Page 68 of Van Cort
He watched closely as the rage built, and the broken things multiplied, still unsure why he didn’t just run. He could. He could outrun the bastard any day of the week, but he didn’t. He stood and took it – he always took it. It wasn’t respect, and it wasn’t love. No, it was some kind of fear that had woven its way into him about this being his penance.
The first punch to his face landed as he was glancing out the window. Lara was walking by the deck at the bottom of the lawn. He fell back against the door, not even trying to brace. What was the point? It didn’t help make it feel less painful, and the quicker he seemed exhausted, the quicker it ended.
“Look at you. Fucking useless,” his father spat.
Rhett lowered his stare and stood up again.“Yes, Sir.”
“If only I could sack you like I’m about to sack that bitch.” He was slapped that time, several times in fact, as his father belittled him and told him he was pathetic and pointless. He asked him why he was ever fucking born, why he didn’t die, too. “You fucking killed her, boy. You and that other spawn.”
Rhett nodded. “Yes, Sir.” It all came down to this. Every time he got beaten, something more about his mother came out of his father’s mouth. It wasn’t a lie. The birth had killed her. And in some perverse way, Rhett got some comfort out of thesebeatings. He learned more about her some days – the colour of her hair, the knowledge that she loved singing. They were secrets only he knew. They were his alone. And they were part of the reasoning for him taking the beatings in place of West every time.
Another punch, and another, and eventually Rhett was on the floor against a wall.
He lay there waiting for the kicks to come. They did.
He wheezed on the fourth one, barely able to contain the tears that wanted to come out, and curled up into a ball.
His father stopped kicking and spat on him instead.
Liquid started pouring into Rhett’s face. He’d never tasted whiskey before, but his father’s fingers gripping his chin, hauling him up the wall and pinching into his cheeks to open his mouth, meant that the sour taste exploded on his tongue. He coughed and spluttered, swallowed, and felt his panic starting to rise. Drowning felt like this. He remembered it from learning to swim.
“You think you’re so fucking perfect, don’t you? Both of you.” Rhett tried shaking his head, but his father wouldn’t let him. “Drink it, boy.” He just kept feeding the whiskey into Rhett, slapping him occasionally to make sure he drank. “You’re my son after all. You’ll know what alone feels like soon enough. And you’ll never find anything of hers. You hear me, boy? It’s all hidden from you because you don’t deserve her. Never.” Fingers held his neck fast to the wall, and through the haze of fear and Rhett’s own building anger, he could see his father laughing some bitter sound. “Bet you wish you hadn’t tried to be your brother now, don’t you, boy?” He’d never wish that. Never.
The fingers squeezed tighter.
The world shifted into a fog of colours and not much else.
And then the pressure left him and the door slammed.
Quiet settled in the room.
Rhett opened his eyes and stayed slumped against the wall, breathing hard. He looked at the near-empty bottle of whiskey on the floor and reached for it, wondering if he should drink the rest. Maybe it would help numb the pain and cancel everything out, because he already knew what alone felt like. He was alone permanently in this.
But coming back to reality quickly took his thoughts to West.
He dropped the bottle and tried pulling himself up, trying to think of where his phone was to let West know Father might be looking for him, but the door creaked.
He froze.
“Rhett?” Lara’s voice whispered. “Are you in here?” She stepped into the room and looked at the mess, eventually turning her gaze to him in the corner. He scowled and looked back at her, embarrassed, angry, and unsure what the hell he should do about her being here and seeing this.
Her hands flew to her mouth, and she hurried over to him quietly, closing the door on the way. “Oh my god.” She put her hand on his leg, the other on the side of his face. “Are you okay?” Rhett stared at her face. Such a pretty goddamn face. It just about managed to make him forget the pain he was in.
But he was so fucking angry still.
“Get out,” he muttered, turning his face from her hand.
She got in his eyeline again. “No. What can I do? How can I help? I saw what happened from the window.” Rhett squeezed his eyes hard, trying to get rid of the blurring. “Why didn’t you fight back?” He didn’t know, but he felt like fighting now. He’d felt it at the time, too, but that fear, that weird underlying feeling that made him keep taking it stopped him trying every damn time. “Rhett?” she pushed, patting his cheek a little harder to get his attention. “You’re big enough, you could-” He snatched at her wrist, scowled at her.
“Don’t fucking touch me,” he snarled.
She let go immediately and fell on her haunches, still staring at him. “Okay. I’m not leaving, though.”
He tried thinking for a minute, trying to find sense in his head. There wasn’t much but anger and humiliation and pain. “Where’s West?”
“With my dad. Fishing, I think.” Good.
Safe.
