Page 101 of Hexed
You can’t erase memories from a brain by whispering sweet words, and even the heaviest of makeup washes away eventually, leaving nothing behind but the ugly truth.
I learned that the first time my daddy came home, then pulled mefrom my bed in the middle of the night while he beat my momma black and blue in front of me.
Punishment for her, he said. If she’d just behave more, then he wouldn’t have to teach her lessons.
I cried and ran toward them, banging my little fists on his thick arm and begging him to leave her alone.
He stopped. For a second.
But only to throw me on our worn plaid couch and tell me to get myself together. That crying was for the weak, and Andersens were strong.
I learned quickly that if I didn’t cry out, he’d stop sooner.
So I try to stay quiet when I hear them argue in the next room now. At least I think it’s him.
He’s drunk, I just know it. He’s always drunk. Maybe that’s why his voice sounds different.
I count backward in my head, trying to figure out the last time he actually came home instead of staying out all night gambling and drinking away Momma’s tips, but it’s been so long, I’ve lost track.
Fear for Momma makes my heart pound wildly in my chest. And fear for me because I don’t want him to come grab me and make me watch the way he always does.
They scream for a few more minutes, and then I hear it.
The sound of flesh hitting flesh.
I squeeze my eyes shut, bringing my legs to my chest and wrapping my arms around them. I bury my head in my lap until my knees press against my ears, trying to muffle the noise.
He never found me.
And she never found me again either because that was the night she died.
When I finally crawled out of that cramped cupboard, I saw her on the living room floor, bled out, her eyes wide-open and lifeless. I remember trying to cry. Walking slowly to her bloody body and curling underneath her limp, lifeless arm, staring blankly at our blue wallpaper with white flowers that was stainedyellow from years of cigarette smoke, willing the tears to fall and feeling guilty when they wouldn’t.
I moved in with Uncle T three days later.
Everyone asked me what happened, but I never told a soul.
Hours in police rooms, them trying to ply me with sweets and ice-cold soda pop. But I didn’t say a thing.
Except…I told Aria.
Not about everything, but that it was him who killed her.
And maybe over the years, despite what she’s done to me, despite how cruel and awful she’s been, I’ve held back and given her some grace.
Because at least she respected my boundaries for this one singular thing.
This dark thing she held for me like a personal secret keeper. As long as she did that, she was still family.Myfamily.
But that’s all dead and gone now.
And despite everything, I can’t find it in me to hate Uncle T for arranging the trip and hunting him down because hedoesn’tknow, and I have to believe he’s only doing something he thinks will make me happy.
Ihaveto believe it. Otherwise, what is there for me to believe in?
But even as I think the words, a dubious feeling slithers around me, latching on like tentacles, shaky and unsure.
I don’t like it.
