“How old were you?”
I drew in a deep, shuddering breath.
“Did your mother do this to you?”
I tried to pull away from him but he refused to let me go. Instead, he pulled me in tighter even though I didn’t think it was possible to get any closer.
“Why won’t you tell me?”
Oh, I don’t know. Maybe because I didn’t think he needed to know every hideously horrible and humiliating thing there was to know about my life. He didn’t share messed up stories with me about his past and I didn’t ask him to, nor would I.
“Girl, you know you can tell me anything.”
I sighed. I did know. I had no doubts when it came to trusting Tyson. That wasn’t it. It was about rehashing it, bringing it back to the surface when I’d buried it so deep that I rarely thought about it. Denial and ignorance were my friend. Also, there was always that little thought in the back of my head telling me to keep it to myself, there was only so much bullshit a person could take before they started to look at you with pity in their eyes and then they bailed on you. I knew, I freaking knew he wouldn’t bail on me and the pity wouldn’t stay there forever. In reality, I knew that. But in my head, it was a whole different story.
“Fuck it,” he grunted. “Forget I said anything and go to sleep.”
The hurt in his voice pierced my chest li
ke a flaming hot sword, threatening to kill me.
My silence had hurt him. All he was trying to do was get to know me better. I had scars that I didn’t want to talk about but, unfortunately for me, they were in an extremely visible place and everyone who looked at me got to take in an eye full. It was also unfortunate for me that most people were nosy and felt the need to ask questions. Tyson wasn’t asking to be nosy. He asked because he cared. I’d had a lifetime of people not giving a shit about me. Now that I had someone to care, I didn’t need to mess it all up by being an A-hole and hurting their feelings and pushing them away from me.
I sighed heavily and placed my hand on top of his hand on my chest.
“She didn’t do this to me,” I whispered so quietly I almost didn’t hear my own words. I pressed down on where my hand covered his when I said it so he would know exactly what my words meant.
“I was maybe eight when it happened and I don’t even remember what his name was because he wasn’t around long enough for me to need to remember it. Or maybe I don’t remember it on purpose. He came home with her one night and acted like he had no intention of ever leaving again. He was a jobless loser she’d picked up at the club where she was working at the time. I don’t think anyone ever told her she wasn’t supposed to bring her work home with her. Anyway, a few days after he showed up, I had to leave school early because I got some horrid flu bug. I remember it being awful. My stomach hurt so bad and I couldn’t stop puking. When there was nothing left to puke I kept right on dry heaving. I had to walk home from school because my mother didn’t answer when the school called and nobody came to pick me up. It was a two mile walk in the cold and I had a fever and still don’t remember most of the walk home. But I made it and that’s the important part. I could have fallen down into a ditch and froze to death or something but I didn’t. I made it back to the apartment.”
I paused in my story to squeeze his hand to my chest tightly, probably too tightly. But if I hurt him he didn’t complain.
“She had been home when the school called and hadn’t bothered to pick up the phone. She’d been there when they left messages on the machine and had not cared even the tiniest bit. She had a man to entertain and coke to snort, nothing else had mattered. At the time, I hadn’t minded because it meant I could slip into the apartment unnoticed and hide out in my bedroom. I took some medicine that I found in the bathroom cabinet and passed out in my bed afterwards. I woke up hours later with him looming over me, demanding I get my ass out of bed and make him some dinner. I didn’t argue, I knew better. I went to the kitchen and made him some eggs and toast. The eggs… Well, the smell made me sick to my stomach. I ended up throwing up in his lap when I sat his plate in front of him on the kitchen table. He hit me once, right after I puked on him. He backhanded me. I blacked out when I hit the kitchen floor. I woke up when he put his cigarette out on me like I was his personal ashtray. He stuck around for a week longer and I got more of the same. I don’t even know why he left.”
I expected Tyson to say something when I stopped talking, like apologize to me or something equally stupid, but he didn’t say a word.
I forced my body to relax into the bed and against Tyson, not realizing how tense I had gotten while talking to him.
Talking about my feelings and my horrible past experiences hadn’t made me feel any better at all. Weren’t most girls supposed to enjoy talking about that shit? I apparently didn’t enjoy it and worried I now had a whole new set of nightmares to worry about having tonight.
“That bitch is lucky she’s already dead,” he rumbled menacingly, making me jump. I thought he might have fallen asleep but, apparently, I had been wrong.
“What?” I asked quietly, not believing he’d just said that.
“If that bitch wasn’t already dead, I would hunt her ass down and kill her myself. It wouldn’t be no damn accident and she would suffer greatly. For hours and hours. She got off way too easy and I fucking hate her even more for it.”
I couldn’t believe he just said that.
She was dead. What did it matter if she had suffered or not?
“Tyson, I-”
He kissed the top of my head. “Sleep, my sweet girl. I will watch over you and tomorrow I will go and get you a dreamcatcher and hang it up for you.”
“It will be pointless to hang it up in here,” I said sleepily.
“What?”
“Mr. Cole is moving. He wants me to go with him. I told Quinton that I am not going with Mr. Cole. I want to stay here but I don’t want to be homeless. I want to stay with you.”