My focus was on Jolie. Her face had melted before my eyes, and it terrified me. I blinked repeatedly, hoping to see a different image when my eyes opened.
I bent low, no longer hearing my heartbeat or thoughts, and I tried to touch her again, to shift her hair from sticking to her skin. Strands of her hair were frazzled, too. I clutched her hand, and she pulled back with another yelp. She sat up, showing me how badly I’d damaged her face, ridges and bumps distorting her pretty features.
Her fists tightened at her side and they caught me off guard as she rose and punched into my chest, pushing me away, so hard, I fell, landing on my bottom.
I tumbled into my father who hadstepped up behind me.
“Daddy, I—”
He cut me off by resting one of his hands on my shoulder, giving a gentle pat that consoled me. The curve of his lips told me he wasn’t mad at me. He hadn’t been for a while now. He’d been loving, caring. . . a good father.
The look on his face told me he was pleased with me, displeased with Jolie. His other hand raised and pelted the side of her face with a force that knocked her to the ground. Her head hit the concrete with a crack. The dust from the unclean basement clung to her damaged skin.
I crawled forward and reached for her, but her hands raised, fingers shaking as inaudible pleads rushed through her lips. I only heard, “Don’t touch me,” and then something else that sounded like “gloves.”
My fingers were quick to pull them off, not as quickly as intended in my panicked state. I dropped them to the floor and moved closer. She didn’t retreat this time; she reached for me, and as our fingertips brushed. . .
My father’s boot kicked at her injury, and she fell away from me. Her blood spurted from a fresh gash, as well as leaking out from her already present wounds.
I stood, shocked and scared.
She huddled into a ball at my feet. Her shaking fingers sent vibrations up my trouser leg as she rubbed the material between them. My body shadowed the tremor, and there was nothing I could do to stop myself from shaking.
“Woodrow. . .” she whispered, still dazed from hitting her head. She moved around me to use me as a shield.
“H-h-he is-isn't here,” I stuttered.
“You're confusing the poor kid,” my father told her, stepping around me to reach for her. She tried to hide, circling my legs in fear. But Daddy was quick, and his big hands easily wrapped around her leg and arm, now that she'd lost weight. He barely heaved as he swung her once, twice, before letting her hit the wall.
Something else went crack as she landed. Her mouth let out another cry, and her hands—still shaking—rushed to cover her knee and the instant swelling that appeared there.
Her eyes were wet, like mine, as we stared at each other. Her lip trembled, and mine did too, both of us trying to silently call the boy she needed to the surface. She saw how my mouth moved; she knew I wanted to help her. She also knew I couldn't. . . and she couldn’t bend her leg to shift into a safer position to protect herself from the next blow my father gave.
Jolie
Ville loomed above me, his shadow alone weighing me down. My leg stuck out, cold on the stone floor, my knee surely broken. My brain felt like it was swelling inside my skull. My face burned more with each falling tear. Every inch of my skin felt tighter. The blotches on my chest strained with each breath. I was shaking and struggling to prevent my body from going into shock.
“Why are you doing this? Why don't you just kill me?” I twisted from another blow.
“You shouldn't raise your hand to a child.”
His words rattled me as much as my injuries. He was using them as a weapon, one that didn't cause pain instantly. He was soothing Woody, leading him to believe he felt something for him other than annoyance.
I saw through that.
I saw Ville for the worm that he was as he writhed and wriggled, getting deeper into Woody's head.
“He’s trying to get into your head. He’s evil and a liar,” I told Woody. It was hard to voice more than a whisper, but if these were the last words I’d ever speak, I needed him to hear them. “Your father is only pretending to accept you.”
Woody blinked, confusion clouding his eyes, pushing out tears.
In that moment, I didn't feel bad about breaking Woody's heart. But that moment passed quickly. And the look on his face was one Iknew would haunt me.
I felt his pain. It was strong, because, deep down, he feared Ville wasn't giving genuine affection. But his mind was trapped in an age too young to realize this was a tactic. A new method of control because all others had failed.
Ville wanted a prodigy.
I wanted him out. I wanted them both out.
