CHAPTER THIRTEEN
BRONWYN
After coasting my car into the driveway, I take off my shoes as I enter the house. Holding them, I creep across the hallway, hoping to escape to my room without being heard.
My efforts, though, are all for nothing. Dad emerges from the doorway to his study with a glass of amber liquid in his hand. He stares at me for a moment, his eyes creasing as he sees the dressing on my brow, but luckily, he doesn’t question me about it.
“You done sulking now?”
I take from his words that he thinks I’ve been driving around in my car, or having been parked up somewhere, doctoring myself. At least he hasn’t asked me if anyone gave me assistance, for which I’m glad. I must have a tell as he’s always been able to catch me out when I’m lying.
When I don’t respond, he takes a step closer. “You learned to keep out of my way? Just remember, I can use whatever belongs to me however I want.”
Chills go down my spine at his declaration, but my feet stay glued to the ground. Now that he’s seen me, I have to wait forhis dismissal before heading to my room. I ready myself for his instruction, hoping like hell he’s not going to be violent again, or make further demands on me tonight. My head is bowed, just as he likes, a way of showing deference. You better believe, if I had a gun in my hand, I’d kill him without a second thought. Even prison would be better than the jail he keeps me in.
“Get out of my sight. I can’t stand to look at you.”
I’m ugly, he’s told me often enough – too curvy, too tall, and with ample breasts, and I am thick in the hips and stomach area. A mature woman’s shape isn’t to his taste. I know I don’t live up to the image he wants his daughter to be, and no amount of the diet he forces on me works. He’s always been quick to point out that my face is downright plain, and no one would ever look at me twice. I suppose my not-much-to-look-at visage is even worse now, with the injuries he inflicted.
Released from his invisible hold, I waste no time turning my back on him and heading to the stairs. Rather than going straight to my room, I pause outside Trip’s. Hearing nothing from the young boy within, I softly turn the knob, silently open the door, and look in. Trip’s lying in bed, he’s on his side, knees drawn up in his normal sleeping position. Everything looks as it should be. Nothing looks like it’s been disturbed. I risk moving closer, looking down into the sleeping boy’s face. There are no tear tracks that I can see, and his chest rises and falls evenly.
While I want to plant a kiss on his cheek, I can’t disturb him. So as carefully as I entered, I back out of the room.
Assured as much as I can be that it was only me Dad focused on tonight, I retreat to my bedroom and close the door behind me, wishing there was a lock that would ensure my security. After shooting off a quick text to Short, I head into the bathroom and examine the damage Dad’s done to my face. As expected, after receiving the blow he’d given me, both eyes are starting to blacken, which means I won’t be going to workuntil I’m presentable again. Dad wouldn’t want anyone to start asking questions. He’ll probably contact the hospital for me and make some excuse, such as the “flu”, which would give me time to heal before I’m able to be seen in public again. With his medical qualifications, who would question him? Being unable to practice doesn’t negate his long list of degrees.
Leaving my en-suite, I return to my bedroom and crash onto the bed. I’ve been running on adrenaline for the past few hours, and the enhanced tension I’d felt when confronted by Dad was just the icing on top of the cake. My head throbs with pain, and spins, both from the blows he’d given me as well as the whirling thoughts of how I can get myself out of this.
But there’s no way. Dad’s right to think he owns me. Mom, Trip, and I are just property to him, to be treated however he wants. He controls everything. I’ve no money of my own. All my wages go to him, except for the pocket money he gives back for clothes and necessities.
Just one more year until I qualify, and then I’ll be able to support myself.
But can I hang on that long? Can Trip? Because when I leave this house, Trip is coming with me.
Scoffing at myself, I realise I’m playing make-believe. Dad wouldn’t let me get away with taking his son.
Half-baked plans fuelled only by wishes fly around my head. God knows what time it is when my brain eventually shuts down, and I get a few blissful hours of sleep.
When I wake, nothing’s changed. My black eyes look worse than ever, and my head still aches. Gingerly, I check my nose, the nurse in me diagnoses it’s only bruised and not broken, and the butterfly stitches Short had applied are holding well. It’s not worth trying to cover the damage with makeup. I won’t be going anywhere, and Mom won’t say anything about it.
Trip? He might notice I’ve got an owie, but he won’t say anything. He’s too young to know how evil our father can be. For now, at least, he’s been spared the worst of it.
My doorknob rattles, followed by a loud knock. The bolt I’d bought and clumsily fitted myself does its job and holds.
“Bron?” Mom’s voice calls. “Your father tells me you won’t be working today, so you can get up and help me homeschool the boy.”
A day with Trip?That’s something to raise my spirits. At least, I’ll be a buffer between him and Mom, who is not the most patient teacher. She doesn’t understand his particular needs and tries to ignore them. The result is that both get frustrated, which can trigger Trip to have one of his meltdowns. Maybe today’s focus will actually be teaching him something. A worthy cause and better than fretting about an immediate future I can’t change.
“I’ll be there in a minute,” I respond.
Actually, I take five, but at least no one comments as I join my family at the breakfast table. Dad and Mom have plates loaded with bacon and sausages, along with pancakes drowning in syrup, while Trip and I have bowls of muesli in front of us. Me, because I need to lose weight, and Trip because Mom’s convinced his, what she terms, bad behaviour comes from having too much sugar in his diet.If only it were as simple as that.But there’s no talking sense to someone who prefers to be blind to the truth.
I don’t complain, there’s no point. If I were working, I’d have a second breakfast in the canteen just to keep myself going. Today, I’ll have to go hungry.
Trip studiously moves his loaded spoon to his mouth without looking up until his plate is clean. When he finally puts his silverware down, I tense, wondering if he’s noticed what’s happened to me.
But he says nothing. I huff at myself, just as expected. He doesn’t notice anything’s amiss.
“Go to your room, Trip,” Dad barks. He waits until Trip obeys his command.
