Chapter 3
Julien
I should’ve told him to stop.
I should’ve fought back.
I should’ve run.
But I’m weak. I’m frozen. I’ve spent years learning how to make myself smaller while standing out among my friends.
And there will be no help. Never any help.
Not from my friends, my girlfriend, my mother, or even the police.
No one fucking notices. No one gives a shit.
If they do notice, they turn a blind eye.
I’m all alone, and I can’t trust anyone.
When I blink my eyes open, it’s daylight, but I can tell it’s the next day because I’m starving and dying of thirst. I’m also lying in my own piss, dried vomit, and blood. My jeans and underwear are still wrapped around my ankles. Everything in my body hurts.
Holt raped and beat me a second time until I passed out again. He came back to my room a couple of more times after that to do it again and again. I vaguely remember him penetrating me while spewing hateful and humiliating words.
I’m in literal fucking hell.
All the more reason to opt out.
My hand instinctively reaches for my ass, feeling the welts and dried blood.
When I sit up, I cry out from the pain. I now have all the evidence I need to turn Holt into the cops.
There’s the beating, bleeding, and his fucking cum drying in the four condoms on the floor, mocking me.
Unfortunately, they won’t do shit since Holt will just throw money at them.
I was around twelve when he first raped me. I ran to the cops the next day to turn him in. When they questioned him, he said I was an angry and spoiled brat after being punished. He told them I lied for attention, and they believed him.
That night, I got a beating of a lifetime to ensure I’d never betray him again. Mom questioned my bruised face and broken ribs when she returned, but I lied smoothly that I’d gotten in a fight with some boys. Of course, she punished me for that, too, because I told her I’d started it.
I never fought Holt or went to the police again.
All I can do now is suffer and continue with my plans. I can’t let the repeated assaults derail me. This is the first time in my life that I’m ready to leave without fear of consequences, because the endgame is peace. Blessed fucking peace.
After slowly picking myself up off the floor, I stumble into my private bathroom to shower and clean my wounds. My ass hurts inside and out, so it’s hard to move. When I reach the bathroom sink, I look at my reflection in the mirror, despite my brain screaming at me not to.
Honestly, it’s not as bad as I thought it’d be.
I feel worse than I look. My nose is swollen, my eyes are turning black and blue, and I have dried blood crusting on my nostrils and upper lip.
My hair is a rat’s nest. I’m sure I have a concussion from the punch to my neck.
Still, I expected worse. I actually expected him to kill me this time.
I lift my shirt to see bruising on my stomach where Holt kicked me, but I don’t think anything is cracked or broken.
“Today’s the day,” I tell myself in my reflection. “You’re leaving, then you’re going to find some sort of temporary happiness before the end.” I’ve never been more motivated than I am at this moment.
I slowly make my way to the shower and wince as pain radiates throughout my body as if it’s been tossed through a meat grinder.
A part of me wants to kill him and burn this fucking house to the ground. But my two-week journey is all I can think about. I can’t do that if I’m in jail. Once my two weeks are up, it won’t matter anymore. None of it will.
The water burns my skin, but it washes off the blood and grime. Unfortunately, his filth lingers. I’m permeated with it.
Once I’m clean, I dry off, careful of my wounds. My ass doesn’t seem to be bleeding anymore, so that’s a fucking bonus.
I stand naked at the sink, open a drawer, and pull out some Neosporin. I rub in the salve where I was whipped, and where I have some cuts on my face.
After getting dressed, I grab my crap and leave my room without a backward glance.
That space is evil. Only a nuke will fix it.
Then, I head downstairs to find Holt sweeping up some glass with his back to me.
He’s been cleaning up the place? Surprising, considering he never does any sort of labor.
I’m not sure why he didn’t hire someone to do it, unless he’s hiding what happened. Most likely.
Holt senses me and turns around. His eyes land on my bags, sitting on the marble floor, before scoffing. “Where the fuck do you think you’re going?”
“You know the answer to that.”
My insolent answer will result in more punishment, but it’s almost over. I only need to hang on for two more weeks.
He stalks over to me like a panther and snatches my throat, squeezing it hard enough to make it hard to breathe, and I start to see stars dancing in my vision.
I claw at his hand and try to pry him off, but I’m not as strong as he is.
