Chapter 4 #2
And I lunge forward. I grab her shirt and slam my fist into her face. The metal clip breaks her skin, making blood spill from her nose. Before Axel can pull us apart, I lean close and whisper into her ear. “Or something, 1maldita perra.”
Axel drags me back, moving my body behind. I see Judas already moving fast toward us. Before I can react, he shoves Axel, pinning him against the wall.
Axel laughs. “What are you gonna do, you psycho?”
Judas grabs him by the throat and squeezes. His fingers tighten. Axel’s face turns red, veins bulging on his forehead.
The music stops, and someone is shouting for someone to call 911. I rush forward and pull Judas away. He loosens his grip on Axel’s neck.
“We have to go,” I whisper, grabbing his hand.
Judas looks around and notices people staring. It suddenly strikes him, and he finally lets me lead him outside.
The man from earlier shoves us toward the stairs.
“They called the cops. Everyone has to leave before they get here.”
The red-haired girl runs up to him, grabbing his hand.
“Harper and I broke into this house. They can’t find us here.”
They can’t find me either.
I just got released from juvenile detention. And I am not going back.
Judas looks at me. His hand clamps around mine, fingers pressing so hard it hurts. He pulls me down the stairs, with Harper and her boyfriend following as we rush toward the bike.
He spins me around and lifts me onto it. He tries to look for helmets, but we don’t know where they are, and there’s no time to find them. He panics, gets on, twists the throttle, and as soon as the engine starts, we speed off.
My hands clutch onto his chest. I can feel how his heart beats beneath my palm. Wind tears at my eyes, making them burn. I bury my face into his back and squeeze my eyes shut.
Another bike speeds up beside us. When I dare to glance, all I see is red hair whipping from under a helmet.
I shut my eyes again.
My whole body vibrates with the speed. My heart pounds so hard it hurts.
What if we crash?
What if he loses control?
My nails dig into his chest. I am holding on too tight. I feel him slow down. One of his hands briefly releases the throttle to take mine, squeezes once to steady me, then returns to the bike.
It will be fine.
The thoughts I used to have, the ones about wanting to die, about clinging to something as small as a hair tie, start to fade. For the first time, I feel afraid.
What if I die tonight and he regrets it? What if I die sad and he never gets to say anything?
He drives slower now, but still too fast for me to open my eyes. Goosebumps rise on my skin as the cold air makes me shiver. Everything hits me at once.
And when my eyes close again, my mind goes back to when I was thirteen.
2013.
I came back from school, and the moment I stepped inside the house, the smell of whiskey reached me.
It clung to the air as it had soaked into the walls.
The hallway was a mess; clothes were tangled together, and crumpled paper was scattered across the floor.
I stepped over it all and reached the living room to drop my bag.
Mom was on the sofa, curled in on herself. She was crying again.
I rushed to her and dropped to my knees.
Her hand was pressed hard over her face, and her fingers were trembling.
I tried to move it, but she shoved it back, hiding the purple and yellow bruise beneath her eye.
Two older ones were already fading along her cheekbone.
She shook as if it were cold, her eyes moving anywhere except to me.
I placed my hand on her arm, but she immediately flinched and pulled away.
I didn’t know if it was pain or if my touch scared her. Maybe both.
She had only me, her only child, yet she felt so distant, so locked away, like I was reaching for something she never had to give. I never felt loved here. Never felt like I belonged. Still, I took care of her.
I always did.
A shout came from the kitchen.
“Did that brat come home?”
We went silent.
I crossed the room and grabbed a blanket from the basket, draping it over her. She clutched it as footsteps dragged closer.
Justin grabbed my arm and yanked me up, ripping me away from her.
He shoved me toward the center of the living room.
He could barely stand straight. His white shirt was blotched with alcohol.
His jeans were dark, stiff with dried urine.
Sweat rolled off him, and the smell was so strong my stomach twisted.
I gagged, bile burning my throat, but fear locked me in place.
“When I call you, you fucking answer,” he shouted, his hand lifting.
“Why is Mom silent?” I asked, trying to look past him.
“Cunt is pregnant,” he yelled. “Who knows whose kid it is, but it ain’t mine.”
My throat tightened. I swallowed and looked at her. She still didn’t move. She never did. No matter how hard he hit her or me, she stayed still.
I will never be like her. Never.
I will fight as hard as I can. I won’t let men like Justin tear me apart, piece by piece, until nothing good is left.
I stood and shoved him, harder than I meant to. He lost his balance and hit the floor.
“You don’t hit pregnant women, 2puto.”
He stared up at me, his eyes darker now. “What did you call me?”
“Puto.“ I spat at his feet.
He slowly stood, unbuckling his belt. He slapped it against his palm and calmly said.
“You will fucking pay.”
I ran.
From the living room to the narrow hallway, my feet slipped on the mess. I took the stairs two at a time, my lungs burning, but he was faster. His hand wrapped around my ankle, and we crashed down the steps together. My head struck the edge, my eyes blurring.
He lifted the belt and slammed it against my back.
Again. And again.
Leather cut through my shirt. Fire spread across my skin, burning me with every blow until I finally screamed.
With my free foot, I kicked him in the face and hurried to my bedroom. I slammed the door shut, locked it, and then slid down, pressing my entire body against the door, using my back and legs to brace myself.
He shouted.
I clapped my hands over my ears, my palms burning as my spine dug into the door. I started counting in my head.
One... Two... Three...
The banging didn’t stop.
The door shuddered again and again, until the frame groaned. My feet slipped against the floor as the lock strained. I felt it giving, little by little. When I realized it was about to break, I crawled away, scrambling toward the wall, and squeezed myself behind the closet.
I could already smell him.
That sour, rotten stench that soaked into my nightmares. The smell that made me wet the bed at night. The walking nightmare that made me hate coming home from school. They all saw the signs, but no one ever cared. No one ever stepped in.
Footsteps stopped in front of me.
He saw me.
I curled in on myself, my hands flying over my head.
I pressed my face into my thighs, my knees pulled tight to my forehead.
Even when I could no longer hear him, I felt every blow.
Each strike landed on my back, my arms, my hands.
My body shook until I couldn’t hold it in anymore, and the scream ripped out of my throat.
It takes so little to break someone.
It takes so much more to heal.
My mom, the only parent I had, did nothing. She stayed downstairs, listening to my screams.
I didn’t understand how someone could choose beatings over their own child. But as the pain deepened, as each blow burned worse than the last, I realized she didn’t choose the beatings. She chose peace. She chose silence. Because she knew that if she tried to help me, he would hurt her more.
My stepdad was a monster.
To the world, he was a respected cop and a family man. Behind closed doors, he was nothing but a drunk who thought power lived in his fists, in his belt, and in the fear he carved into his wife and stepdaughter.
A tear slips down my cheek and soaks into Judas’s hoodie as I open my eyes, memories fading.
I cling to him, fingers curling into his chest, holding on like he can keep me from drowning in my own past. Like he can quiet the thoughts scarred inside my skull.
The bike slows as we enter Del Mar. The neighborhood blurs past us, and the iron gates flash by. As we turn toward the garage, a police car pulls out of the driveway. Judas drives further inside and parks in front of the garage.
The garage door is open.
And in front, dressed in a black suit with arms crossed over his chest, was none other than Judge Harrington.
In his angry eyes, I can see we were both in trouble.
1. Fucking bitch.
2. Piece of shit.