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He looked almost shocked, like he hadn’t expected to do that, or surprised that it’d seemed to happen so easily.
He breathed heavily in my face. Droplets of his spit mixed with tears on my cheeks. “Stop crying.”
“No. You can beat me, break me, but you can’t make me stop crying.” Something inside me compelled me to push back, to fight him, if only for a second. I regretted it immediately.
“You’re wrong.” He smiled.
He lifted me up off of the ground by his fist in my hair. I felt my flesh tear away from my scalp. I crashed to the ground hard and fast. But it wasn’t the ground I found—at least, not at first.
With an explosion of glass, my body and head slammed into our glass coffee table, shattering it into a million pieces. I felt the shards sticking out of me everywhere. When I breathed too deeply, my ribs made me wince, and the shards dug in deeper.
I couldn’t move without agonizing pain lighting up every inch of my back, my shoulders, my arms, and my neck.
“When you stop crying, I’ll help you up. You can stay there until then. I’ll come back in ten minutes.”
I settled into the excruciating position, holding still, as the shards of glass sank deep into my skin. I forced short breaths of air into my lungs, trying to ignore the sharp sting in my ribs. I couldn’t move my head. I couldn’t look anywhere, except to the ceiling.
I lay there for ten horrifically long minutes, until he returned, until he helped me up, my face dry and my body soaked in my own blood. He cleaned me up, carefully and gently extracting each and every shard of glass. Thankfully, none were too big or had done more than apparent surface damage. He left me alone to bathe, and I fell more and more numb and drifted further inside of my own head.
When I walked out of our master bath, he brought me wine and Dove chocolates. He doted on me, massaged my feet, treated me as he should. I knew that as soon as this kindness wore off, the real Trey would resurface. But I didn’t plan on being here when it did.
6
Cam
“Fuck!” My body flails in bed as reality yanks me from my nightmare.
I’m burning up. Sweat drenches me head to toe, soaking into the sheets beneath me. My ragged breaths are fast, mirroring the beats of my heart. I push my hand through my damp hair, pushing the saturated curls off of my forehead.
I’m sick of these nightmares, the same ones that have haunted me my whole life, but more so when the anniversary of my mom’s death approaches. If my dad wasn’t already rotting away in prison, I would return the favor of what he did to my mom.
When I was younger, after practice one day, the boys and I had decided to grab a bite to eat. The longer I could stay out of my house, the better. The inevitable would always come— my dad’s so-called punishments—as it did almost every time I went home after practice or a game. I took his lashings as I always did so that my mom wouldn’t have to. If he got all of his anger out on me, there would be none left for her.
She was never supposed to be the one who died from his wrath.
But I was at dinner with my team later than I should have been, and she was the one who paid for it.
When I had gotten inside, I felt it all around me. The wrongness in the air. I knew instantly that something was wrong. I began searching the house, and I found my parents in their bedroom upstairs. He was on top of her, pinning her to the ground with his hands around her neck.
When he saw me, he fucking smiled. I punched him, kicked him, jabbed at his eyes. I tried to hurt him in any way I could.
It distracted him enough to at least give her a few moments to catch her breath. He started punching me in my stomach, ribs, and sides. I thought I could take it, that if I could hang on a bit more, he would get tired, and then I might get the upper hand.
But when he kicked my leg inward, right below my knee, it snapped so easily under his strength. And I couldn’t stand anymore. I couldn’t get to him to stop him. No matter how hard I screamed, no matter how much I tried to get up, I couldn’t save her.
I’d failed her.
When I was twelve, my dad murdered my mom in front of me.
I wish it had been me that night instead of her.
Glancing at my phone, I’m thankful I at least woke up at a decent hour—seven fifteen a.m. I don’t have to be at the rink until about ten a.m.
My eyes immediately scan the message from Brett that he sent four minutes ago.
Brett: You up yet? I want to run to the mall before practice. That little one by the rink.
If I don’t go, I would probably just sit here on social media for the next hour.
