Dad’s grin falls off his face the longer I sit without making a sound. He wants me to beg. I want him to know I can stand this. That I’ll survive this and whatever else he threatens.
I don’t know how long I sit, but I lose feeling in my hands as he lifts his vodka bottle to his mouth and sips.
“Get out of my sight,” he grunts, punctuating his decree with another long swallow.
I’m up before he can change his mind. I thrust my hands in the basin, almost crying out as the water touches my skin. It’s not enough. I need clean running water. I recall Charlie telling me to rinse for ten minutes the last time I spilled some on my arm. Will I get ten uninterrupted minutes, or will he keep coming for me today?
I take my chances and rush for the bathroom, running the tap and thrusting my hands under the spray. Relief and pain war with each other as I soap-up and wash away whatever remains of the bleach. Charlie used an antiseptic ointment and a bandage last time, and that was nothing like this one. Do we even have antiseptic?
I search the cupboard over the sink, barely able to feel my fingertips, but only find a half empty bottle of pain meds and an ancient tube of aloe that we use on sunburns—not that the kids even get outside that often these days.
God, I’ve still got to feed them. The pastries are in my bag. I guess I’ll resort to the original plan now that Dax’s gift is gone. Trust Dad to fly off the handle over something as stupid as groceries. Why couldn’t he just be grateful he didn’t have to pay for them?
I fucking hate him.
I hope he drinks himself to death.
I rinse, slather on aloe, wrap them in gauze, and bandage the worst of the redness as best I can. It’s difficult without help. I’m forced to tie the knots with my teeth. Tears stream down my face, but not because I’m crying — I don’t have time to feel sorry for myself — it’s more like the bleach burned them, too.
I stand behind the bathroom door and take a deep breath. Now comes the hard part; getting past Dad to retrieve the food from my bag. Our apartment is small and packed into a square. The front door opens onto an entry that is almost entirely open to themain living room. It’s only five large strides before it turns sharply at a right angle towards the bathroom and bedrooms. A double for the twins, a single that I share with Casey when she’s not in one of the boy’s beds, a family bathroom, and the master bed for Mum and Dad at the end. With the kitchen directly off the living room, it means that every doorway is in sight of Dad’s chair. So, it takes all my nerve to step out and see whether he’s got more planned for me, or if I can quietly move around without pissing him off further.
He’s not moving. His head is flung back as if he’s staring at the ceiling. Not unusual for him, but it’s the vodka bottle in his hand that reassures me. The bottle neck leans dangerously close to the edge of his seat, readying to spill what’s left of its contents across the sofa. He must be sleeping. He’d never risk his booze spilling.
Is it wrong that I think of a lit match while staring at him?
I scramble to my bag at the door—always ready for me to grab on the off chance I need to run out of here— and quietly extract the paper bags of greasy, calorie abundant food.
A quick check tells me Dad hasn’t shifted an inch. He’s most likely asleep. Dirty arsehole likely wore himself out throwing fruit around, but it means I can feed the kids without him noticing.
In their room, TJ and AJ have Casey penned in on all sides by pillows and are doing their best to read her a story while simultaneously pulling faces at her. Her giggles are almost silent, but when she squeaks too loud, I see the twins wince in unison. A pillow fort is pretty smart; keeps her from wandering outside and cushions against the noise. Not that they’ll have intended the latter. I remember doing something similar with them a few years back whenever Dad would throw one of his fits.
It sucks that this is something they’ll remember. The days we escape to play on the swings or get ice-cream on the boardwalk are probably drowned out by these survival memories; the ones that teach them how to disappear, become small, escape Dad’s notice.
“Hey,” I whisper, catching their attention. TJ smiles, but it lacks any light or warmth. AJ sits up and immediately stares atmy hands. “I’m okay. I have food!” That perks them up, though not enough.
I rip open a scotch egg between my fingers and give Casey some of the boiled egg part, while the boys get the sausage crust. While they eat, I divide up the rest of the food between the three of them, careful to break it up and choose the softest pieces for Casey’s little barely-there-teeth.
“Eat slowly. I know you are hungry, but don’t choke it down, okay?”
The boys nod and Casey licks the apple sauce out of her pie slice.
They need the vegetables Dad tore up and ruined. They need nutrients and vitamins and sunlight. I can only do so much, I know that, especially when I’m facing Dad and his fucking twisted sense of entitlement, but I feel like a failure.
“Julee,” AJ stares up at me, his cheeks puffed with sausage and lips strewn with breadcrumbs. “You hurt?” He stares at my bandages.
“Nah, kiddo. I did something silly, and Daddy told me off.”
“Daddy always tells you off,” he mumbles.
“I know. “
“Daddy’s bad. He hits Mummy too,” TJ states matter-of-factly.
What do I say to that? How do I soften this situation? There’s no point lying to them when they’ve seen it for themselves. I can’t even bring myself to lie for Dad, so I say nothing at all. I watch them chew. I stroke the twin’s dark hair off their faces and kiss each of their foreheads. I grab Casey’s dirty, little feet and kiss those too, and I pray for the day that they no longer have to see this shit.
“Right, I’m going to finish cleaning up before Dad wakes up, okay?”
“Juju?” TJ grabs for my hand and then flinches back when his touch makes me hiss. I offer him a soft smile so he knows I’m not mad, it’s not his fault.It’s mine.
