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Placing the fork and knife in my hand, I waited for him to take his first bite. As he cut the steak with ease and placed the slice into his mouth, he hesitated before biting down.
He glanced my way, and a second later, disgust turned his lips down.
I set my silverware down before whispering, “I-is something w-wrong with the s-steak?”
He sighed loudly before slamming his fist on the table. “It’s salty, Morgan! It’s fucking salty! How hard would it be to make it right? Give me yours.”
Without looking up from my lap, I slid my plate over to him.
He cut a chunk out of mine and shoved it into his mouth, chewing aggressively.
He chuckled and scoffed before saying, “Of course yours is perfect.”
“I-I’m sorry, Trey. I really didn’t mean to,” I whispered to him, afraid of what was to come.
Sometimes, Trey’s anger was instant—a slap across the face, a punch to the stomach, a grab and yank of my hair until patches ripped out. Sometimes, his anger stirred and came later—that version was always much worse.
This was one of those times.
“I’m eating yours. You eat mine, all of it, and don’t leave a speck of food on that plate. Then, clean this up.” With that, he stood from the table with my plate in his hand and walked to his office.
My body quivered as I force myself to eat every last bite on the plate, knowing there was no more salt on this steak than there was on mine.
After I finished, I washed the plate and utensils by hand, dried them, and put them away as quietly as I possibly could.
After I wiped down the dining table, I headed upstairs, hoping to be in bed as fast as I could. I knew sleeping wouldn’t stop the inevitable, but I could surely hope it did.
I crawled under the sheets seconds before his voice tore through the silence in the house.
“MORGAN!” Trey screamed.
I could hear the slight change in his tone that only existed when he’d been drinking. It didn’t happen often, but when it did, it meant that I’d better keep my head down, my mouth shut, and my mind disconnected from my body. Because the nights he drank were the nights I hoped he would finally kill me. Because dying would be so much better than whatever he had planned.
I hurried, remaking the bed and flattening the sheet that I’d wrinkled. I tried to calm my already-sporadic breathing as I exited the bedroom and met him in the dining room.
I could feel his stare as I approached him, attempting to keep a little distance between us. But that seemed to anger him even more.
I yelped as his hand fisted my hair, and he dragged me from where I stood to our seats.
“What is this, Morgan? You missed a spot! For fuck’s sake! All I ask is that you eat your food and then clean up. You can’t even seem to do that!” He jerked my head up to his and bent my head back, forcing me to look at him. “Oh, you have nothing to say?”
Tears flooded my eyes as the pain seared my scalp. “I’m sorry! I’m sorry!”
He laughed. “I’m sorry too, Honeybee.”
Over time, Trey had become more unpredictable, more malicious, and even more menacing.
“Trey, please d-don’t. I’ll be better. I won’t miss anything next time. Please.” I begged him to stop.
“Tsk, tsk, tsk. You know the best way to train a dog is by physical punishment. By doing this, I know you will never make that mistake again. Words can’t be trusted, but actions can. I’m doing this for you, Honeybee. Remember, I’m trying to help you be better.”
“Trey, please, please,” I pleaded. I cried out as he dragged me by my scalp to the living room. “Please, I’ll do anything. Anything!”
“Desperation is a pathetic look on you,” he snarled as he ripped my head up to him, our eyes meeting.
In the blink of an eye, his fist slammed into my ribs. I screamed and cried. He pulled up higher on my head, forcing my back to arch and my rib cage to open.
The next blow did much more damage than the last. The burning sensation attacked my side before the sound of my ribs breaking reached my ears.
