Chapter 2 #2
Why don’t we meet at Whipped. It’s a coffee house in town. Believe me, you’ll need caffeine if we’re going to be dealing with my brother.
The water’s still running.
Felix:
Brother?
Alyssa:
I’ll explain tomorrow. Text me in the morning and I’ll give you the address to the coffee shop. I’ll see you bright and early. Have a great night!
Felix:
You too.
I delete all the messages again before blocking the number, just in case she texts or calls later.
Shit! Pasta.
I rush over to the stove, grabbing the pot and draining it. I test one. The noodles practically melt in my hand. Maybe I can start a new pot.
“I’m starving.” I jump as he comes through the door into the kitchen. “Ready yet?”
“Um, yes, I uh, it’s a bit overcooked.”
He frowns. “How? You were fucking staring at it.”
“I might of um, when I came to see if you needed towels. I got distracted talking, and I—”
The furrow in his brow deepens. “You’re blaming me?”
It hasn’t even been ten minutes. “No. No, of course not. I um, no, it’s just a little overdone.
I can start a new pot and—” He comes over, looking into the strainer and grabbing a piece of mush.
It breaks apart easily between his fingers.
“I can’t eat this! How dumb do you have to be? The pot does the job for you.”
Steady. Just keep steady. “I can make more. It won’t take long.”
“Why are you wasting food? I know you sit at home all day not having to worry about a thing while I work. Shit costs money. Not sure if you’re aware.”
I don’t know how to get out of this. “Do you want to eat—” The strainer crashes against the wall.
“I work all fucking day while you laze around barely doing a thing. All you have to do is make fucking dinner. Is it that hard? Would you like me to do that too, your majesty?”
Don’t let the tears fall. It never ends well. It’s pointless. I blink back the sharp pricks of heat I feel. “No, no. I um, I’ll redo it. It’s not a big deal.”
“Not a big deal? I’ve been working since six this morning and the only thing I expect is a hot fucking meal, and you can’t even manage that right.”
I’ve had it. I don’t know where it comes from. I’ve had it. “It’s only ten minutes. I’m sure you’ll make it.” Nerves vibrate under my skin. I grab the pasta pot, and my ribs scream as he rips it away from me. Pain explodes on the side of my face.
“I’ve really fucking had it with your smart mouth lately. I don’t know who the hell you think you’re talking to.”
My face throbs. I touch my jaw, trying to right my vision.
I blink waiting for it to stop spinning.
“I just have to recook it. It won’t take long.
” His fingers weave and squeeze into my hair, wrenching me out of the kitchen and tossing me into the living room.
Pain lashes every part of me. My ribs. My neck. My head.
This time, when he hits me, my mind goes elsewhere.
It jumps to tomorrow.
Not even the things he does to me tonight stop the relief I feel.
I just have to make it to tomorrow.
Just to tomorrow.
Tomorrow . . .
To . . .
My body screams as I wake, but my alarm is louder than the pain echoing in my skull.
Opening my eyes, I’m happy to see I’m in bed alone.
Normally I wake up before he leaves in the morning to pack his lunch, but he does this sometimes.
When he gets really bad. And last night was the worst I’ve had in a while.
When it gets this bad, he lets me sleep in, like a sick apology for what he’s done.
I drag myself out of bed. The pain in my bones protests, but not even that can stop me. I hurt . . . everywhere. Tears come to my eyes and I wipe them away. It’s been years of this. Years of him hurting me and taking what he wants from me as if I exist purely for his amusement.
I have nothing left to give him. He’s chipped me away to nothing. Well, almost nothing.
I refuse to die here.
I salvage whatever pieces of my dignity I can manage and go shower. I’m sore, and I try really hard to block out what it means. It’s not the first time he’s forced himself on me. Not even the first time while I’ve been passed out.
It was, however, the last time.
When I step in front of our mirror I flinch. Bruises cover my side. I blacked out when he started kicking me on the floor, and I’m almost happy I blacked out for the rest of it.
