16. CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The shitty green and brown shag carpet that’s been here since the house was built is itchy against my skin. And I’m not sure if I’d have been better off spending the night in a squalid heap at the park instead of collapsing at the foot of my bed.
They left me for dead.
Maybe I’d be better off with my skull stomped into the gravel.
They’d get their wish, and I’d get some peace.
A break from the torture.
The dread of what’s to come.
Of wondering how the fuck I’m going to move from here.
Every breath I take is labored, like there’s an elephant on my chest.
With every pump of my blood, searing agony stabs at my side, my knees, my face, my hands.
I need to move…
I can see clouds shadowing the sky.
It’s almost morning.
Almost time for Mom to get up.
I can’t let her see me like this.
I don’t want her pity.
I can’t bear to see her take Dad’s side again.
I need to move…
I don’t want to wake Blake. I can’t let her see me like this.
I need to move…
My bedroom light is still on.
The door is open.
If I can just drag myself over, I can push it closed.
If I can bide myself a few more hours, maybe the rest will give me enough energy to figure out what to do next.
Maybe I can call Millie?
Maybe reporting it is what I should do?
Maybe my parents won’t be so ashamed of me after all?
“Why the fuck has your son left the goddamn light on? Does he think I shit out money?”
Dad’s awake.
The unease makes me nauseous.
I strain to look at my open door, but the dried blood on my swollen face cracks as my skin creases.
“Turn off the fucking light, boy!”
“I’m sorry,” I try to speak, but the words are pulled down into my churning stomach.
“Sort it out!” he demands.
There’s footsteps in the hall.
Mom’s.
I try to drag myself forward, but my engorged and still bleeding hands are useless.
“Kai!” Mom gasps, and I squint up at her. “What happened?”
“What’s he done?” Dad bellows.
“Nothing. Just stay there.”
“Close the door,” I mumble—my insides whirring like a tumble dryer. But she’s motionless. Stunned and staring at her beaten child, yet even through my bloodshot irises, I can see her worry is only out of self-preservation.
“Sharon!” His voice is louder now.
Mom’s arm shoots forward to grab my door handle, but Dad punches it back open before it can latch, and the anxiety of his pending confrontation spouts from within me. Cherry schnapps, bile, and streaks of blood drown the shag in front of me.
“I’ll deal with him. Go back to bed,” Mom pleads, though he doesn’t hear her. His eyes trail down to my ripped and stained jeans and underwear, and the hatred he has for me at realizing what happened consumes him.
“You fucking faggot whore!” he screams, lunging towards me.
The only defense I have is to shut my eyes as he grabs a fistful of my hair and drags my limp body into the air.
“Stop!” Mom shrieks, but he cracks the back of his free hand against her cheek.
“This is your fault! You made him like this!”
“I’m sorry,” she cries like the bitch she is.
Shaking me—vomit flying from my chin—Dad curses my existence. Threatens my life. Vows he has no son. “No fuck-toy twink is living in my house!”
He spits in my face and grabs my throat.
My head spins as I gasp for air.
My feet find the floor, but I’m so weak it’s almost pointless trying to stand.
“Put him outside then,” Mom suggests with a desperate wail.
But that’s just the kind of pity I don’t want.
Too little. Too late.
I’d rather he wring the life out of me in front of her.
Dad releases my throat but keeps his grip on my hair.
He drops his arm and I collapse at his side. My body crumbles into a jagged pile before he marches down the hall, dragging me behind him.
In the kitchen, I’m slammed against the table leg when he cuts its corner.
He unlocks the back door.
Swinging open the screen, he lets it crash back into my face before kicking it open again, this time slamming the side of my head against the door frame.
Vertigo wracks me, and my vision fades.
Then, like trash, I’m thrown down the back steps.
Face in the dirt where grass should be—mouth obstructed—I try to breathe in, but blood slurps back through my nostrils.
I give up trying and let the morning’s frigid air embrace me in the hope—that with that final blow to my skull—I might die.