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"Pudge," Michael's voice called from behind me, making me start, making me hate myself for it because I knew how much he enjoyed it.
Pudge was his favorite nickname for me through middle school when puberty had been doing wicked things to my poor body, making me round out in the center as my body weighted for the inevitable growth spurt in high school that would thin me back out again.
Pudge.
It was a word that used to make my cheeks redden when he said it in front of my friends - or worse yet, crushes - at school.
It was a word that made me cry at night, then attempt to starve myself thin until Helga caught on, and forced me to eat.
Pudge.
It was still a sore spot even though I knew it no longer applied, that my weight was fine. Ideal, even. Maybe a bit fuller around the backside than was in vogue, but in no way pudgy.
"What, Michael?" I asked, turning, not even bothering to hide my disdain. We were well beyond that. Ever since the night he had informed our sleeping father that I had come in late after curfew.
And I had been dragged out of bed and whipped across my bare butt with a belt.
At seventeen years old.
I hadn't been able to sit down for days.
And I had hated my brother ever since.
Right down to my marrow.
It was a rancid, festering thing.
"Father needs coffee and scones in his office in ten minutes. Where is Helga?"
"Doing laundry," I lied effortlessly, as had become a skill of mine, since I needed to do it so regularly as Helga struggled to find a doctor or treatment that might help.
"I will handle it," I agreed, already moving over toward the pot.
"Try not to make an ass out of yourself while you do it. You represent our father."
I should have bit my tongue.
I knew it.
I knew it even as I opened my mouth to speak.
"Maybe you should try not to be a dick sometimes, since you-"
I didn't get the rest out.
Michael was across the floor in three strides, hand closing around my throat, tightening, lifting until it was just my tiptoes touching the floor, providing no relief, no way to lessen his hold, to get more air in my lungs.
"Watch it," he seethed, spittle jumping from his lips to my face, somehow troubling me more than the fact that my head was starting to feel a little fuzzy. "I tolerate you out of respect for our father. But don't push me, you stupid bitch."
His hand squeezed tighter as I fought the urge to dig at his hands, to try to pry myself free, preferring to pass out than to give him the satisfaction of my frantic desperation.
But he released me just as abruptly as he had grabbed me, dropping me down onto my feet as I fell back into the counter, gasping for air like a fish flopping on the deck.
My brother was much like those fishermen I had watched as a girl, horrified as they laughed at the dying fish. He could have done the humane thing, ended the life quickly, painlessly. But, no. He, like them, got off on the suffering, on the superiority over another being, on their ability to inflict misery and pain.
I could never eat fish after that. Not even when my father had insisted, forced fork-fulls into my mouth that I gagged up violently before being sent to bed without anything in my stomach.
I steadied my breathing.
I made coffee.
I arranged scones on a tray beside cups, sugar, cream, and spoons.
Because, right now, I was still that fish.
Gasping for air.
No relief in sight.
But someday, I would be free of it.
Even some of those fish, when they wanted it enough, when their drive was strong enough, they flopped themselves right to the end of the deck, fell under the rungs, and landed back in their ocean, able to breathe again, get free.
When Helga was well, or when I could finally convince her that I could get her free, then I would do it.
Fight like hell for my freedom.
But today was not that day.
Today I had to bring coffee into the office for my father's new employee
Some guy named Charlie whose name I had been hearing a lot the past few days, but thought nothing of.
But after this meeting, it would be hard, it seemed, to think of anything else.TWOCharlieStarting over was never fun.
It didn't matter how many times I had to do it, I never could get used to it.
New city.
New apartment.
New people.
And, arguably the worst part, a new job.
With a new boss.
This situation was always exasperated by the fact that my jobs had nothing to do with serving up popcorn at the movie theater, or popping off tires at the shop, or even pushing papers at a desk.
No.
My jobs had a hell of a lot more risk.
