“The Duchess came bouncing into the room, all hopped up on her good news, babbling about how Celia and Paul were gonna have a baby. Celia and Paul. Celia and Paul. Celia and motherfucking Paul. He wasn’t wrong, y’know. I really did ’ate that fucker.” Charlie does another bump. This time he doesn’t even pretend to smile.
“That was also the first time I’d ever been jealous of another man. I had more money than anyone else I knew. A big fuckin’ ’ouse. I ’ad everything I thought I needed, but then along came your fuckin’ mother with all that curly blonde ’air and that smile that seemed to light up the world, and I wanted ’er. And I couldn’t have ’er because of Paul. Because she didn’t fuckin’ want me. And then you came along, and I saw how fuckin’ happy you made her, and I hated you. You were supposed to be my son. But you weren’t. You were the glue that made them stronger.” He points an accusing finger at the screen, where my mother is picking me up from the ground, prying plucked grass stalks out of my fat little hands.
It hits me with the weight of a twenty-pound bowling ball to the chest. He’s not my father. Charlie really isn’t my father. A cold sweat prickles at my skin, my stomach twisting; the relief is just too great. Better my father be a dead man I can barely remember than this piece of work. “So you lied about, Lacey, too?”
Charlie glances sharply out of the corner of his eye, tapping the silver capsule against the top of his leg. “Oh, no, son. Lacey’s mine. I put her in your mother one night. I sent your father, prissy Paul, out of town for me. He needed to go collect some money for me, I told ’im. So off ’e goes, and I go pay a visit to your mother. She was always a little wary of me. I’d waited years by this point, though. Years. And I was done waiting for her to be impressed by the shit I bought her or the money I tried to give ’er. I made ’er let me in. And then I made ’er behave herself while I got what I wanted.”
Fuck the pain in my body. I rocket out of my seat, launching myself at the man. My fists rejoice in pain as I drive them into Charlie’s face, once, twice, and then I’m suddenly being dragged back off him. I lash out; I kick; I holler. I can’t get free. O’Shannessey and Sammy are gripping me by the shoulders—must have been lurking there in the dark the whole time. Charlie straightens himself out in his seat, and then spits blood onto the ground. He dabs at his mouth with a handkerchief that O’Shannessey, ever the fucking suck-up, hands to him.
“That was quite rude,” Charlie tells me. “To be honest, though, I can see why you’re upset about me forcing myself on your mother. But you should know, despite how fiercely she fought me off, I could see in her eyes that she liked it. She always was the sort of woman who pretended to be good, when on the inside she was just begging for it. If I’d met her before she married Paul, she would have been mine. I don’t doubt it for a moment.”
“You’re fucking dreaming.” I have another go at jerking myself free, but it seems I’m weaker than I thought. O’Shannessey and Sammy manage to keep ahold of me, though I don’t make it easy for them.
“Speaking of dreams…” Charlie says. “How you sleeping these days, Zeth?” Something sick and suddenly frightened curdles in the pit of my stomach. “After you came to live with me, you never could seem to get a good night’s sleep.”
Fuck. No. I do not want to think about this right now. I do not want to think about him. “You’d better kill me now or shut the fuck up, Charlie, otherwise I’m gonna slit your throat for you.”
He laughs. “You used to say that when I’d come to you, too. Do you remember? Fuck you, asshole,” he says, mimicking the high, reedy voice of a child. “You’re not going to kill me. You’re not going to touch me. I’ll kill you first. I’ll slit your fucking throat.”
I don’t want to remember those words. They don’t appear in my night terrors, but they ring fucking true. I said them. I said those words when I was trying to defend myself…from him. It makes sense, of course. A deep, obvious kind of sense that I should have realized long before now. The thing is I have known. I’ve known all along, even back then, but I could never admit it to myself. When Charlie came for me and took me from my uncle’s place in Las Flores, I thought this strong, powerful man had come to save me. He treated me like a son. I didn’t want to believe it was him coming into my room each night, trying to rape me. Kill me.
When it first started happening, I reasoned with myself that the man in the dark didn’t really want to hurt me. If he wanted to have sex with me so badly, he had to like me a lot, right? I was too young to realize rape and murder went hand in hand. I thought raping someone was an act of tortured love instead of seeing it for what it is—degradation. Humiliation. An act of hatred so vile and evil that even criminals in prison will beat a rapist to death.