“I prefer your others. They are more fun.” The term alters hadn't settled with her yet. “Do you want some chocolate milk?” she asked, being a little more like the sister I needed.
I peeled my hands from my face, exposing my tired eyes and giving the sun permission to abuse them. I blinked twice, appreciating the small gesture.
I sat back and watched, exhaustion preventing me from helping as my little sister scaled the kitchen cabinets for a glass for me. Luckily, she didn't fall or break anything. But things in the room were already broken—cabinets, the trash can, even the stove.
Nessie jumped from the worktop and hurried to the refrigerator with two glasses. The hardest part of all this for her, was trying to get the fridge to open with full hands.
I looked away, weighed down by the nightmare I lived. A nightmare I couldn't even remember.
I had no idea where Jolie was, but I knew if I asked Nessie, she wouldn't have told me that she was upstairs in the room they shared.
The worry of what had happened to her was heavy on my heart.
Closing my eyes, I sent myself back in time.
I saw my father cut up my heart when he dissected my pet.
I saw Jolie, standing up to him, throwing a drink in his face.
I fingered the tablecloth where the drops of alcohol would have dripped from his chin.
A phantom pain struck me, and I almost fell out of my seat. The smell of blood invaded my nose, overpowering the chocolate milk being poured, as a memory that wasn’t mine, was pushed into my head. The recollection of being shot hit me like a bullet, reminding me why this clavicle was achy.
“Woodrow!” Nessie shouted as if she was scolding me. “Don't touch that! You're still healing. You don't want an infection.”
A shadow wrapped around me, forceful fingers pressing into my right shoulder, mimicking the ache on the left. My eyes moved to the bitten-down nails, digging into me through my thin t-shirt.
“Good to see you're back, kid. It's been a while this time.” My father blew out a puff of smoke from the cigar moving back and forthfrom his thin lips. The smell, mixed with a night of poor alcohol choices, almost made me sick.
I cringed under his touch, feeling dirtier than ever. Those hands of his caused so much damage. Hurt those I loved most.
I bit my tongue, literally, as it was the only way I could stop myself from demanding where Jolie was.
“Don't tell your mother I lit this in here. It's our secret.” His fingers slackened.
Disgusted by him, as he blew out another puff that had me choking, my gaze settled on the doors that lived in the shadows of this room. The herb closet and its wooden twin that led down to the basement. They no longer looked like twins. One was damaged pretty badly, beat up from the inside. And for the first time ever, not properly closed.
I read horror stories about what went on down there. Tales written by a seven-year-old who only existed because I was mentally traumatized.
My father clocked the direction of my eyes, but he was seeing fucking double, if not triple. “Wondering what happened?”
Subconsciously, I blinked twice.
“Hell had a mood. After everything that happened a few weeks back, we did some therapy down there. He didn't react so well.”
I didn't turn to see my father's bloodshot eyes staring down at me like he was anticipating a reaction I wouldn't allow myself to give.
I licked the dryness from my mouth. I had no idea why Hell did whatever he did to leave chunks of wood missing from the basement door, but with my body breaking out in a cold sweat, it was like my body was trying to tell me something my mind kept secret.
That something fucking awful had happened down there.
And that my father wasn’t being truthful about it.
I prayed to God that my father wouldn't feel my blood running colder beneath his touch. He probably couldn't. . . he couldn't see beyond his nose right now. Couldn’t see that the door wasn’t closed.
He was hammered.
And the heavy drinking probably had something to do with me, and everyone else that lived inside my skin. He'd toldme so many times that was the case.
