He releases my throat and saunters back to his chair as ifnothing happened.
I stumble to the sink and run the tap. The gushing water covers the noise of my ragged breaths as I try to regulate my breathing. Scooping a handful of cold water, I sip slowly. The cold burns as it goes down.
Right. Clean up.
I grab the dish soap and basin out of the cupboard under the sink and fill it up with hot water, stirring in soap so it bubbles, then dunk a sponge and a scrub brush inside and haul it through to the living room once I’m steady enough to walk.
I’ll have to clean everything he can see before I can get started on the mess in the kitchen. The longer he waits, the more time he has to wind himself up for round two.
I survey the damage. The carpet is ruined, but it was a mess before his food-tirade. The walls will be okay, the washable paint should make light of the work. The proteins in the eggs will probably cause permanent stains unless I tackle those first.
I slop the remains of the eggs onto my t-shirt and run them back to the bin. My clothes are already coated in orange and apple pieces, so it doesn’t bother me. I grab one of the empty plastic bags and use it for the remaining rubbish: broken pots, squashed fruit, milk carton with only a drizzle of milk left, and plastic lids. I use my hands to pick up the worst of the mess and then ditch the bag before resuming washing.
“What the hell’s taking you so long?”
“Sorry,” I mumble. He grunts. I work faster and try not to think about the money wasted buying all this stuff, or that he’d rather see it ruined than in his children’s empty tummies. Those babies are starving and he’s out here wasting food. My temper stews. I can’t say anything out loud, but I’m screaming in my head. I’m screaming at this hateful bastard. I’m screaming for those three innocents hiding in their room, too young to know what’s happening, but already wise enough to know it’s too dangerous to be seen. They are as silent as mice. Three children under five and youwould barely know they exist.
I get the egg stains cleaned easily with sheer anger powering my scrubbing, but before I can make my way across the room, Dad has planned a new way to punish me.
“Bleach!” he barks.
“What?”
“Bleach the walls and the woodwork.” He lounges, with his feet up, but he’s coiled tense and can’t hide his smirk no matter how many times he rolls his lips.
Fuck him. I get up, empty the basin, and refill it with warm water. I rinse out the grotty sponge and grab the bottle of bleach and some gloves. The walls are white so the bleach shouldn’t do damage when I water it down a little. I snap on the gloves and Dad interrupts again.
“Who said you could wear gloves?”
“It’s bleach,” I argue.
He raises a brow. A warning not to answer back again. “And don’t go watering it down either. Now hurry and clean that fucking mess.” The gloves roll down as I pull them off.
He wants me to use pure bleach with bare hands? God. I’ll have to work fast. I pour a little bleach onto the sponge and scrub. I can already tell it’s going to hurt later, except later isn’t good enough for Dad. The second the walls are clear, he heaves himself up and stalks across to me.
“You think you can outsmart me, Juliet?” he spits, grabbing my hair and yanking my head back. “Hold out your hands.”
I don’t move. I can’t.
“You think a good father would let his bitch daughter steal and not punish her for it?” God, the laughter in his voice makes me feel sick. I did this. I fucked up, and he’s going to use it as an excuse to fuck me up. He grabs the bleach with his free hand and hovers it above my head.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
“Hold out your hands or I’ll pour this shit over your face.”
My bravery teams up with my stupid and I’m talking back before I can think better of it. “Do it. Then Hanson’s will never take me. No one wants a disfigured whore.”
Dad laughs, but he pulls the bottle away from my face. “Smart-mouthed bitch. Just like your mother. Hands, now, or I’ll fucking drown that little mongrel cunt in it instead. One less mouth to feed.”
He means Casey. Fuck. I can’t trust that he wouldn’t do it too. I risk looking into the fuckers’ eyes, and the vicious grin on his face is matched in his irises. It’s a truth. He could be bluffing, but I won’t risk it. I won’t risk her.
I hold out my hands.
“Cup them,” he demands.
I curve each hand into a cup and watch helplessly as he fills them with bleach. He throws the bottle to the floor and stumbles back to his recliner. The instant his back is turned I spread my fingers and release as much of the bleach as I can to the floor, then cup my hands again. It’s not enough to prevent bleach burn, but it’s better than nothing. He stares at me, grinning when my hands tremble from the sting and my arms shake from the effort of holding them up. I can barely hold my head up. I’m so spent.
With each second dragging like an hour, my skin goes from grey to pink to bright red. If he doesn’t release me soon, will I scar? Will the damage be permanent? I’ve only lasted this long because we buy the cheap shit; the stuff that no one else wants. I’ve never been more grateful for being poor. House bleach isn’t supposed to be toxic…or at least not as toxic as the industrial stuff, but it’s not supposed to be soaked into your skin either. The prickle transforms to a blanket of bee stings and then to an aching burn. My eyes water from the smell. My empty stomach recoils dangerously, though I’ve nothing to bring up but bile.
