94| BECAUSE IT'S JANUARY

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94

CADE

"Pass the salt, would you, Rachel?"

Mom's fists, however small and weak they are now, tighten on the table. It's only three of us, but we fill the room. No, not mom and me—him.

He owns the oxygen, steals the air.

"Rachel, the salt."

Kent Blackwood forks another piece of rare strip steak into his mouth. The pink juices drip down his square chin, through the black stubble and down, down, down until it soaks the white collar of his shirt. I remember that shirt, and so does mom. It was his Home From Work shirt, Get Me A Beer shirt and Shut Your Mouth shirt and Speak Up shirt and Act Like A Man shirt and Don't Talk Back shirt and Get Off The Floor shirt and Clean Up The Mess shirt and—

The metal pepper shaker in my hand groans in my palm, denting in on itself. I set it down with a shaking hand. Yes, I have become stronger these past months. Running and weightlifting. But not enough. Not yet. And I'm running out of time.

Mom unclenches her fists to brush back her oily black bangs. "Thank you for cooking, Kent." But we don't want you here anymore, she doesn't say.

Wind rocks the small townhouse complex, shuddering through every unit, in and out of the patchwork roofing and holes in the brick and mortar.

Wasn't there a time when all I wanted was to see him—this sorry excuse for a father? I would have done anything for him to choose mom and me. To stay.

I wonder if he hurts his new family too. I wonder if hate scars their skin like it does ours.

Kent swallows his steak, sets down his utensils, and leans back in the creaking wooden dining chair. He gestures to the two other untouched plates, a house fly buzzing between them. "Is my cooking no longer satisfactory?"

Mom's pale throat bobs in answer, but there's wrath in her eyes. Burning, sizzling hatred. She flinches when Kent scoffs and jerks a hand out for the salt in front of her.

"Oh, Rachel. Whatever have I done to deserve this first-class hospitality?" He salts his meat, readily cutting another piece to place on his tongue, smiling through the food at my mother. "Need I remind you who pays for half the rent on this place each month?" At that, mom lowers her eyes and barely shakes her head.

Sitting here with my back tense enough to crack like a glowstick, I can't remember when I wanted this man back in our lives. Daniella always used to say that Kent was bad news. I never believed her. My dad couldn't be a bad person. It would make me a bad person, too.

But now he's here, mom is uneasy, I am uneasy, and he's basking in it. And Daniella wants nothing to do with me. I stopped caring months ago.

Here's the thing—I've already begun avoiding mirrors. I know how my story ends.

Casually, while eating, dad says to mom, "How's that boss you've been sucking off at work, Rachel? I expected to come here tonight and hear all about your promotion. Maybe you're more teeth than tongue these days."

Mom's only reaction is the ever-tightening fists on the scratched wooden table beneath. When he turns his attention to me sitting across from mom, I straighten. He points his fork towards my uniform.

"You got some fancy new job I don't know about? You should be paying rent here, son."

My teeth grind as I hold his dark gaze. He knows where I work, how much I get paid in tips at the restaurant, and that the money is all for school—every last dime. I can't afford rent, let alone an oil change on the Jeep. Not to mention that I live on campus with my idiot roommate Peter and the cacophony of noise, drinking, and fucking on my floor all day and night. I'm only home for the weekend—I came to help mom clean the basement as requested. Dad wasn't supposed to be here.

"Leave him," mom says. My gaze flies to hers, to the inherent protective tone I've never heard. And that fire in her eyes...For me, I realize. She's worried—

Dad's plate flies across the room and shatters against the china shelving in a massive crash!

One beat.

Mom pales.

Two.

My father sighs.

Three.

"Oh, would you look at that mess," he laughs softly, sucking the food off one of his thumbs and running a hand through his short hair. "That's unfortunate. I was enjoying my meal, Rachel. Why did that have to happen?" 

It's worse. It's worse and worse and worse every time.

I look to mom, but her gaze is glued to the table, not even glancing at the mess dripping down the wall. Grandma's china is shattered on the floor with the steak.

"Clean that up, would you?" says dad. I flinch when his fork spears my shaking fist, and I realize he's talking to me.

Maybe I'd say no if I were strong enough.

On stiff legs, I stand from my chair, walk three paces to the wall, and lower to my knees in the silence. I collect the porcelain pieces into a hand, wincing at the jagged edges in my palm.

The telltale sound of a flask straightens my spine once more.

"Take it easy, Kent," my mom whispers.

The smack! echos.

I spin around. Mom's cupping her mouth, and my father is straightening his collar. Nothing new; this has happened before. That's why what happens next doesn't make any sense.

I explode.

I lunge for my father and send us both crashing into the hardwood.

One punch—that's all I messily land on his jaw before I eat the ground, and he's kneeling on my back while mom yelps and screams stop! stop! stop! and I can't grasp a breath.

He fists my hair and pulls my neck back. "Can't you see, son?" he says. "I'm trying to help you. I've always tried to help you." I place my palms flat on the floor and push. He keeps me down. "You're not very good at listening."

"Fuck you," I spit.

Pain into anger.

Pain into anger.

