitch you up yet. You need to sit here and think about your next words. Or I’ll start cutting on something else, so you can never use it again.”
I rub my cheek against the blanket and stare at the white wall. There’s a family photo hanging there. It’s your typical summer beach vacation photo. I’m standing beside Mom, and she’s standing next to Dad. Everyone has their arms around each other, and the waves are crashing against our feet as our toes are hiding in the sand.
It was a decent escape from reality because my dad didn’t touch me while we were there. He couldn’t since Mom was with us and not at work like she is right now. The picture blurs when a fresh wave of tears fill my eyes. Everything about my life is a lie.
We aren’t a cookie cutter family no matter what my dad tries to make everyone think. We live in a two-story house in the suburbs. There’s a pool in the backyard. A white picket fence with an American flag notched on the porch rail, and a Labrador retriever who is currently in his crate, so he doesn’t interrupt my punishment.
He’s barking and growling, doing his best to escape to help me, but no one can help me. I’m stuck in this nightmare as long as my dad is alive, and there is no way in hell I will ever leave him alone with my mother.
Right as I feel a wet cloth against my back, the downstairs door slams shut. My dad gasps, stopping his usual aftercare routine. He grips my neck and pulls me up off the bed. “Who the fuck is that?” he growls into my ear, twisting the scalpel deeper into my shoulder.
“Guys! I’m home,” my mom calls out, and my heart slams against my chest. No! She can’t be home. She can’t be. “I got off work early. I brought home Thai for dinner. I know how much you two love Thai!”
I hear each shoe hit the ground with a hard clack as she takes off her stiletto heels.
Dad throws my head against the bed and presses it against the mattress. His breath is hot against my cheek as he leans down. “You better keep your mouth shut, you hear me? You’ll be fucking sorry if you don’t.”
I don’t think I could speak anyway. There’s static zipping through my veins, and the pain engulfing me can’t be felt; not like the scalpel sticking out of my shoulder. My head is fuzzy, my vision blurs, and sweat stings my eyes. I don’t have the energy to blink the salt away.
I’m too tired.
“What’s everyone doing?” my mom’s voice grows skeptical when all she hears is silence.
“Stay quiet,” Dad shushes me, placing a hand over my mouth as he watches the door.
This could be my only chance of freedom. I need to save myself. Mom will save me, right?
“Guys? This isn’t funny. You’re worrying me.” The floorboards creak outside the door, telling me she’s in the hallway upstairs.
Dad pushes off me and messes up his hair, then untucks his shirt. He looks like he’s been sleeping. “Don’t say a word, or the next thing I stitch will be your lips,” he warns.
He walks to the door, and his shoulders rise and fall with the deep breath he takes before unlocking it and peeking his head out. “Rachel, honey, you’re home early.” I watch as he fake yawns. “Sorry, darling. I was napping.”
“In the guest bedroom?” she asks.
“Yes, you know how sometimes I can’t rest on our mattress. I thought I’d try it in here.”
“Oh, I’m sorry, sweetie. We should really look into getting a new mattress. With all the long hours you pull at the hospital, you need sufficient rest.”
Yeah, there’s nothing wrong with his mattress. He can’t sleep because he’s in here with me, marring my back.
“You’re right. We will do that on my next day off. I love you. I’m going to try to get some more sleep before I go into the OR later.”
“Of course. Oh, where is Eric? I brought him a piece of that molten lava cake he loves so much. I wanted to give him a treat for getting such a good grade on his test. A B, Douglas! He is so smart.”
I silently weep into the pillow as I hear my mother’s love, happiness, support, and belief in me. I’m here. I’m right here, Mom. Your husband is a monster. Help me!
I can’t find the strength to say the words. I’m growing too tired.
“I think he went on a quick bike ride. He’ll be back soon.”
“Okay,” she says happily, and I hear a quick smack of lips. She’d hate herself if she knew the monster she shared herself with.
My dad closes the door, then locks it after he hears Mom’s footsteps get far enough away. “Stupid, gullible bitch. The woman is so annoying.” He sighs, scratching his head. “If it wasn’t for that hot piece of ass secretary I have, I don’t know what the hell I’d do for sex. You mom is a fucking drag.” He saunters over and eyes my bleeding ass and smirks. “Maybe since you like to be on bottom so much, I’ll just take what you freely give to others too.” He undoes his belt, and my eyes widen in fear. I pull against the straps and try to get free.
There’s no way he’ll do that to me. It goes against everything he believes in.