He’s always been bigger and stronger than me, and I’m not exactly physically weak, either.
Just when I think I’m going to pass out, he lets me go and pushes me back, leaving me gasping. “Good fucking riddance, then.”
I don’t know what flips on in me when I turn the tables and lunge at him.
What turns on that switch, where my fear shifts from self-preservation to anger?
I don’t know. It’s red rage. Violence. It almost scares me.
Soon, I’m punching the hell out of Holt’s face, catching him by surprise.
He had the upper hand earlier, but now I’m the one who’s in control.
It’s fucking addicting. I want more. I need to see his fucking blood.
“Die!” I yell.
We tumble to the floor, and I’m on him. Raging.
Punching. All that blood. It feels fucking good to let it all out on his face.
I relish it. I need it. I need something, anything, instead of this goddamn depression and fear.
My fist lands on his face over and over.
He tries to fight me off, but then he’s lying there, unmoving.
I’m straddling his torso, panting and gasping as my aching finger swipes through the blood spilling out of his nose.
“What have you done?” Mom cries, startling me. I didn’t even hear her come in.
My shock turns back into anger, and I tap into it. “Look at what I’ve done?” I snarl at her. “God, you’re so goddamn blind. So fucking selfish. You left me alone with him. You’re complicit!”
Her eyes are wide as she takes in my face, then she steps away from me when I come at her, but I don’t hit her.
Instead, I stand, my legs still shaking, and I spit at her feet.
In fact, my entire body is shaking from the adrenaline wearing off.
“I fucking hate both of you. Why did you even bother having me? Your beloved husband has been beating and raping your son since I was twelve, Mom. It gets him off.”
“You lie! I… I didn’t—”
“Of course, you knew. And I fucking hate you for it. What’s worse than hate? Loathe? I wish you were dead. Both of you!” I scream in her face. She flinches from me, but doesn’t deny my words. She knew. She’s always known. Continuing to live a wealthy life was always more important than her own son.
I simply grab my bags and brush past my mother.
“Where the hell are you going? Why do you have bags?”
I stop with my back turned to her. “You should’ve loved me. You should’ve protected me. I won’t be coming back.”
“Your father left you everything!” she yells. “I got nothing! Holt allows me to survive.” And there you have it. Her greed won out.
I turn around and snarl. “Do you even hear yourself? He left you a huge house that you sold. You blew through that money. That’s your fault.
Dad must have known what a piece of shit you are.
If you had been decent to me, I could’ve given you some money.
You didn’t even protect me from your child rapist of a husband.
You’re sick in the head, just like he is. ”
I’m fucking done. I walk off to start my new, but very short life.
“Julien!” she snaps as I walk into the garage. Soon, her voice is more frantic and less angry. “Julien!”
I grab the keys from my pocket belonging to my restored 1977 Ford Bronco.
After I got my trust fund, the first thing I purchased was this SUV.
It has red-and-white stripes, and it’s stunning.
The truck is one of the few things in this world I value, next to my Streetfighter Ducati.
I think about all I’m leaving behind, but I feel nothing.
I won’t miss my things, except maybe my bike, but I can’t take it with me.
A groan slips out of me from sitting in the driver’s seat. It’s going to take a while before my ass recovers from the assault.
As soon as I drive off, my mom blows up my phone, so I turn the damn thing off.
I roll down my window to throw it out, but change my mind.
It’s my phone that I paid for myself. In fact, I bought two of them—one for everyday shit, and the other for when I set my plan in motion. I don’t want anyone to track me.
Once I came into my trust fund, I set up my own bank account and credit cards, determined to be independent and prepared to leave eventually.
They don’t have access to anything of mine, thank fuck.
I’m grateful to my dad every day for that, like he knew I needed protecting, and that Mom didn’t deserve a dime.
Not everyone is as lucky as I am and can afford to leave, but still, that didn’t give them the right to hurt me.
When I get on Interstate 405 southbound, I suddenly have to pull over on the shoulder.
I turn off my car, grip the steering wheel, and sob.
I fucking hate crying, but I know I have to get it out before I can move on.
As much as I want to feel, I need to tap into that apathy so I can keep going.
It takes me about ten minutes to calm down before I drive on.