Rage

Chapter 1

Chapter One

Clara

T he sun is out of sight as a layer of fresh dew envelops everything, as if the night wept. I cross my arm over my stomach, wincing at the pain from hours ago. Before heading back to the kitchen, to prepare him a perfect lunch.

“Clara, you okay?” Burke’s deep voice makes me jump.

A forced smile replaces the tears welling in my eyes, the sweet facade I maintain for everyone near me.

“Good morning. Hope you have a great day,” I whisper. Glancing up at his friendly face, his icy blue gaze locks with mine for a moment before I stare down at the cement slab outside our patio doors.

“I should be back in a few days. Tell Ryan he’s gotta pay his rent. Just because I’m his father doesn’t mean he gets to slack off about his responsibilities.”

I nod and wave as I head inside.

Like I’m the one who will ask Ryan to pay the rent. Slipping off my slides, I make my way through the living room to get back to preparing his food, but I run into him instead.

“You couldn’t have made my lunch any better? I work all fucking day and the best you could do was a ham sandwich. What the fuck, Clara?”

“Ryan, I’m sorry. There are more containers.” I brush past him and attempt to open the fridge. Anxiety fills me as my muscles tense.

He clutches my ponytail, jerking me back, and my scalp screams in pain. When Ryan slams me against the wall, I stare into his hazel eyes and bite the inside of my lip. He grips my throat, squeezing until black spots cloud my vision.

“You are such a worthless fucking piece of shit. Can’t even serve me the way I deserve.” Ryan spits in my face and drops me before grabbing his lunch bag and heading out the door.

I crumple to the grey marble tile floor, using the bottom of my shirt to wipe my cheeks. Tears fall, and I feel as broken now as I did as a child. Useless, except for what I can provide. Memories flood my mind from the past with my stepfather matching what happened today, and pain seeps through my veins.

With no friends and a family who abandoned me long ago, my thoughts drift to Ryan’s father, though I’m unsure of what to say. “Hey Burke, your son has been hurting me for a couple of years, but I’m trapped in your basement pretending to live the perfect life to keep up appearances.”

This wasn’t supposed to be my life. I dreamed for years of escaping abuse and growing up to be free. Except I’m under someone else’s thumb and grasping at straws to keep myself from the death that seems better than what life is now.

Pulling myself off the ground, I run my fingers through my hair, checking for blood before I wander to the bedroom. I put on a pair of jeans and exchange my sleep shirt for a hoodie. I’ve been covering for Ryan for so long that I’m concerned no one will believe me anymore, and the bruises from his touch are spreading like wildfire.

With my phone in hand, I decide I need to at least try. Using the non-emergency number, I wait to connect with someone.

“Hello, how can I help you?”

“Hi, I’m calling to report my boyfriend. He’s um… abusive.”

“Are you in immediate danger, ma’am?” her voice is gruff.

“No, but I might be when he gets home. It’s been happening for a while.”

The lady on the other end of the phone sighs. “Ma’am, you are free to go if you aren’t being held. Make the right decision. As for him, we can’t do anything until something happens.”

The phone is like a lead weight. Tears trickle down. “Thanks,” I say before hanging up.

This was my last resort, that the police would help me. That they would take this seriously and take Ryan away from me. Darkness surrounds my vision, and tears fall until I can’t cry anymore.

Wiping my face with the sleeve of the hoodie, I get up. If the apartment isn’t clean when he gets home, there will be hell to pay. It’s hard to believe how that woman could be so cold, making it seem easy to walk away when he would never allow me to leave.

Hours pass, and as I finish scrubbing the sink clean, and the door slams. I flinch, inhaling a deep breath to get ready for the night. I’ve made his favourite dinner, beef stew, and hope for an evening with the nice guy I once fell for.

“Wanna know something interesting, Clara?” His irritated voice coats my nerves with tension.

I turn to him and smile, waiting for his news.

“A police officer called me at work today. I had to take a break. Boss-man wasn’t so fucking happy about that. The police informed me they got a call from you. Apparently, I’m hurting you and you want to leave, but I’m keeping you here?”

I grit my teeth, swallowing the lump in my throat.

“Not so fucking chatty now, are you?” He throws his lunch bag at me and opens the fridge to grab two beers before heading out to the patio.

No, no, no. The police did nothing, but they weren’t supposed to put me in the bullseye. I can’t move. Dread courses through me. I can never do anything right. Maybe I am the worthless whore they said I’d always be. My lungs feel empty, and I wish I could just fucking disappear.

With a deep breath, I turn to the counter and wipe the spotless space. I don’t know how to smooth this over. There isn’t a word that can soothe the cracks I’ve caused.

“Clara, beer!” His voice flows through the apartment from the patio.

I hesitate before reaching for another two glass bottles. Each filled with the poison that gives him the extra courage to rip me to shreds.

