“Hurry up, Elodie,” he gripes, rocking in the seat so it grinds against the floor, but it doesn’t seem to move.
Glancing at him from the corner of my eye, I shake my head. “I’m not here to rescue you,” I breathe, swiftly turning my attention back to the workbench, letting my curiosity about the tools get the better of me.
Walking the line, I delicately run my finger across each steel tool that sits along the edge. Pliers, hammers, screwdrivers, blades, and spanners. There truly isn’t a single clean one here. I wonder if all the blood is his. Tilting my face, I peer over at him once again as my hand gets comfortable on top of one of the hammers.
“I’m not playing around, Elodie. You’d better release me now before they come back,” he warns, the veins in his neck protruding as he tries desperately to restrain the anger that lives in him, but it’s too late; I can already hear it in his voice.
Usually, it would make me tremble and encourage me to cower away from him, but for the first time, with the power balance firmly clear between us, I feel empowered.
“You’d better consider your position right now before you proceed to shoot orders at me,” I retort, cocking a brow at him.
His nostrils flare as his fists clench, but to my surprise, he drops his head, letting his chin fall to his chest once more as he exhales, a defeated huff drooping his shoulders.
“Please, Elodie,” he whispers, a tight sniffle ringing through the air as he looks up through his lashes at me. “Please help me. Your mother will be worried sick. It’s not safe here for either of us, and you know it.” My chest tightens at his words as he mentions my mother, and I feel myself on the brink of folding, until I recall exactly how she didn’t protect me when I needed it most.
Would it have been different if I were their biological child? I’ll never know, and that’s a reality I have to live with. I’m already overwhelmed enough as it is, so instead of letting another what-if fester away in my mind, I compartmentalize it and save it for a rainy day.
I tap the hammer beneath my hand, considering my next step, but before I can doubt myself, I wrap my fingers around the handle and carry it loosely at my side as I approach the other wooden chair in the room that sits directly across from my father. I don’t say a word as I kick it a little closer before taking a seat, my weapon resting in my lap.
My spine stiffens as I let my anger take control, burning into an air of confidence that feels like uncharted territory. “So it’s true, you’re not my father,” I state, and he sighs, pleading eyes finding mine, lined with unshed tears, but I don’t waver.
“Elodie, please, can we discuss this on the way home?” he begs, and I shake my head.
“We have time. Answer my questions, and we’ll go.”
He runs his tongue over his teeth, agitation bunching his shoulder muscles together. “You don’t call the shots around here, girl. I?—”
“I’d say I do, actually,” I interject, feeling the weight of the hammer in my hand as I peer at him. “I’d say it’syouwho needs to followmyorders.”
He gulps, but the sense of uncertainty evaporates instantly as he bares his teeth, snarling at me.
“Listen here, you wretched little bitch,” he starts, but before he can finish whatever bullshit was about to fall from his lips, I stand, taking two long strides toward him and let the hammer fall on his thigh. A hollow cry fills the air, rage burning from his lungs as a sense of amusement tickles up my spine.
“I’m so sorry, what were you about to say? I can’t quite hear you,” I muse, bringing the head of the hammer to his chin as I widen my eyes, blinking at him expectantly.
“You’re going to fucking pay for that,” he promises, and I grin.
It’s wicked, it’s promising, it’s… psychotic.
Spinning the weapon in my hand, I let it fall for a second time, crushing his hand a moment later as he howls in pain.
Delight churns in my stomach, unknotting all of the tension that has lived inside of me for as long as I can remember. Trying to contain my joy at his pain, I crouch before him, resting the head of the hammer undermychin this time.
“Did you ever regret it?”
It’s the one question I can’t quell my curiosity over. The rest, I know it doesn’t matter. I know in my heart of hearts that I was a golden ticket placed on his doorstep, offering him cash and a punching bag. A man of his caliber, what more would he want?
Just like earlier, my brain can’t comprehend the amount of what-ifs that revolve around this man, and crouched here before him, euphoria warming my soul at his demise, I have everything I need. But this one damn question won’t go. I feel like a child, like the small girl who just wants her mom and dad to love her desperately but only ends up in more pain, no matter how hard she tries.
This question isn’t for me, it’s for her. It’s a piece of her healing, mine too, and after everything this man has done to me, I can’t deny that little child the one answer she seeks.
“There was nothing to regret,” he grunts, his chest rising and falling in quick succession as his nostrils flare.
Instinctively, I’m swarmed with the sense of deflation that comes with a truth like that, but instead of giving in to the excruciating ache that threatens to split my soul in two at his admission, I offer the kind words to myself that I so dearly sought from him.
You were enough, Little Elodie. Just like I’m enough now. That pain has shaped us into who we are. Let it forever be our strength.
It’s a vow, a promise, a mantra. To drive it home, I let that small part of me that still clings to childhood hope rise to the surface as I tighten my hold on the hammer. My gaze is locked on his, my heart calm for the first time in forever as I smile softly, contently, truly.
