He yanks the lid off the pot, turning the heat down.
I want to scream at him to do it himself if he’s such a culinary genius. Because I want to keep my head on my shoulders, I bite my lip until it’s bleeding, hiding my face in the fridge as I search for the shaker of Parmesan cheese.
Randall has lapsed into sullen silence, furiously wrenching the lid off the jar of sauce and dumping it into the pot so hard that it splashes out on the kitchen tiles.
“Clean that up,” he orders.
I have to get down on my hands and knees to mop up the sauce with a damp paper towel. I can feel him watching me crawl around, wiping up every last spatter.
I have a horrible feeling that he’s angry enough to tip that pot of boiling noodles onto my back. As quickly as I can, I finish cleaning and throw away the paper towels.
I set the table for three, hoping, praying, that my mother is on her way home.
My throat is too tight to eat. Randall takes one bite and then spits the noodles out and shoves away his plate.
“Tastes like fucking play-dough,” he snarls. “How much salt did you put in there?”
“I don’t know,” I sob miserably.
He glowers at me, his pale, piggy eyes almost disappearing beneath the heavy shelf of his brow.
“You’re as useless as your mother. The only thing on this earth she’s good at is sucking cock. Did you know that, Mara? Did you know your mother is a world-class cocksucker?”
There’s no answer to this that won’t enrage him. All I can do is stare at my plate, guts churning, hands shaking in my lap.
“How do you think a woman gets good at that?” he demands.
When I remain silent, he slams his fists against the table top, making me jump.
“ANSWER ME!”
“I don’t know,” I say quietly.
“Practice, Mara. So much practice. I should have known the first time she put my cock in her mouth, looking up at me, smiling like a professional. I should have known then she was nothing but a whore.”
The thought of Randall’s wrinkly old cock brings me to the edge of vomiting. I have to swallow down the bile, my eyes fixed firmly on my plate. This is the only form of resistance now—staying quiet. Ignoring him. Not giving him anything that will justify what he actually wants to do.
He knows this, too.
Now we’re at the part of the night where he will do whatever it takes to break me.
He stands up, stalking over to me, looming over me. Invading my space, breathing on the top of my head.
“Is that your plan?” he grunts, each breath coming out in a hot puff that stirs my hair, that makes my stomach churn. He’s heavy and his breathing is even heavier. I can hear it all over the house, anywhere he goes. “I’ve seen your grades. You’re not gonna be a doctor, or a lawyer. I doubt you could bag groceries right.”
He’s leaning over me now. Trying to force me to move or make a sound. Trying to get me to crack.
“No, there’s only one career path for you.” His chuckle is cruel, sending spit flicking out onto my cheek as he bends even closer. “You’ll be sucking cock, morning, afternoon, and evening. Just like your mother.”
He puts his finger in his mouth and wets it with a loud pop. Then he jams it in my ear.
That’s what makes me snap.
I leap out of my chair, already screaming at him, “DON’T YOU FUCKING TOUCH ME! I HATE YOU! I HATE YOUUUUUUUUU!”
My scream is cut off by Randall’s hand hitting my ear in a slap that sends me flying into the wall just like he did to my mother at their wedding breakfast.
He hits me so hard that I black out. When I sit up, shaking my head, all I can hear is a muffled thunder with a high whine on top of it.
I must have been out a minute because Randall is staring at me with vague alarm, like he was just wondering how deep he’ll have to bury my body in his garden.
“Stop hamming it up,” he grunts, as I grip the edge of the table and attempt to stand.
My head throbs. There’s a sharp pain on the left side of my neck. Wetness, too. I touch my ear. My fingertips come away bright with blood.
Oh my god. If he made me deaf, I’ll fucking kill him.
No, I’ll kill myself. I can’t live without music. It’s all I have.
At that moment, I hear my mother’s key scratching in the lock. Scratching and scrabbling so long that Randall and I both know how drunk she’ll be before she stumbles through the door.
My mother is no longer as beautiful as she once was. She used to brag how well she held her liquor, how she could party all night long and get up as early as she liked in the morning, with hardly a headache.
Time is catching up with her at last. A tube of fat runs around her once-slim waist, stretching the tight dress. Dark circles shadow her eyes. Her hair is no longer long and shining, but frazzled from constant changes in color and length.
She stares at us blearily, the strap of her dress slipping down one shoulder.
“You ate without me?” she says, her voice mushy and loose.
Either she doesn’t notice the blood on my hand, or she’s choosing to ignore it.
Randall’s piggy eyes flit between me and her, as if trying to decide whether to transfer his rage to a new subject.
My mother must intuit the same thing—she sidles up to him, laying a hand on his bicep, looking up into his face and batting her long false eyelashes.
“Should we go upstairs?” she slurs.
I see the struggle on Randall’s face—the offer of sex battling with his undrained rage.
“In a minute,” he says. Then, turning to me, “Get my belt.”
This is so outrageous that I gape at him. He already took my iPod and slammed me into the wall. There’s no way I deserve a whipping on top of that.
Through stiff lips, I say, “You can’t do that anymore. The gym teacher said.”
“The gym teacher said,” Randall mimics me in a baby voice. He points one sausage-like finger in my face. “FUCK your teachers.”