Dad smacks my face on the hard ground. The crack! of my nose hits my ears before they begin to ring and my vision swims.

I'm losing it—my fight. I can't hold it.

He pulls me back up by the hair. "You are what's wrong with your generation," he says, "and you are less than nothing."

I push up from the floor, but my head spins in darkness. Mom cries out but doesn't move. Warmth drips into my mouth and down my chin.

"Say it," my father demands.

"Fuck you," I seeth. He drops my head and my lip splits on the ground. I groan, choking on my blood, and set my forehead to the ground, wheezing under his knee. Pennies on my tongue.

My vision goes half-black. It's such a relief that I feel my entire body seems to beg for sleep.

"You are less than nothing. Say it."

"I'm nothing," I whisper, dribbles of blood falling from my mouth.

"Less. You are less. Say it."

Hit him, I think.

Punch through the walls.

Fall into the floor.

"Say it."

"I am less than nothing," I croak.

Scratch his eyes.

Float away into the void.

Vaporize everyone.

Kill yourself.

"I am less than nothing," I say again.

"That's right." He stands off me. I gasp in a breath, rolling over to stare at the ceiling as my vision comes back. Dad frowns at the blood on his pants before collecting his keys and wallet by the door. "Now I remember why I left, Rachel. This place lacks...sophistication. I hope things go smoother next time." He opens the front door. Dark and cold leaks in from the night before he gently shuts it behind him.

I gasp in...out...in...out. Then, using a tentative hand, I prod my spilt lip and cracked nose, a part of me basking in the feeling. Now my outsides match my insides.

Mom. Think about mom.

"I'm reporting him," I promise my mother. "He won't hit you again."

"No," she says.

"Yes," I grit out. I can do one last thing for her.

"No, Cade. It will get worse."

"We need to get rid of him," I rasp.

"You do that, and I'll tell them you were the one who hit me, Cade."

Every bit of my twisted glee fades away after that.

Would it matter if they blamed me?

Would I care?

Mom begins to cry, sliding down the wall somewhere as I wheeze and stare at the ceiling. She doesn't stop for a long while.


THE REX-OP DRUGSTORE IS open twenty-four hours, so as I bundle up in a coat against the freezing rain and tread down the pot-holed street, its bright white lights are a welcome sight. I slip in, hiding my broken and swollen face under my hood and head right for the medications. First, I pluck painkillers off a high shelf, then gauze and rubbing alcohol.

"There are cameras in here, kid," says the gruff man at the till. I offer the thumbs up in response, wandering to the chilled sandwiches and grabbing two turkey wraps and a Pepsi. When I make it to the cash register, discounted Santa car fresheners are at the side. It's been over a month since the holidays. Feels like a year. "That all?" the man grunts. I take a flat Santa and drop it on the counter with a twenty-dollar bill.

Holding my plastic bag, I walk a few blocks until I discover a dripping alley slick with ice and a bench beside a few dumpsters. It's just out of the rain and the dryest place yet. Better than being at home.

While hissing and prodding at my cuts, I try to clean them and block out the wet January cold. My gauze returns redder every time in the dark in the light of my cracked phone screen. I've never asked for a happy ending, just an ending. I think I'll stop trying soon.

I stuff the bloody gauze into the bag and crack my neck, taking a bite of the turkey—

Something rustles by one of the trash bins. I freeze with the food halfway to my face. A big white mutt limps a few steps forward, shivering in the rain, then stops, staring at me. No, not me—my sandwich. He's got brown and black spots on him and a gash over his head.

"You ever feel like you could disappear and no one would care?" I speak. He blinks once. I can count every rib on his right side as his entire body shakes in the cold.

I throw my sandwich in front of him, and without even thinking first, he inhales it, jerking it back until it's gone.

"You're welcome," I mumble as he stares at me, licking his lips. I reach down for my other sandwich and open it. I take one bite into the turkey as movement catches my eye. The dog limps a few more feet, then stops and sits on the ice. His white fur is covered in mud. He blinks at me lifeless with eyes that belong in a sad movie. "Are you planning on watching me eat?" I ask dryly. He stands and moves closer until I could easily reach out a hand to touch him. I sigh and offer the other sandwich. With a chomp, he just about takes my hand off. Blowing out a breath, I say, "You stink."

My eyes widen when the dog limps to my side and hops up on the bench, poking his snout under my arm until I lift it. He sidles into my side, shaking the both of us with his shivering.

"I kind of have a lot going on right now," I murmur. Trembling, the dog looks up at me. "Don't do that," I say. He blinks too slowly, that laceration on his head probably bothering him. "Fuck," I grumble, slipping my arm out of the jacket and draping it over the dog's body. I can feel every rib under his skin against my side as he presses into me. "You're all bones, dog."

He jerks his head at that.

I grab the car freshener and loop it around his neck. He leans up to lick the cut on my upper lip. It hurts.

"Thanks," I mumble, assessing his head. "I'll fix yours up later."

We sit for a time after that. Bones stops shaking, and my cuts stop bleeding.





All the love, all the strength. You are not weak just because you cannot always be strong.

Laurel ❤️


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