As I walk out to give it to him, I tread over the soft carpet, but each step feels like broken eggshells tearing at my soul. Fear is at least half of my blood type, and bile rises in the back of my throat with the unknown that lies ahead.

It wasn’t always this way. He was kind when I met him. Red flags popped up in the controlling winds that fluttered through our relationship. In hindsight, I missed crucial exits. The first time he struck me, I should have left. Many breakups have sprinkled through our years together, but he always brings me back. It’s like I’m tied to him, and I’ll never be able to break free from the hold he has on me.

“Sit.”

His jaw clenches as he chugs the beer. Opening the other, he sips it and glances over at the backyard. I settle into the wooden chair beside him. Nerves erode any armour I might have, and my heart is raw from the wait.

“You know, I always loved you. No one could hold a flame to you, not even the other bitches who blew me from time to time. But you don’t fucking quit, do you? Always with the theatrics—running away, and now this fun petty act of calling the pigs on me.”

“I’m sorry.” I pick at the peeling wood on the armrests of the chair like he always does to my shattered soul.

“You’re not. You thought those coppers would help you? Clara, I’m never leaving. You can never get away from me. I will always find you. I’ll take everything you love and destroy it. Mark my words, I’ll strip the flesh from your bones and dispose of you.” His voice is chillingly quiet, each word dripping with promise and malice. “What did you make me for dinner?” he asks. The words slurred. He’s been drinking more than beer tonight.

“Beef stew.”

“Let’s go eat dinner, shall we?” he grins, and rises unsteadily from his seat.

When I stand, he grasps my wrist and walks beside me to the sliding door. His hand tightens around my skin and his other slams me forcefully against the house. “You’ll never fucking escape me. I own you, cunt.”

Ryan grips my hair and pulls me away from the house before rearing his fist to connect with my cheek. As I fall against the bricks, he grips the base of my skull and presses me harder against the rough texture. “I own you,” he whispers in my ear before he pushes me to the ground and walks into the house.

The physical pain is a fleeting bandage over the bleeding of my soul. A temporary distraction from the drowning feeling that overwhelms the inside of my body. With small movements, I push myself up off the cement, open the door, and go in.

Dishes crash in the kitchen, and I slip down the hall to the bathroom. A woman I don’t even recognize anymore is before me in the mirror. The sunken eyes reflect the fear and exhaustion that runs through me. The tears I want to let go harbour in my chest, waiting for the gate to open.

With damp tissues, I clean the blood from my chin. My lip will heal. It’s been worse than this before. The goose egg growing from my eyebrow isn’t going anywhere soon. It’ll be stuck, just like me. An aching pulse radiates through my face with its own heartbeat. It syncs with mine, and I open the medicine cabinet to take a couple of pain relievers.

“Clara!”

I jump at his voice, and panic chews at my muscles. I swallow the pills dry and wash my hands before heading to the kitchen.

“This tastes like shit. Why are you fucking terrible at everything you do?” He slams the bowl on the counter, and it shatters. He staggers to the fridge and pulls another beer out of the side before sitting at the kitchen table. Bottles must be lined up out on the patio. I’ll have to remember to clean them up.

“It’s your favourite. I make it the same way every time,” I whisper.

I walk across the room, gathering the shattered pieces of the bowl and cleaning the brown liquid that spilled down the cupboard.

“All you do is fuck up. Today you were the stupidest you’ve ever been. I’m going to teach you tonight how much I own you. Betcha won’t be calling the fucking pigs again.”

The thought of his hands on me chills my blood. Every time he’s angry, it’s like a monster possesses him, and I end up black and blue the next day. “I promise I won’t call them again,” I tell him.

Wiping the counter, I damn well know I’m never going to phone them again. They will not assist me. Apparently, they put women in danger. Can’t help until he kills me.

When I glance at Ryan, his head leans against his shoulder. The alcohol has dimmed him to the point of passing out. A quick look at the clock shows it isn’t yet past eight. Which means I’d have enough time to get to the bus station and leave town before he wakes up. I nudge his leg with my foot, but he doesn’t wake up.

Heart pounding, I rush to the bedroom, tossing clothes into my bag. I don’t have any fucking money. I know he is holding everything in his back pocket. Ever since I bought some makeup, he’s taken away my allowance, and I realize how fucked up that is.

I can never escape abuse. It’s going to follow me for the rest of my existence. Every man in my life has shown that I am only seen as a servant, never amounting to anything more.

Something cracks deep within, and I whip open the closet to grab his belts. I can’t leave because he will always find me, but if he’s dead, he won’t ever be able to touch me again. His tongue will never lash me with wicked words, and I’ll be free. My dream of reaching freedom is the only thing I need to focus on.

Returning to the kitchen, I secure the belts around his wrists and the wooden chair armrests. I fasten his legs to the bottom rungs and move everything away from the table. I open the drawers and pull out our old set of knives and utensils.

Tonight will be the last time he will ever fucking hurt me again. Dead men can’t own women.