Chapter 7
19 Years Ago—13 Years Old
“Ihear Wilson Tinley likes you.”
A sigh slips as my stepbrother brother, Lonnie, takes the seat across the dinner table. “No, he doesn't,” I mumble.
“Lying little slut.” It comes out low enough to where Pat, his dad and my stepdad, can't hear it from the living room. It's a special technique he's acquired. It tucks the most vicious parts away, making it seem like I’m the troublemaker at the end of the day. Not that Pat would care if he did hear Lonnie anyway.
I’m nothing but an annoyance to my stepdad—an overly hormonal kid that came as an additional package with my mom. From their first date, when he picked her up and acted bored with me, to this day, he’d rather pretend I’m not living here, since he quote, unquote, “Isn’t equipped to raise a girl properly.”
Combine the lack of will to care with Lonnie’s sabotages, and they’re led to believe I’m the problem.
Personally, I’ve given up on telling my mom or Pat about the stuff happening anymore. They don’t care.
Especially Mom.
All she wants is a big smile out of me when we’re all seen together. She’s all about appearances.
A low growl emits from Lonnie, and I look up to see his fingers tightening around his fork. His jaw flexes in sync to the noise, a red tint bleeding into his face as he stares at me.
I already know where this is heading, and I hate it. Weariness plucks at my resolve to stay and fight. I pick at my chicken and rice in the bowl, fully avoiding eye contact.
Why can’t everything return to normal?
When Dad was alive?
Before that driver, who was late to work, zoomed around a semi-truck without being aware that my Dad was heading straight toward him.
None of this would be happening if one person took the time to slow down for a second look.
Everything that used to be happy is bitter now. From the days Mom would spend crying, neglecting me since she “couldn’t handle the grief,” to the day she met Pat.
Nothing’s been bright since.
I still remember the day I came home from school and she was gushing about Pat.
They met at a coffee shop. He was the newly selected police chief, and his son was close to my age. His wife passed away while giving birth, so he understood the loss of a spouse. He was handsome, from a good family, dedicated to law and justice, etcetera, etcetera.
“You’ll love him.” She’d beamed.
Then I met him, and Pat grimaced, and when I met Lonnie, he snarled at me, and my skin crawled.
I tried to tell Mom—she didn’t care. I was simply the girl that didn’t want to accept Pat because I wasn’t over the grief of losing Dad.
“You’ll get over it,” she’d said.
But I never have, and now the hell is constant with no escape.
Lonnie always lashes out at me yet plays the pity card to make sure I take the blame. Mom and Pat have been married and living together for three years, and each day the nightmare gets worse as Lonnie matures.
Honestly, something's not right with him.
Pat says Lonnie’s interests and hobbies have always been different, and he’s been bullied a lot—so that’s what I sense. He’s simply an odd ball who doesn’t fit in.
But I can't agree.
Especially tonight. I look up and catch him staring at my developing breasts with a glaze over his eyes.
I've forgotten to wear a training bra since I’m not used to the dumb thing.
And with Lonnie gawking, I come up with an excuse to leave. “I have homework.”
My plate drags across the lacquered wood of our farmhouse style table as I stand, preparing to take my dish to the sink.
I gasp, skin crawling when Lonnie’s rough hand grips around mine in a violent snap. My bones grind, nerves in my wrists pinching until my face does the same. The small tug I attempt at first does nothing to loosen his hold. Instead, he yanks me closer to him, and my feet drag along the floor.
“Tell Wilson to stay away from you,” he growls out, his hot breath trailing into my mouth.
I wrench free, hating the aftertaste of food on his tongue. “Why?” Despite being out of his hold, fear grips around my heart, and I look away from his dead eyes. They always scare me, even if I don’t show it.
“Because if he doesn’t, I’ll snap his scrawny little neck.”
“Leave me alone.” Forget cleaning up my food. I'm leaving. I turn my back and move for the staircase.
A grunt hits my ears, just before a whiz of air disturbs the fine hairs on my neck. Out of the corner of my eye, there’s something white, round, and heavy flying past me. Cold—it’s stone cold grazing my cheek. I shiver, then flinch away.
A shatter clinks in the room, and I wince. Heat and sharpness sear through my collarbone. He's thrown something, and whatever it was has spewed and cut me.
I open my eyes to find out what it was, heart drumming behind my ribs.
His bowl of mac and cheese is smashed around my feet. Noodles, yellow cheese powder, and white ceramic mix on the floor of the dining entrance. I’d love to move from this spot, but I can’t. None of my muscles are operating.
“What’s happening in there?” Pat’s voice rings out. The dark edge in it cuts at my bound-up body, making me move.
I glance up to see my stepdad standing in the archway, his tall frame tense, the buttons to his police chief uniform open, showing his plain black tee underneath. He only leaves his uniform on if he’s too exhausted to change in the first place. This already isn’t going my way since Pat is tired.
Already the disapproving scowl hurts. A tremor hits my lower lip, one that I fight, because Pat will roll his eyes and call me overemotional if I cry.
“Vivian slapped me,” Lonnie growls, rubbing his cheek. “So I threw my bowl at her.”
I close my eyes in defeat. Not this story again.
Pat sighs. “Vivian. How many times do I have to tell you to keep your hands off Lonnie?”
I shake my head, the organ behind my ribs barely beating from my loss. “I didn’t—”
“Enough,” Pat bellows, and I reel away. “Do you know how many battery cases cross my desk? Women can have charges filed against them too. It’s not just men.” He sighs, raking a hand through his thinning dark brown hair. “I don’t want you getting in trouble later on, but I see things heading that way—I see you starting out in juvie centers if you can’t control your impulses.” A disapproving tsk hits the air. “Hormonal … forget it,” he grumbles. “Go upstairs. Your mom can deal with you later.”
Of course. Yet again, I’m the problem. Part of my heart shrivels up behind my ribs and dies as I nod.
“Look, Dad,” Lonnie says while I move toward the stairs. “Look at my cheek. She hit me hard.”
Pat hums lowly. “I can’t see a mark. I’m sure you’re fine. Clean up your mess and do your homework.”
That’s all the rebuke Lonnie gets.
Everyday Lonnie is told he’s fine, when I’m not. Man, I’m tired of this.
As I take the first step on the stairwell, my vision blurs, and I know when I get to my room, I’ll spend another night muffling endless sobs into my pillow.
There's nothing I can do. Lonnie has won yet again. My collarbone stings as I retreat to my room. Like all the cuts I’ve gotten, I'll bandage it later. It will scar like the others, but no one will care.