Page 2 of Veiled

He’s already moving, pulling the headrest off the seat as blood streams down his face from a gash hidden beneath his dirty-blonde hair.

“Look away and hold your breath!”

He slams the metal base into the window again and again. We hear a crack, and then the driver's window is bursting outward, and the freezing river rushes in, swallowing us whole.

Matt grabs my hand in an iron-tight grip, dragging me through the narrow opening and up towards safety as the pickup continues to be swallowed by the ravenous river.

Cold air hits me like glass when we break the surface.

Matt’s hand drops from mine, but before I can even attempt to tread water, his arm is wrapping around my waist. “I know you’re hurting, but I need you to help me kick as much as you can.”

I try to agree, but words can’t get past my chattering teeth.

Together we fight the current trying to pull us downstream.

Just twenty more feet.

Every movement feels like I’m being torn apart, but we can’t stop.

Ten more feet.

My broken ribs and the freezing water work in tandem against me as I fight to get a full breath in.

Five more feet.

I start to dip under.

“I can reach! I’m going to carry you. Hold on, okay?” he lifts me like a baby in front of him as he trudges through the water and up onto the muddy riverbank.

A single cop car is parked on the bridge we went off, but there’s no missing the swarm of sirens cutting down the frontage road leading right to us as they get closer.

Matt lowers me to the ground, and I’m instantly immobile, half-drowned and half-dead.

My body is going into shock, and I can’t force my eyes to stay open any longer.

As they close, it’s not the river I see. Or Matt. Or even the police closing in.

I see him.

My father.

Flashback.

“You dumb bitch! Where is it? Where did you hide it?” His hands clamp around my throat, pressing me into the kitchen wall. The whiskey is so thick on his breath, it burns the air between us. Black spots litter my vision, and warm blood slides down my forehead into my eyes, stinging, blinding.

I knew, the moment I got home from teaching kick boxing at the gym, I knew it was going to be one of those nights. His bloodshot eyes tracked me from the second I set foot in the door.

I tried to move fast, get to my room without doing anything to draw his wrath, as if he ever needed a reason, but he was up—chair scraping, boots pounding, yanking my arm backward before I could even make it to the kitchen.

Pop.

I bite my lip until it bleeds to keep the scream from escaping my lips as white-hot pain tears through my shoulder. I feel my arm dislocate from the socket. But the more I scream, the more pleasure he gets, and I refuse to give him the satisfaction.

“Where were you?” Spit flies from his mouth, spraying across my face. “Out whoring yourself to every guy who bats an eye at you? You’re exactly like your mom!”

I should keep my mouth shut, take the abuse until he gets bored and moves on, but I’ve never been very good at that.

“I was at work, where I always am! Someone has to pay the mortgage!”