“Just one right now.” Wynter was back to eating, back to talking with a full mouth. She deemed her hand-hidden chewing acceptable.
“What kind?” I asked a question to stay present. My mind desperately encouraged me into a dreamland, but if I drifted away now, I may never come back.
I started forcing small chunks of the now-cold breakfast into my mouth. In reality, I didn’t care what kind of dog it was, especially since I was more of a cat person, and I wasn’t crazy about them, either. I just wanted something other than the breakfast outburst and all that had caused it off my mind.
“Oh, it’s just a mongrel. Nothing special. It’s a little fatter than it should be, with lots of hair. Not allof God’s creatures could be born beautiful.”
“I’m sure he’s still beautiful.” I smiled, catching Hell’s attention as he looked across to me from the mush he was hating every spoonful of.
His nostrils flared with anger. His stare was cold, despite the fire burning inside him. The fire burning just for me.
He side-glanced at his mother, taking in all the hate he felt from her, and saving it, so he could use it against her.
“It’s a girl,” Wynter told me.
“Sorry.”I assumed boy, no idea why.
“It’s fine. . . a good shave, and no one would know the difference.”
Wynter’s words didn’t make sense. I couldn’t understand how shaving a female dog could make it look more like a male. If anything, surely, it would make it easier to tell the difference.
Hell heard something I didn’t, and the knife was in his hand once again. But before anyone could scream any objections, he forced it into the side of his mother’s thigh.
Her crimson blood rushed over his hand. Over her white skin. Her scream echoed in the air, lungs straining for air that she couldn’t suck in quickly enough.
She eyed him, her eyes bulging and filling with more tears. Her conscious stayed long enough to hear his reasoning.
“You don’t get to talk about her like that. You don’t have to like my gift. I do.”
The termgiftstalled my heart. Hell’s diary entries left a lot to the imagination. But there was that word again. The word I was referred to on day one. And Hell said it with such vehemence, I knew there was more to it than what I’d been led to believe.
I was distracted from my thoughts when he spoke again, “And if you bad mouth her ever again. . .” he pulled the blood-coated blade from her thigh and lifted it into the morning light, bringing it up to her throat where he traced a slit with her blood. “I’ll slit your fucking throat, and I’ll watch as you choke. As you suffer. As you die.”
“Hell. . . please. Please, stop,” Nessie’s little voice cut in again. But she was standing closer to me now, realizing her father would only offer minimum protection, or maybe, figuring thatHellliked me best. Either way, she felt safest with me, hidden behind the wood of mychair. Her little fingers brushed my skin, in a totally different way from her father’s. I clutched her hand, showing her a little protection. Hoping that whatever God this family believed in, would take pity on me and offer the same.
Ville finally climbed from his chair, moving to kneel at Wynter’s side, his knees clicking as he lowered to a squat. A quick analyzation of the wound—it was grim, and his face told us all what his mouth didn’t.
Wynter needed immediate help.
“You need to pray to God. Pray for forgiveness, because you will never get it from me.” Wynter slipped from the chair and into Ville’s embrace.
“Likewise, Mother.” Hell smirked.
“You’re evil, just like your father.”
“Which one. . .? Fucking slut.” Hell laughed again, but Wynter didn’t hear it. She’d blacked out. Her mascara smudged down her wet face as each of her eyes rained a single tear.
“You’re on your last warning, kid. I’ve already told you how to direct your anger!” Ville cautioned. “I’ll see to it that it’s taken care of tonight.”
Ville called back to me as he carried his wife from the room, “Jolie, keep an eye on Nessie. I don’t know how long we’ll be out!”
My head spun, finally breaking away from the image of Hell. Fear drained my blood. I felt heavier in my seat. I couldn’t move my legs. But I could talk. “Ville, wait!”
He turned for only a second, barely in my sight as he stood in the main doorway, fumbling with the keys for the rusty orange truck that I’d never seen move from the side of the house. Wynter’s pale face rested against his neck. Her bleeding leg caught my attention—kicked over his arm.
I whispered, “You can’t just leave us here.”
He didn’t even answer. He didn’t give us a second glance. But he gave one to his son, if Hell actually was his son—only through the fear of turning his back on an enemy. Something I had also just done.
