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Deanna's dark skin paled as I took away the last inch between us. "In a few hours, when that bedroom is empty, your responsibilities as a foster parent are officially over and you get to keep the next few checks. It's a good deal for you."
"Austen! Austen, get out here!" Deanna called to the hallway behind her while backing towards the living room.
"He's not back from his girlfriends.'" I reminded her and could have kicked myself for offering such a glaringly normal response in the middle of this unprecedented assault. I was going for bad-ass and informative didn't fit.
Deanna took advantage of my distraction and moved into the space behind the end table at the far end of the living room. I told myself to get my head in the game and eyed her, closing the gap between us once more, effectively blocking her path to the door.
Deanna had always reminded me of a chocolate bar. She was dark, smooth and smelled sweet. She was also a little nutty sometimes so I had to watch my step.
"So help me God, I will call that case worker right now if you don't back-up."
"No."
"Now." She grabbed the cordless phone on the arm of the small couch beside her.
"You're not calling anyone." The tight balls of my fists pounded the words into my thighs.
This was not the outcome I wanted. Not that I thought convincing Deanna would be easy. When I promised to ask her about the concert, I was going to avoid temptation and reason with her, but she didn't let me even explain.
She went right for the throat and that meant I had to go further. I thought over our short exchange, trying to piece together what might have set it off. Would a simple apology set things right? Deanna was usually lenient when she felt she was in control. But, then there was still the problem of leaving.
I knew how to handle Deanna, but my way was definitely not the recourse Angel hoped for. In fact she'd totally disapprove. But I was cornered; she had the phone and made a threat.
She'd taken away my alternatives and sealed her fate with a threat.
I dropped my shoulders. "Deanna, I'm not trying to hurt you."
"Damn right." She didn't sound scared, but I examined her tight posture, her cornered positioning behind the end table and knew different.
My mind explored the possible next step. What if I kept pushing? What could Deanna really do? What would be her next step? How would I react? The base of the phone was plugged into an outlet in the kitchen. Could she punch three numbers before I got to it? What was I willing to do to keep her from making that call?
"I started hurting myself again." I spoke softly, letting my voice crack.
After a moment of quiet deliberation, Deanna's hard expression cracked, too. She softened, though there was still significant frustration in her eyes. "Things can't be like this between us. You know that."
I nodded. "I didn't mean to."
Quickly unbuttoning the topmost part of my jeans, I yanked the material down to reveal the fresh red lines.
Deanna was a person that took in kids who needed help. So by showing her, I reminded her that I was one of those kids.
There were four new lines: exactly alike, perfectly straight, and evenly spaced. Each equally painful and therapeutic.
Deanna covered her cheek with her hand. "I explained this to you. You are not able to stay in my house if you're doing these things to yourself. What happened? I thought you were talking to that doctor and working things out?"
She reached for me in the strangest way. It was cautious, maybe gentle, too, but I took a step back. Deanna tensed and stepped forward, coming around the side of the end table.
"They look real red." Her eyes strayed up to mine and then went back down to my hip. "I'm going to check for infection."
She was no longer holding the phone when she lowered herself into a squat beside me; the small bird-like girl that bled herself to find relief.
"I don't understand." Deanna ran her index finger along the skin near the outermost line. Her fingertip was warm.
"Because I like how it hurts."
As Deanna looked up, I clearly saw the shift from confusion to surprise in her face. One second she was in control; doing what she always did. She was a savior at heart and had followed that instinct, like I knew she would. At first, she had no idea what was happening, but as the lamp I snatched from the end table came down on her back, it was there: a clear flash of understanding. And then fear, as I drew back and came down again, smashing the base of the chrome table lamp on the back of her head. When she tried to turn over, I got the side of her face.
As I stood over her, catching my breath, feeling the freedom of rage and adrenaline, it was as if everything suddenly stopped: the noise, the stagnant boil of my temperament that kept me on a hair-trigger, the sharp chaos in my head, the screaming voices I was constantly holding at bay; it all stopped.
