Hate.
One second he was yelling at me. Yelling and shaking out of me any hope I had for sleeping that night. I will never forget what happened after that. It was the first time he hit me. He backhanded me, sending me tumbling across the room. Then he drunkenly lumbered toward me. But I was young and fast, and despite the pain tearing me apart, I crawled to my dresser and opened the drawer where I kept the kit containing razors and rubbing alcohol and I yanked it out. It slipped from my hands and clattered on the floor. I found what I needed to defend myself. I clutched the razor between my thumb and index finger, ignoring the pain as it cut through my skin. I waited for him to advance. He came swinging his fist at me. I swiped my hand in front of me, catching him on his left cheek with the razor. It wasn’t too deep to cause any lasting damage, but it was enough to make him freeze. He shot me a hateful look and staggered out of the room. After he left, I ran to the door, slammed it shut and locked it. I threw the razor covered in his blood on the floor and grabbed a clean one from the confines of my kit. Leaning back against the wall with tears falling down my face, I extended my arm and ran the razor against my skin letting it sink in. The relief had been immense, the feel of pain rushing through me, making me feel alive, the sight of red against my skin. . .
Ever since that night, I’ve never let my guard down. I’ve never stopped concealing some sort of weapon under my pillow. Cheetahs don’t change their spots. My dad is who he is, rotten to the core. And right now, my hand is itching to slip under the pillow and take hold of the penknife.
But I wait.
The bed shifts with his weight. I can’t breathe. My lungs are burning and spots appear in front of my vision.
Then I feel it. The slight movement of the sheet shifting away on my back, the hard fingers pressing my back. Lower.
Oh God, no.
He continues his journey, murmuring about making it up to “Caroline” and promising to be a good father. I shove my hand under my pillow and grip the penknife. I jump out of bed. My fingers fumble with the blade before flipping around to face him. The scariest man I’ve ever met. The monster who hides in plain sight.
His eyes blink open through their liquor-induced haze, and he blinks rapidly as his vision adjusts. He must realize who I am and recognition floods his face. His eyes widen, then narrow as they move from my face to the knife in my hand.
I’m not a victim. I’m more than my past. I promised myself I’d never be a victim again. Not by my hand or anyone else’s.
“Get out of my room. Right. Now.” I don’t even recognize my own voice. I expected it to quiver, given the terror ripping through me.
He climbs to his feet as fast as he can in his inebriated state. The shock leaves his face and his mouth folds downward in a sneer.
He looks around the room before returning his loathing gaze to me. “Well, if it isn’t the little abomination that calls itself my daughter.” He eyes my arms then looks at me. He wipes his hands on his shirt as if having touched me disgusts him.
A shudder rocks my body and my hand shakes at his words. Tears burn my eyes and I blink them back furiously. He is not worth my tears.
I thrust my chin forward in defiance. “You made me the way I am. I don’t care if you think I’m Satan’s child. Get. Out. Of. My. Room. Or I’ll call the police!”
He looks at me and grins, the look on his face filled with malicious intent. “Call the police? Go ahead, daughter. Call them.”
Shit. He’s the police. But they can’t all be like him. I refuse to believe that they’re all like him.
My hand is shaking so badly I can barely grip the knife properly.
He backs out of the room, his eyes on me the entire time. “So, you and that freak kid next door are still seeing each other.” He narrows his eyes. “You continue to defy me, Eleanor.” He turns and stumbles out the door.
This is bad.
As soon as he leaves, I rush to my door and slam it shut, locking it. I lean on it. My pulse is pounding in my ears. I try to catch my breath to stop the thudding of my heart long enough to listen to his heavy footsteps. I sigh, relieved he’s heading downstairs and not into his room, or worse, my sisters’ rooms. The front door opens and slams shut. I slide down to the floor, draw my knees up and drop my head to my knees.
Jesus. Christ. What the hell?
If he hadn’t left, I’d have hurt him. I was so close to shoving the penknife in his hand and marking a part of his body like I did all those years ago.