Page 9 of Under the Texas Sky
He laughs, the sound harsh. The hair on the nape of my neck stands up and I prepare myself for his onslaught. His fists can cut me down, but his words bury themselves deep inside. No matter how many times I tell myself that what he says doesn’t matter, every time I prove myself wrong. My self worth is connected to these two people in front of me, and I hate it.
“She’s just a junkie, she doesn’t give a shit about you.” He’s ninety nine percent right, but I hold on to the one percent of my hope. Even if my mom is, she doesn’t deserve to be treated like this. No one deserves to be treated like this.
I don’t respond, choosing instead to stare at him. To prove to him I’m not scared of him.
“You’re just like her.” It’s not a compliment. “She’s just as useless as you, the only thing she’s good for is spreading her legs.”
“Shut up,” I demand, rage growing in my body as my hands shake by my sides. Tension is rolling off me in waves.
“You won’t be worth anything either. You’ll be spreading your legs for dope, just like her.” He shoves me, the full weight of his body pushing against my upper body. He’s 6' 1 and 250 pounds, I have no chance of getting the upper hand at my 5' 8 and barely 130 dripping wet.
“And when you drop out of school for being stupid, just like her, you won’t be coming back to my house. You could be homeless for all I give a shit.” He pushes me again, harder this time, and I fall, jerking my body so I don’t land on top of my mom.
Don doesn’t care though. He shoves the coffee table out of the way, beer bottles falling to the floor and papers scattering from the unpaid bills. He gets on top of me, pinning me to the stained carpet. His fists rain down on me, every crack against my skin causing a new bolt of pain to shoot through my body.
I keep my bottom lip tucked in tight between my teeth, not willing to make a peep and let him see how much pain he’s actually causing me.
When I’m worried I’ll pass out, he finally gets off me, swaying slightly as he stands up and uses the table to help him push to his full height.
“Get this shit cleaned up, and I don’t want to see your ugly face for the rest of the night.” He jerks my mom up by her wrist, and she flails for a minute until she realizes where she’s at.
“Don, you’re home early.” Her voice is slurred and I have to look away as he drags her to their bedroom.
“Shut the fuck up,” he bites out and slams the door shut behind them.
I grab my books and notepad off the table, and leave the house before they start. The last light outside is coming from the streetlight two houses down from me. The weather outside is biting cold, cutting through the thin fabric of my long sleeve shirt.
I sit on the curb, staring at the material in the book and feeling rivulets of blood trail down my face from the assault.
No one sees though, everyone is tucked away in their own homes and dealing with their own problems.
I let the first tear fall free, mixing with the dark red of my blood as it falls from my face and onto the piece of paper in front of me.
As the liquid spreads, covering more of the page with evidence of my own shortcomings, I make a wish.
I wish that someone would love me, for me. With every fucked up thought inside my head, I want someone that will quiet my thoughts and love me in spite of it all.
CHAPTER 9
KIAN
Trent doesn’t say anything else, and I don't force him to talk.
That won’t make this better, but I also hate seeing him like this. I know it’s not just the puzzle that has him shutting down. But for the life of me, I can’t figure out what the root of the problem is.
We lie there–him with his face in the pillow, and me staring at the popcorn ceiling, keeping my fingers entwined in his hair. The constant touching right now isn’t for him; it’s for me.
To keep me grounded.
Because while life is hard, our love isn’t.
Loving him is the easiest thing I've ever done.
Our love has evolved over the years. From sixteen, to eighteen, to twenty one, to now. I’ve loved every version of him. And I’ll continue to love every version of him.
As his breathing evens out, Trent’s head falls to the side, facing toward me. The light puffs of air from between his pursed, pouty lips are sweeter than any candy. I press my lips against his, savoring this moment, before pushing myself off the bed and leaving him to rest while I talk to Mitch.
Mitch says that Trent’s been good about going to meetings and seems serious about being sober. But he and I both know that this is tricky and relapses do happen often. Though I have so much hope that Trent stays resilient.
