My parents, but not really. I’ve never called them “Mum” or “Dad”, and I don’t think I ever will without wanting to spit thewords out or throw them up. Pete isn’t even my biological father, just the man Annie married out of necessity or convenience.
A decision I can neither understand nor forgive.
My hands tremble as I reach for the plates, and I will myself to stay steady. Everything has to be just right. The plates set perfectly, the silverware lined up straight. If he finds anything out of place, he’ll have an excuse.
Not that he needs one.
I catch the gleam of headlights slicing through the grey outside. The familiar growl of Pete’s car pulling into the driveway. Too soon. He’s early. My heart kicks, a wild, frantic thing caged inside my chest.
I’m not ready.
The door creaks open, a groan that makes my stomach twist and my heart stop in my chest. I don’t turn around. I focus on the plates, my hands shaking as I adjust the fork, just slightly, just enough. It has to be perfect.
I feel each of his steps, the soles of his shoes grinding against the floorboards. A ticking time bomb. My pulse quickens, a frantic flutter beneath my skin. He wants me to hear him. He wants me to wait.
I keep my eyes on the pot, my hands steady, my body tense. I hear him stop in the doorway, his presence filling the room, making the air cold. The house greyer. The air thinner.
“Smells good,” he says, his voice low, casual. I feel his eyes linger on me, tracing the line of my back, the curve of my neck. I feel them like fingers, pressing down, heavy and cold. He smiles, but it’s a thin, empty thing, stretched tightly across his face.
“You made my favourite,” he murmurs, his breath warm against my neck. He leans in, his chin just grazing my shoulder, his chest brushing my back. I force myself to stand still, to keep breathing. He’s testing me, seeing if I’ll pull away. If I do, he’ll take it as defiance.
I swallow, my throat dry. “Yes.” My voice comes out flat, dull. I hate how weak it sounds.
His fingers press into my shoulder, a subtle increase in pressure. Not enough to leave a mark. Not yet.
“It smells lovely.” The words themselves are soft, gentle, but it’s what’s behind them that makes them so terrifying.
His hand tightens just enough to make my bones ache, and I stand there, rigid, waiting for him to release me. Waiting for the test to end.
After a moment, he lets go, his fingers trailing down my arm, and I suppress a shudder, forcing my muscles to stay still.
He moves away, slowly. He knows I’m watching him out of the corner of my eye, tracking his every movement. I have to. Not that tracking him makes any difference.
No amount of preparation can ready you for the tragedy bound to occur.
I thought I was prepared. I thought after experiencing this kind of abuse for so many years, I would be ready for it to happen again. That if I stopped hoping, it would lessen the pain. That’s what my past taught me. That hope is a dangerous, cruel joke the universe plays to keep you hanging on. So I don’t hope anymore. I expect the worst so when it finally comes, I’m ready.
Little did I know I was in a lose-lose predicament. And whether I hoped or not, my outcome wouldn’t change. I realized that when I first met Pete. I remember it like the memory itself was written onto my brain in permanent ink.
I remember Annie bringing him one day, and I looked into his eyes then, searching for something different. Something kind. But as he stared back at me, his gaze cold and spiteful, I knew. Oh god, I knew—I’d have to endure it again. But I was too tired to scream, too numb to cry.
All that was left was the silent horror that hell was my home once more.
So, when Will had left with my biological father, I thought it would finally stop. And it did. For a little while. But it seems our Annie has a disgustingly specific taste in men. If you could even call them that.
That’s how it is with my family. It’s perfectly ugly. No matter how much I tried to convince myself it would be okay. Eventually, I realized their love was never coming. Because you can’t get blood from a stone—or love from those who’ve forgotten how to give it. In my family, there was no love.
No warmth, no comfort. Nothing soft. Nothing safe.
There was only pain. Pain that soon became a part of me. I carried it with me, hidden beneath my clothes, beneath my skin. I learned to live with it, to breathe through it, to swallow it down. I learned to smile with broken ribs, to sit straight with bruised vertebrae, to walk without limping, without wincing, without showing the pain.
I learned to survive.
But I never learned how to live.
I sigh and turn back to the stove, my hands moving on autopilot, stirring, serving, plating. Everything precise. Everything perfect.
I reach for the salad bowl, but his voice stops me. “Sit down.”