I won’t be able to survive this.
The door crashes against the wall, and a piece of wood flies through the air, hitting Dad in the face.
A cock of the gun sounds, and Mom steps over the ruins of the door. “You get your filthy fucking hands away from my son, you sick, twisted bastard. I fucking knew it. I knew it!” she chokes. Her eyes fall to me, and her lips part in horror, but the gun remains steady. “I had to catch you. I needed proof, and I have it. I have it!”
Dad lifts his hands and shakes his head. “You don’t understand, Rachel. He’s a horrible boy. He has to be punished.”
“He’s my son!” she screams and pulls the trigger. The gunshot isn’t loud like I expect. It’s quiet. That’s when I see a silencer on the barrel. Dad stumbles back and presses his hand against his shoulder. He’s dumbfounded.
His hand shakes as he brings it up from the hole dripping blood, and he stares at his fingers, rubbing them together. “You shot me,” he states with wide eyes.
“I’m going to do more than just shoot you for laying one hand on Eric. I trusted you. I didn’t want to believe it, but I knew it. I felt it. My gut told me something was wrong, for years, but I ignored it because part of me couldn’t believe that you’d do this to him.” She cries as she stares at the massacre on my back. “How long?” she asks me. “How long has he done this to you?”
“Eric…” Dad’s voice deepens, threatening me not to say anything else.
“Shut up! Don’t you fucking talk to him. You don’t get to talk to him ever again; do you hear me?”
“How long, Eric?”
“Seven years,” I wheeze, barely able to keep my eyes open.
“Seven—” She clasps her hand over her mouth and aims the gun at Dad again. “Seven years you’ve abused him? Our son? What is wrong with you? Seven—” She pulls the trigger, and it pierces his other shoulder. Then, she aims the barrel at his knee.
Again, at his other knee.
Dad cries out and crashes to the ground, both his knees shot out. “Stop, Rachel. Stop. Let me explain. I’ll…”
“You think I give a damn about what you have to say? No reason, explanation, or excuse can calm me down. There’s no reason for this abuse! Look at him!” She shoves the gun in his face.
But he doesn’t.
“I said look at him!” She pushes the gun against his head, and his eyes meet mine.
He gives me a once-over, and a smirk tips his lips. He’s satisfied with what he did to me. “And he’s still as pathetic as he was before I dug my scalpel into his skin.”
Mom presses her foot against his back and shoves him to the floor. “And you know what?” She grips his wrist and aligns the hot barrel of the gun against his p
alm. He hisses as the smell of burnt flesh fills the air. Combine that with the pain, and I feel like I’m about to pass out.
“I’m going to make sure you’re as useless as you view our son.” Another gunshot slices the air and takes a chunk of his hand.
“No!” he screeches, grasping his injured palm. “I’ll never be able to operate again!”
Mom yanks his other hand back and aims. “That’s the fucking point.”
The bullet sears through the hands that made this family millions of dollars. He lifts his trembling palm and sobs when he sees two vivid wounds. They remind me of peep holes. I can see through them to the other side of the wall.
A hint of citrus and hibiscus invades my nose—my mom’s perfume. She slams the gun on the nightstand and wraps her hand around the scalpel sticking out of my shoulder. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. I wish I could take your pain away,” she says sweetly before tugging the blade out of the meat of my muscle.
I cry in relief, in terrible agony, and sag against the bed. I gag as the pain hits my stomach.
“It’s okay. It’s all going to be over with soon,” Mom says, brushing a strand of wet hair out of my face.
Dad drags himself along the carpet and reaches a ruined hand for the gun on the nightstand.
“Mom,” I croak, warning her with my eyes to turn around.
Her hair fans around her as she turns, giving me another burst of oranges and hibiscus. “I don’t think so, asshole.” She lifts the scalpel in the air and stabs his hand, and it pins him against the wood, his fingers a breath away from the handle of the gun. “How does that feel, Douglas? To feel so ruined and helpless? Do you feel pain?” She pulls the scalpel free, and Dad grunts, falling onto his back. Mom picks up the gun and scoffs as she straddles his lap. Mascara runs down her cheeks, and her nose is red from the tears, but I’ve never seen her so vicious. “You dare hurt my child for seven years under my nose. Seven years.” She rips his shirt off and cuts into his skin like he did me. Long, smooth marks open his body like a fish after being caught and prepared to be someone’s dinner. He screams, and Mom sobs. “You deserve everything you feel, damn it. Everything.” She gets in his face and spews hatred.