But I wasn’t in my right mind.
My father sat in my room, weighing down my desk chair with his square ass. He was chomping on a chicken leg, dropping the bones into the trash bin at his side as he neared the end of his meal.
He’d got a meal deal from a place in town on his way home because his slave—also known as his wife and my mother—couldn’t take care of his dinner tonight.
I sat on the floor, amongst the destruction I’d caused trying to leave this fucking room, eager to get out and act out all my father’s desires in my own timeframe. He’d told me to wait, detailing how this would all play out.
But I was bored with waiting. Bored with my father.
I’d blackened both of his eyes, bloodied his nose, sliced open his arms, and pierced his skin. I’d used a photo frame from the wall to create the gashes and wounds, smashing it against my bed frame and watching as the glass shards rained to the floor. The picture of Nessie with the big brother who shared my face sat crumpled on the floor. . . ruined, like everything else in the space.
My bare-ass crushed carpet fibers. My hand held a single shard of glass; I’d chosen the biggest one, and I still kept it wedged between my fingers as I sat amongst its siblings, naked.
I’d needed to cool down. If I could have stripped off my skin, I would have. The smell of my own blood, clinging to my sweats had made me nauseous.
And besides, I didn’t need clothes for what came next.
My father wasn’t impressed by my lack of clothing. . . no, he was probably jealous.
I’d caught glimpses of him naked in the past, waddling from the bathroom without a towel, and I’d seen enough to know his stumpy knob didn’t match the rest of his body.
But he made no comments. And neither did I.
He was aware that it would only take so much as the wrong word for me to drive the cold weapon into his skin, not stopping until I sliced through vital organs.
I looked at the clothes at my side. Old and tired, gifts from the charity store in town, because until now, I’d never received anything of a higher value.
Until my little doll.
My father had hardly spoken since plumping himself in that chair, though he did remind me of what his plan for Jolie was. And it made me want to leave even more.
I wasn’t sure my actions tonight would make Woodrow happy. . . but our father had been very convincing when he told me how much my soul-sharer would want this.
I wasn’t sure I believed him. . . wasn’t sure I believed anything anymore.
This fucker in front of me once convinced me he was a God—one, Woodrow prayed for forgiveness to every-fucking-day, and one I rebelled against.
But I didn’t care what was true and what wasn’t. For once, I wanted something for me. . . I wanted to feel something other than someone else’s pain. Woodrow would have to fucking deal with it.
I found myself glancing to the door, calmer now as the shard scraped at my arm, causing nothing but minor irritation, not even breaking my skin.
I wonder if she’s awake. . .I’d heard her creeping up the stairs hours ago, while Woodrow, somehow, wrangled me back to the vault inside him—not something he could do often.
“You over there slicing up your arms?” my father—talking with a full mouth—interrupted my thoughts.
I let his wishful thinking go unanswered. He already knew the only blood I liked on my weapons was blood belonging to someone else. He knew firsthand, as he’d only just stopped nursing his most recent wound. A lowly puncture, lost in the excess skin of his stomach.
The house was quiet now, eerily so.
Usually, if my father was in my room, my mother would go to bed, and she’d take Nessie with her. Momma and daughter bonding they called it. I called it, spooning her drugged child while she slipped into a wine coma, but my opinion counted for shit.
And I really shouldn’t comment. . .
I’d bribed Nessie out from her hiding place earlier tonight, with the same contaminated juice Momma would have given her. I’d told her I wouldn’t hurt her. Andit wasn’t a lie. . . I had no intention of hurting her. I just wanted her out of my fucking way, asleep and quiet, while I hunted for Jolie, who, had somehow, escaped my senses. Probably closer than I thought. . . probably here in the house the whole fucking time. God, I’m stupid. I didn’t even think to check.
“It’s quiet now. And late.” My father looked to the moon shining its beam down on the world beyond the giant tree at my window. His gaze lingered, like he was counting the stars in the black sky and making dangerous wishes on them all.
We’d been up here for hours, alone in the gloom of the dimly lit room. The only time either of us left was when he stepped out to the hallway to retrieve his late-night lunch, blocking the doorway with his giant frame to ensure I didn’t go skulking down the corridor before he’d dished out instructions.
