I told the teacher, the cops, and cried to my grandad, thinking he’d do more than just throw money my way to shut me up. But every week, Kohen kept coming after me in one way or another. He’s the only consistent presence I’ve had in my entire life, and he looks at me like he can’t wait to snuff my light out.
His eyes harden into steel, and the words that follow slice worse than the real thing. “You look just like your mother right now.”
My palm cracks against his cheek. He doesn’t wince or even twitch. He does something far worse: he smiles. It’s all teeth, with a crazed glint in his eye to match.
His scent wafts over me, patchouli and mint, like the candle beside my bed, as he lowers his lips to my ear.
“Did that feel good?”
My eyes dart to the hand-shaped welt blossoming on his cheek, and my brain doesn’t register what it’s doing fast enough to stop myself from slapping him again to turn it crimson. “Better.”
His nostrils flare, but he doesn’t move away. He almost looks…pleased. So I do it repeatedly, hitting his cheek and arms. Wrapping my fingers around his throat only makes his eyes brighten, and bucking my body against his widens his malicious grin. But it all makes my body feel worse.
I still, panting into the space between us. I just need to get homeand get to my stash, then everything will be fine. “Let go of me, you freak.”
His breath fans my cheek; the upward curl of his lips slowly turns down as if my actions have only just caught up to him. “One day, you’ll stop fighting me.”
“Is that a threat?” I ask through gritted teeth.
“Always.”
“You can die trying.”
He leans down until his lips are next to my ear and tightens his hold around my neck. “Oh, Blaze,” he says mockingly. “I already know you burn so pretty. And if it isn’t by me, you’ll just do it to yourself. But your death is mine, Thief.”
I suck in a sharp breath when he pulls away, and my legs give out from under me.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
I shouldn’t have taken so much last night.
The white wooden fence scrapes against my back as I slump onto the ground, silently heaving. I don’t think he’s out of earshot when my stomach decides to give up. A prickle sinks into my palm as I keel over on the grass, liquid acid stinging my throat before spilling onto the earth.
I stay down, pulling my too-tight blazer around my torso and letting myself have a minute before resuming the remaining thirty-minute walk. My heart stutters as my hands dig into my pockets in search of the lady’s wallet, coming up empty each time.
“Motherfucker,” I grumble.
Like I said, Kohen is an asshole.
She was home.
Of course, my mother chose today of all days to show up. She returns every once in a while for food, to sweat out a withdrawal before snorting another line, or to steal my shit. The sight of the open cupboards is a good enough distraction to make me forget about the human stain that was taunting me.
I have to hand it to her though, she’s late. Grandpa’s grocery delivery came three days ago, and another box won’t arrive until tomorrow—or three days from now if he’s feeling especially vindictive about our existence.
Now, all that’s left are broken bits of pasta and an expired packet of instant noodles. I growl and slam the raided cupboard closed. The sound echoes through the empty house, and I try not to think about what other messes she might have left behind. This is the reason I have to lock my fucking door.
Grabbing the trash, I sweep Mom’s empty wrappers and crumbs off the counter and into the bin. I only have thirteen dollars to my name, and that’s meant to last me until the next delivery. My stomach turns, and I massage my temples like it might make this shit show go away. If I want to put food in my stomach, my only option is to cook.
It’s a damn good thing I don't have an appetite then.
I’m going to kill Kohen the next time I see him for taking my shit. Whatever goodies I might have found in the lady’s wallet could have set me up for the week so I wouldn’t need to rely on my grandpa Jonathan Whitlock Sr.’s good graces to send me my fifty-dollar “emergency” allowance.
I can’t blame the old man for being an intelligent businessman. Who else would have thought of sending their addict daughter to the other side of the country to hide their greatest shame? Pay toput a roof over her and her fucked-up offspring’s head, cover their insurance, send them food once or twice a week, give the responsible one—somehow that’s me—some money in case of emergencies, ship her to a fancy school, weaponize it all to keep her in line, and no one will be any wiser.
Except, of course, Kohen figured it out and has held it over my head ever since.
He discovered that if I skipped school, Grandpa “accidentally” misses a grocery delivery and “forgets” to send me my allowance. If the school calls about my behavior, he halves the amount of food he sends, and that’s another allowance I won’t be seeing. Any money I get now will go straight toward fixing the broken window, and there won’t be anything left to buy groceries with if he decides not to send any.
