“You don’t run things by him! I’m the host!”
My mother laughed again, saying nothing more than, “You’re fucking crazy.”
My father's hands, tightening around my throat, gripped my attention. His anger lifted me into the air. Artex pierced my scalp, as I hit my head on the dated ceiling, but I could feel nothing but the closing of my throat.
“Woodrow. . .” Jolie's hobble was moving back towards me.
My hands thrashed, shooing her away, but she wouldn't go.
I kicked at my father's stomach. I scratched at his arms, doing all I could to free myself from his grip, so he wouldn't get to Jolie and kill her to teach me a lesson.
It was like he saw all my fears and wanted to bring them to life.
He threw me across the room. My body hit the high cabinets, and the glass shattered, sprinkling down onto me as I fell to the floor. I couldn't get up quickly enough. My energy was still in my father's hands and his fists were shut.
His feet pounded down the hall, the boards groaning. Jolie edged back, her good leg failing to get her away from the man charging closer.
Her fingers searched for the door handle, finding nothing, as my father's fingers curled through her hair, dragging her back as she kicked and screamed. Her nails dug into the walls—scraping off paper and plaster—snapping at the free edge of her finger.
Another of her screams pulled me to my feet, and I wobbled in the direction of her cry. I stood up in time to see my father's giant fist drive into Jolie's stomach.
“No!” I screamed, watching her fight back, failing to protect herself as he hit her again. His balled fist punched at her repeatedly, his force blasting into her scarred face and naked body.
My mother jumped into my path, her flailing arms fighting me as I tried to get to Jolie. All I could see was her fuzzy blonde hair weaving in and out of my view.
And I fucking lost it.
My hand came up and the force I threw into my mother's face knocked her to the ground with a thud. Her nose sprouted blood, and it splashed the floor, mingling with Nessie’s much purer essence.
My father dragged Jolie back into the kitchen, and with my mother out of the way, I could get to her. But my father anticipated that. Anticipated my approach wouldn't be slow and steady, because I had no time to waste.
He let Jolie go, tossing her to the ground, making sure she’d land on her broken knee. He grasped my throat, and I noticed he had two fingers missing from his calloused hand. But that didn’t impact his grip.
“Don't hurt her,” I pleaded, with my mouth and my eyes. He squeezed until my vision blurred, until I only stayed conscious by listening to Jolie as she repeated my namein panic. Then she faded out.
Her voice became distant. The world around me, too. I blinked, trying to focus on the blur that was my father. But everything turned black. . .
“Daddy. . .” I begged as I became someone else.
Jolie
I still had the keys wrapped in my trembling fingers, the keyrings jingling as they hung from my palm. I fought to get back to my feet, and it took all I had as I nursed the pain in my stomach. I wedged the key into Ville’s skin, losing the teeth in his flesh.
Woodrow's knees cracked as he hit the floor. He buckled as Ville removed his grip. Woody had taken over now; the tone of his voice told me that much. Lower and more delicate.
The child pleaded to his father's deaf ears, seeking comfort as he panicked over the realization he couldn't breathe.
His fingers were at his throat, trying hard to massage the swelling, to shrink it, move it, anything. His tears splashed the ground, adding to the milk and blood.
I moved to him, but I didn't get close. One hand on my stomach, a strange twinge left me as quickly as it came.
Ville yanked me back again. His anger was tangible, leaving an ominous promise of retaliation. My head screamed out in pain as his fingers knotted in my hair. My teeth clamped down, grinding my molars to dust, refusing to give him a verbal scream this time as he tossed me to the ground. Sacks filled with household waste softened my landing.
I still didn’t scream as Ville delivered a kick to my leg, but a strange, lowly sound slipped out of my locked lips.
I didn't want to scare Woody, and a scream would have done that. High stress wasn't something that invited Woodrow back to the surface.
I needed him back at the front, back in control.
