Chapter 1 #2
I wished I could say it was enough, but it only ever made me feel like a coward.
“Is the wind still blowing today?” I asked, swallowing the lump in my throat.
It was our secret code. It was my way of asking whether he was in one of his volatile moods.
The sudden flicker of fear in her eyes was fast, and though she tried to hide it, it was unmistakable—at least to me. I didn’t know why she even bothered masking it anymore. It did nothing to quell any of our nerves, and we all knew she was terrified of my father.
If this was going to be one of those days, it was better that I ran into town.
He hated it when my mom left the house, especially when there was…
evidence on her body. It only fueled his anger.
After last night, I wanted to be here to protect her and my siblings, but on a day like today with those bruises on her face, me running her errands was the best way to keep them safe.
I tried to keep the tremble from my voice, trying to stay strong for her. “I can go.”
The knife slipped from her hand, clattering on the cutting board.
“Maren—”
“Mom.” The words halted in my mouth, and I squeezed my eyes closed against the familiar burning. “Make a list, and I’ll run and get what you need. No sense in making things worse.” I glanced over my shoulder, listening for any sign of him.
The warmth of her hands touched my shoulders and spun me to face her, and my eyes burned at the look on her face. I spoke before she could change my mind.
“Let me go to town for you, Mom. If not for your sake, then for Lila and Joey.” If she wasn’t going to keep my father in a good mood by staying for herself, then she needed to do it for them.
“It’s not your job to protect us, Maren,” she said quietly, her fingers squeezing into my shoulders.
A burst of anger had me responding before I could filter the words.
“No, it’s your job, Mom. But you’re not doing it.”
My hand immediately covered my mouth, regret hitting me like a punch to the gut.
“Mom—”
She stepped back, looking like I was the one that had hit her.
“I’m sorry.” My words weren’t fair, even if they were true.
Mom opened her mouth, looking like she wanted to refute my words, but her lips pressed into a thin line instead.
It had become my job to protect the family, to be first in line for his wrath because she refused to put us over her own fear.
Though, in her defense, she had tried to leave many years ago, when my siblings were too young to remember anything.
We piled into the car in the dead of night and drove for days.
All I could remember was the rise and fall of the sun, my stomach aching with hunger.
We couldn’t stop until we got somewhere safe, she kept saying.
When we finally did stop, my father had somehow tracked us down, dragged us home, and then beat her within an inch of her life.
She found the courage to try leaving one more time when I was about to go to college.
It ended the same way. She gave up after that.
Which left her, my brother, and my sister stuck here with him. I was nineteen now. I was old enough to choose to leave whenever I wanted—and believe me, I wanted.
But not when it meant my family would be unprotected, not when it meant I wasn’t there to take the brunt of his violence in place of them.
I would do anything for them—whatever it took to protect my family.
Even if that meant giving up what I wanted.
Finally, her lips pursed together, and she nodded.
“All right, Maren. I’ll make a list.”
My throat ached as I tried to swallow the burning in my throat, and turned from her gaze. As much as I dreamed of a life away from these wooden walls, from this farm, and from my father’s abuse, I would always put my desires on a high shelf and stay here if it meant keeping them safe.
Leaving wasn’t an option. Not for me and not for them. He’d proven that he would hunt us down no matter how far we ran. Even if I were to ever leave my family behind, who knew what he would do. The endless scenarios played out in my mind, shoving terror down my throat until tears burned my eyes.
No, I would stay. Forever. To protect my family from my father’s wrath, there was no other choice.
***
The hot metal of the car door handle stung my hand as I yanked it open, about to crawl inside when something grabbed my wrist. I struggled to keep my feet under me as I was pulled backward, barely catching myself from sprawling face first into the rough gravel.
“Where do you think you’re going?” The words were full of quiet menace, and I didn’t even need to look up to know who it was.
My father’s six-foot-four frame loomed over me in his usual overalls and flannel rolled up to the elbows getup, mud-caked boots making the air smell like manure.
His hair was a peppery gray, long and unkempt, pulled back into a messy ponytail. Stray hairs blew across his dark eyes.
