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There was no stopping it.
Dropping my eyes to my plate, I lifted the fork, less sure with my left hand than with my right, and scooped up some rotini noodles and meat sauce.
“You’re right-handed, stupid.”
I paused, still feeling his fingers wrapped tightly around that wrist.
It only took a moment, and then I felt him guide my right hand over, prompting me to take the fork. I did and slowly lifted it to my mouth, his hand still wrapped around that wrist as the dull points of the silver utensil came toward me like something I’d never been scared of until now.
I hesitated, and then… I opened my mouth, almost gagging as he forced the silver in deep, almost brushing my tonsils.
Taking the food, I pulled the fork back out, feeling the resistance in his arm as I did.
We refilled the fork for round two, my lungs constricting.
“What is the matter with you, exactly?” he whispered. “Nothing can be done right. Ever. Why?”
I forced the bite down my throat just in time for another forkful to be shoved in. He jerked my hand as it entered my mouth, and my heart stopped for a moment, a whimper escaping at the threat of the prongs stabbing me.
“I thought I’d walk in the door, and you’d sit me down and explain yourself, but no.” He glared at me. “As usual, you try to hide it like the candy wrappers under your bed when you were ten, and the three-day suspension when you were thirteen.” His words quieted even more, but I almost winced at how it hurt my ears. “You never surprise me, do you? There’s a right way and wrong way to do things, Emory. Why do you always do it the wrong way?”
It was a double-edged sword. He asked questions he wanted me to answer, but whatever I said would be wrong. Either way, I was in for it.
“Why is nothing ever done how I taught you?” he pressed. “Are you so fucking stupid that you can’t learn?
”
The fork moved faster, scooping up more food and rising to my mouth, the prongs stabbing into my lips as I opened them just in time. My mouth filled with food, not swallowing fast enough before more was pushed in.
“Dead parents,” he mumbled. “A grandmother who won’t die. A loser sister...”
Dropping my wrist, he fisted my collar instead and rose to his feet, dragging me with him. I dropped the fork, hearing it clatter against the plate as he backed me into the counter.
I chewed and swallowed. “Martin…”
“What did I do to deserve this?” he cut me off. “All these anchors pulling me down? Always constant. Always a weight.”
The wood dug into my back as my heart tried to pound out of my chest.
“You wanna be ordinary forever?” he bit out, scowling down at me with my mother’s green eyes and my father’s shiny, dark brown hair. “You can’t dress, you can’t fix your hair, you can’t make friends, and, it appears, you can’t do anything impressive to help yourself get into a good university.”
“I can get into a good school,” I blurted out before I could stop myself. “I don’t need swimming.”
“You need what I tell you that you need!” he finally yelled.
I tilted my eyes to the ceiling on instinct, worried my grandmother could hear us.
“I support you.” He grabbed my hair with one hand and slapped me upside the head with the other.
I gasped, flinching.
“I go to the teacher conferences.” Another slap sent my head jerking right, and I stumbled.
No.
But he pulled me back by the hair. “I put food on the table.” Another slap, like a wasp sting across my face, and I cried out, my glasses flying to the floor.
“I pay for her nurse and her medicine.” He raised his hand again, and I cowered, shielding myself with my own arms as he hit again and again. “And this is the thanks I get?”
