Page 298 of Unexpected Heroine

I’m stuck. Frozen in place.

Chastised and shamed.

Belittled to nothing.

Again.

He tosses his empty beer can at me, smacking me in the chest and dampening my shirt with the few remaining drops. “Go, dammit. You’re blocking the fucking TV. Take your fuck boy with you, and don’t come back.”

Still, my feet don’t move. But I find the courage to look at him, preparing to say goodbye for the last time. Not that he deserves such a courtesy.

“I know you’re dumb, but are you fucking deaf too? I said move your ass.” He shoos me to the side. “Too bad they didn’t kill you over there. A good man probably died so you could live.”

My chest collapses, oxygen shuttering from my lungs.

Opening his cooler, he digs through the ice. “Son of a bitch.” He glances up at me, disgust clouding his beady eyes. “Before you go, make yourself useful and get the other six-pack from the fridge.”

I don’t know why, but my legs obey his command. Next thing I know, I’m in the kitchen, retrieving his beer like I’m a kid, desperate to please him. Subservient to his wishes in a pathetic attempt to earn his affection.

None ever came. None ever will.

My fingers tense, curling through the stretchy plastic rings that hold the cans together. The cold aluminum brushing against the side of my leg snaps me out of the fog. Seconds tick by while I’m torn between opening each can and pouring it down the sink before I go, heaving them onto his chest, or slamming them on the kitchen floor. So many options. All of them enticing.

Scanning the kitchen, I catch a glint of metal on the edge of the counter. Drawn to it, I approach stealthily as if I’m frightened to spook it. Stupid since it’s an inanimate object sitting on a stack of mail. Unpaid bills, probably.

It’s only a spoon. A black ring stain on the bottom. A lighter beside it. Syringe a few inches away.

Out of nowhere, a vision slices through my mind, its blade both sharp and dull.

My mother.

Her sandy blond hair, damp and greasy. My father raising his fist to her, punching her in the stomach and laughing as she clumps onto the floor.

The memory skips ahead. She’s lying on the dirty linoleum. In this room.

He’s on top of her. Straddling her chest. She’s crying, trying to fight him off. But he’s too strong.

I want to go to her. To help her. Yet all I can do is watch from the edge of the kitchen. Each time I yell for her, my father flings venom at me. Warnings and threats I know he’ll make good on.

So I watch.

Watch him hold the flame of the lighter under the spoon.

Watch him draw the liquid into the syringe, then jab the needle into her veins.

I listen to her whimpers as they fade to nothing. Until her breathing stops.

From a forced overdose.

The six-pack slips from my hand, falling to the floor with a clunk. A can bursts open from the force, spraying mist toward my shins.

Did this really happen? Did I watch him kill her? How come I never remembered it until now? Why did I think she left us?

One of my teeth threatens to crack, and my jaw protests in pain from my fierce clench.

I thought she left us because that’s what he told me. He blamed me for it. Said she left because she couldn’t stand the sight of me any longer.

He fucking lied to cover up what he did to her.

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