Anytime he went into town, he cleaned up, combed his hair, and looked more presentable—so that no one would ever know the disgusting man he actually was. So that no one would ever guess that he beat his family.
But at home, in the middle of nowhere, he didn’t have to pretend.
My tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth as I swallowed, unable to look at those hate-filled eyes for more than a few seconds.
“To the store,” I answered, forcing any flicker of feeling from my voice.
If I sounded angry, it would make my father’s wrath worse, making him think I was fighting back—which was the worst thing any of us could do.
I had learned a long time ago not to fight back.
But if I sounded scared, it only made him happy, and my father didn’t deserve an ounce of happiness.
Or my fear.
I forced my body to go numb, shoving the anger, fear, and soul-rending hatred deep down inside me as I added, “Mom needs me to pick up a few things.”
My father’s brown eyes were so dark they were almost black, and they narrowed, searching my carefully blank face for a lie.
It was one of his favorite pastimes—trying to catch me in a lie.
“Go ask her if you don’t believe me,” I said, immediately regretting the words and smashing my teeth together.
No, leave Mom alone.
His hand still gripped my wrist, and it suddenly intensified, twisting my skin around the bone. I hated crying out when my father did this, it only made him happy, but there was already a bruise where he held me, and it forced a cry from my lips before I could stop it.
He stepped closer, the scent of stale cigarettes wafting off him, and I instinctively held my breath.
I was certain there wasn’t a scent I loathed more in this world than the rotten, putrid scent of his cigarette breath.
Just the mere whiff of it was enough to send my body into fight or flight, though these days I basically lived there full time.
“Show me the list.”
Why couldn’t he ever just believe me? I had learned my lesson about leaving—the evidence was on my mother’s face. He knew that. Yet he still felt the need to control me, to grill me.
I pulled the crinkled paper from my back pocket and held it out to him, trying to control the tremble in my fingers.
He finally released his bruising grip from my wrist and ripped the paper from my hand, roughly opening it. His eyes scanned over the six items I was supposed to pick up.
I dared to study his face with his eyes on the paper.
Looking at him, I saw the death of all my dreams. When I was a child, before my siblings were born, and before my father’s abuse truly began, I used to adore fairytales where the princess was rescued by the handsome prince and they lived happily ever after.
As a kid, love was the most beautiful concept, one that I dreamed about often.
But that dream quickly died.
My father proved that there was no such thing as fairytales. There was no happily ever after or princesses getting rescued by their true love.
If there was one thing I’d learned from my father in my nineteen years of life it was this—
Love wasn’t real.
If it were, he would never lay a hand on my mother. Or me.
My father suddenly ripped the paper into several pieces and tossed them to the ground, stomping on it with his poop-covered boots. He pressed his toes into it, shoving it deeper into the gravel for good measure. The crunch of tiny stones was like glass shattering in my ear.
“Be back soon.”
It was an order. A command. A threat.
I didn’t trust my voice not to waver so I gave a single nod, waiting for him to turn away so that I could crawl into the safety of the car.
It was a lesson I had learned the hard way.
Never turn my back on my father.
Another tense few seconds passed as my heart pounded painfully in my chest, until he finally spit on the ground and walked back toward the barn. I watched as he pulled a cigarette from his pocket and then disappeared behind the big red doors.
At least he’s not going in the house.
For the moment, my family was safe.
I waited several seconds to make sure he didn’t reappear, my lungs throbbing, waiting for me to finally breathe. I couldn’t bring myself to inhale fully until I picked up the pieces of the list, got in my car, and sped down the long driveway, turning onto the road that led into town.
I hated him. My father.
I hated this life.
I hated that we had to live like this.
But there was nothing I could do.
My mom had tried to leave him, and she'd almost died because of it.
There was nowhere we could go, hide.
There was nowhere I could go.
My life consisted of whispers and walking on eggshells, and that was all it would ever be.
My head thunked against the headrest.
There had to be more than this.
But until my father died, I’d never get to find out if there was.