Page 8 of Paint the Town, Dove
I sunk to the floor with weak knees, and let myself break where Ryden couldn’t see.
Chapter Three
Ryden
Eighteen Years Ago
“Happy birthday to you.”
I smiled up at my mom who mirrored my own grin. She was always smiling, even when the ground was cracking.
Corban had heavy steps.
[Why was he always around?
[Why did he stay?]
“You have such a pretty voice, Mom.”
“That she does, son.” Corban’s firm hand gripped my collarbone. “That she does.”
I’m not your son, I wanted to say.I’ve never been your son. My dad was more of a man than you will ever be.
I wanted to say it.
I didn’t say it.
If I said it, something bad would have happened.
Now Mom’s smile was brittle.
I don’t think Corban noticed the small shift in the upper corner of her mouth, or the way her forehead creased when she lifted her eyebrows.
I think he just saw a smile.
[How can a bad man tell the difference?]
“I got you something, darling,” she said, handing me a square box wrapped in silver paper.
“I’d hope so, Clara. It’s the kid’s birthday.”
He didn’t get me anything. He just loved to talk. Loved to boss her around. Loved to hurt her.
“Go on, Ryden. Open it.”
I followed Mom’s wishes, ignoring Corban’s presence to the best of my abilities and lifted the lid.
“A guitar pick?” I beamed, cradling the tiny triangle in my hands.
“About time you did something other than read comics. Trash,” Corban cursed, “trash for the brain. Trash.”
My mom and I shared a look, disregarding Corban’s stupid tone and stupid face.
“I already placed the guitar in your room, baby. Do you want to go see it?”
“I do.” Weaving the guitar pick through my fingers, I zeroed in on the white bird in the center of the purple gloss. “What is this, Mom?”
Her hand was over mine within seconds, comforting me like a crest of protection.
