“Please, no! Please stop! Hawk! Hawk!” Marissa pleads in vain.
My chair topples over with me tied to it, and the world is tilted and hazy.
“Piss or get off the bucket,” Butthead taunts Marissa, and I hear them laughing at her while she relieves herself.
Soon, she’s back in her chair, whereas I’m left on the floor, and told that I’ve lost “the privilege” of using the bucket. I suspect they’re scared of untying me, so I burst out laughing.
The sound turns into a wheeze when one of them kicks me in the ribs.
“Cocksucker,” Butthead spits, and they leave.
Chapter 6
Hawk
TW: discussions of child death/drowning.
“Hawk,” Marissa whispers as soon as they’re gone. “Hawk, please. Talk to me.”
“Can’t,” I mumble. “Need to sleep.”
“Hawk!” She hisses. “I don’t think you should sleep right now. You’re hurt. Let’s talk for a bit.”
I don’t respond, so she continues. “Are your parents still in Paradise Valley?”
“No, they’re currently on a Caribbean cruise, enjoying their retirement.”
“Are you guys close? What were they like growing up? Do you have any siblings?”
I stifle a gasp when the familiar lash of pain slices my gut. I almost hope some of my ribs are broken. At least those heal eventually.
“I had a baby sister. She died when I was 6.”
“Oh my God, I’m so sorry,” Marissa says in a wobbly voice.
“She wasn’t even three yet. I came home from school one day, and she was gone. Just like that. She’d wandered out to the pool and… Our family was never the same again.”
“Your poor parents, I can’t even imagine.”
“It all went to hell after that. Mom and dad kinda avoided each other,” I rasp out, too weak to erect my usual defenses against the topic. My leg is throbbing, and so is my heart. “But sometimes it felt like they avoided me as well, so I tried making them happy whenever we were together, which, as you can imagine, would’ve been hard for anyone, let alone a six-year-old.”
“That’s an awful burden for a child,” Marissa muses, and I feel myself drifting off again.
“What was your sister’s name?”
“Amanda. Mandy,” I almost whisper the nickname that had become taboo in our home.
“It’s beautiful. I bet she loved her big brother,” Marissa says, and her voice is thick.
I feel like I’m a six-year-old boy again.
“I wish I could tell you something to make it better,“ she adds, and I chuckle, even though it fucking hurts.
“It’s the natural instinct, isn’t it, whenever we see a wounded member of our species - to heal, to soothe, to help. Admittedly, I took it to an extreme level. First, I practiced on my parents, and then it led me to the police academy.”
“You’re a cop?” The incredulity in her voice is amusing.
“Retired,” I explain.
