Before I even feel the pain, I hear the ringing in my ears. It takes a second for me to register that he hit me, punched me so hard that it knocked me off my feet. I fall against the TV stand on the way down, the impact against my ribs knocking the breath out of me.
Fuck, that hurts.Worse than his fist had, if I’m behind honest, though I’m sure I’ll feel that pain later, too, if the copper taste in my mouth is any indication.
He creeps closer, and every bit of the audacity I had a moment ago vanishes. Suddenly, I’m eight years old again, cowering in the corner as he approaches with his belt. Not for the first time, I envy my mother. At least she found a way out of this, even if it was through death.
I hate her for leaving me behind, but at least she taught me how to survive him before she’d gone. It rolls through my brain like a command prompt on a computer:
Don’t reach up to check if your lip is split.
Don’t show any sign that you’re hurting, because he’ll claim you’re faking it and being manipulative.
Don’t cry, because he’ll say there’s no reason to, and you don’t want him to have to ‘give you a reason to.’
Don’t stand up—the second slap will hurt worse than the first, so it’s best to stay down.
Just agree.
Just apologize.
Just say and do whatever you have to to get him to go away.
“You think you’re better than me?”
“No, sir,” I say quickly. There’s no point trying to stick up for myself, and I should’ve remembered that from the get-go. When he’s drunk, he’s easier to fight off, but when he’s drunkandhigh? I don’t have a chance in hell.
“You sure sound like you do. Selling your body online andthinking you can squirrel away all that money. What were you saving up for? You thinking of leaving me, girl?”
Spit flies as he yells, warm against my face, but I also know better than to flinch. Any and every reaction will only make him angrier. Submission is the only way to avoid being hurt worse, so I make myself appear weak.
Maybe I don’t have to make myselfappearweak. Maybe I justamweak. As it is, every breath aches and my head is throbbing so badly I can’t even think straight.
“No, sir,” I repeat. A roach crawls across the filthy carpet and hides under the couch.
I’m envious of it, too.
He bends down and I try to be surreptitious when I lean back. There’s a pocket knife clipped to the back of my jeans, hidden along my waistband. If I could reach it, I might be able to fight him off.
But I’d need to hate him to want to hurt him, and as hard as I try, I can’t ever seem to squash the part of me that refuses to.
“You’re not going anywhere, is that clear? Your stupid mama might’ve left me, but you don’t get to.”
I don’t know if the question is rhetorical or not. If I say more than what he wants to hear, it’ll only extend this. But if I don’t answer him and it wasn’t rhetorical, I’m being insubordinate.
He tugs me up onto my knees by my hair, using the other hand to grab my chin. His fingers and thumb squeeze my cheeks until my lips pucker out like a fish as he forces me to look up at him. My head swims at the sudden movement, my stomach churning. He leans over me, forcing my neck to crane back at an odd angle that makes it hard to swallow. Almost nose-to-nose with him, I can smell the alcohol on his breath, see the residue on his nose.
“I said, is that clear, girl?”
“Yes, sir,” I whisper meekly.
His grip on my hair eases a little, and he repositions the hand holding my chin, using his thumb to stroke my sore cheekbone.
“The only way out of here is death, sweetheart,” he tells me with mock sympathy. “You’re no better than me, no better than your mama, no better than any other two-bit whore. It’s time you give up your precious little fantasies of running away. You’re a grown woman now, Austin.”
“Yes, sir.” My voice breaks this time.
He lets go of my hair and uses his hold on my face to shove me sideways. The dizziness I’ve felt since he slapped me causes me to lose my balance. I fall back on my hands, pain shooting up my wrist. “Go clean your fucking room.”
I’m twenty-two, not twelve, but the quickness with which I scramble to stand and escape to my bedroom would make you think otherwise. I head straight to the now-shattered mirror hung on my wall, touching my cheek gingerly. It’s bright red and already a little puffy, so it’ll probably bruise. It would be a bitch to cover up with my cheap makeup, but not impossible. Luckily, my lip wasn’t split after all, which would’ve been harder to hide.
