Page 165 of Broken by my Bully
I clap a hand over her mouth, expecting her to stop me, but her hands just flop onto the carpet, fingers curling up like she’s already dead.
I drop on top of her, urging her legs open with my knees, sinking between them. When I drag the knife down the curve of her breast, she lets me.
Because I’ve broken her again.
“Hey, shhh, shhh,” I croon, our faces less than an inch apart. “It’s okay, Heavenly. You didn’t need it anyway.”
I didn’t think her sobs could be any more wretched, but I guess I underestimated the power of my words. But it’s not the words she’s reacting to. It’s the memory.
And here I thought Haven had forgotten all about me. Aboutus.
But the woman lying under me is grieving for the dead.
Little Haven.
Little Kai.
Fuck, I miss them too.
But not enough to stop.
Kai
“No! It’s not fair!” Haven screeches, hands in tight balls at her side as she glares at me. Serious attitude for a nine-year-old.
“Course not. That’s the whole freakin’ point.” I’m down to my underpants, my legs shaking as they fight the water pushing against my thighs. Thank God they’re not the Superman ones Mom bought me. I’m twelve, not five.
“Come on, Kai! I also wanna play!”
When I ignore her, raising my arms like a God as I challenge the water raging down the creek, Haven shrieks.
Damn, she’s got a set of lungs on her.
“Quit it!” I yell at her. “No one’s gonna hear you, anyhow!”
“You’re so damn mean! I hate you, Kai!” She screams at the top of her lungs, and I swear, if we hadn’t chased all the wildlife away over an hour ago already, birds would have burst out of the trees and deer would have scattered.
This is really messing with my mood, and it was crappy to begin with.
“Okay, okay!” I stomp my way out of the creek, slashing my hand through the air. “Cut it out, y’damn banshee!”
She only stops when I’m a few feet away from the tree I tied her to. Her face is red and splotchy, her arms and legs rubbed raw where the ropes bit into her.
I guess I tie them too tight sometimes. But if I make the ropes loose enough for her to escape, she complains.
Girls are weird. Especially the ones at my middle school who whisper about my torn jeans and the bruises on my arms.
They always laugh when I look at them.
So I’ve stopped looking.
Haven doesn’t laugh at me. Only when I fall and bust up my knee or something. Or when I fart. Or, lately, when my voice suddenly becomes just as squeaky as hers.
I put my hands on my hips, staring her down. “You can’t play.”
“Why?” Frustrated tears sparkled on her lashes.
The first rains came and went last night. The ground is still muddy, the trees still dripping, but the sky is clear. Late afternoon sunlight spears through the leaves and makes patches of shadow and light on Haven’s face.