“You’re free,” I tell myself, even if I’m not free yet. I still have to manage the next few hours. As carefully as I can, I wash up. I feel like all my movements are heavy.
It’s like he’s taken all his training and honed it to hurt me.
He never makes things bad enough that I need to go to the hospital, just enough that I’m in pain for weeks at a time.
Enough to make me afraid. The first few years I tried my best to make him happy, and it took me longer than it should have to realize he’s never happy.
I don’t look in the mirror while I brush my teeth, I don’t want to see myself, but curiosity wins and I glance up.
I have a slight bruise on the edge of my hairline from the spaghetti pot.
Everything else is hidden by my clothing.
I don’t want to meet Alyssa looking like a mess.
I don’t want her being afraid and not hire me.
I need this.
I search for my blocked contacts, finding Alyssa’s number.
Felix:
I’m heading into town now. Take your time. I’ll be waiting inside the cafe.
I take my first real breath of relief as she texts me the address.
In my room, I take a sticky note and write it down.
I have to be smart about this. I can’t have the rideshare pick me up here, he’ll see it on the camera.
I need to get out of this house undetected, which means climbing out of the upstairs hall window and down the trestle.
I’ve done it before. I wanted to test my weight on it before it came to this.
Doing it now, with the amount of pain I’m in, will be its own special treat.
I’ve planned my escape for over a year now, and I thought I’d feel different . . . free. But I feel more trapped than ever. I guess I’m expecting something to go wrong. This isn’t the first time I’ve tried to leave, but it’s been years since the last time.
I request a rideshare to pick me up at the park a few blocks down the road. I’ll have to go through Mrs. Windsor’s yard, but she should be at work now. I know there’s a possibility of being caught on other door cameras, but it’s a risk I need to take.
Hopefully I’ll be long gone before anyone even sees the footage.
In my room, I grab the envelope of money I’ve stashed under the floorboards along with the bullet journal I have.
It’s the only thing that’s kept me sane.
I write everything in it—my feelings, dreams—and sometimes I think of little short stories to write down.
My life is in here. It makes me feel better.
It makes me feel like I’m in control. It’s the only place my thoughts can go. It keeps me from choking on them.
I check the app to see someone’s picked up the ride request. Now is the time.
I take my phone and reset to the factory setting so it’s blank, and I leave it on the counter.
I don’t need him to track it. I can get a new phone later on.
I go upstairs, I open the window and walk carefully onto the roof where I grab the top of the trestle, slowly shimmying my way down it, ignoring the pain. Then I search for my bag.
It’s not . . . what?! Where the hell is it?
Did he find it?
I look around. Where the hell did it go?
Thankfully it’s just clothes, and my money’s inside my shirt that’s tucked into my jeans and my bullet journal is in my hand.
Fuck, I need to go. I’ll figure it out later.
I can replace the clothing. My arms shake as I scale our wooden fence and drop into Mrs. Windsor’s yard, falling to my hands and knees.
I bite back the yelp that bubbles in my throat.
“Come on,” I breathe. “Get up.” I have to keep pushing.
I stumble upright, taking a deep breath and ignoring the cold wash of nausea.
I make my way between a couple more houses until I break out onto the road with the park. The rideshare said ten minutes. I have the license plate written down. Anxiety webs through my lungs.
Relief hits me when I see the make and model of the requested ride idling next to the park. I look at my sticky note, making sure the license plate matches, then jog up to slip inside. “How are you doing?”
“Uh, great. Thank you.” I buckle up and let out a breath as we go.
“Whipped, is that correct?” he asks.
“Uh yes, it’s a coffee house.” It’s less than an hour. I wish I’d found a job further away, but at least I’ll have somewhere to live.
“It’s about forty minutes from here.”
“I know. I um . . . I have cash.” I’ll have to get a bank account soon. One thing at a time, though. I pull out a hundred dollars, hoping he doesn’t ask me any questions.
He looks down at the money before driving toward the highway access. “You got it.”