My mouth drops open so wide my jaw pops. I’m being punished for something I didn’t do. Preparing to defend myself, I take a deep breath, but her fists land on her hips, and I know that there is nothing I can say that will change her mind. So, I turn to do as I’ve been instructed.
The lump in my chest at the reminder that I’m not good enough for her, steals the rest of my bluster. Shouldn’t grandparents be the ones who love you no matter what? I suppose it’s hard to love a disappointment. I blink back the painful reminder, emotions burning my eyes and clogging my throat.
“Folly is bound up in the heart of a child, but the rod of discipline drives it far away,” she recites as I walk down the hallway. Her go-to verse when I’ve done something, in her mind, that goes against the church. Or even something she deems wrong.
The reminder that I’m nothing but a burden to her is another stab, forcing the emotions to erupt over. Thankfully, I manage to dip into the bathroom before she sees the weakness. Quickly wiping away the reminder that I’m not good enough, I glance over the pitiful reflection staring back at me in my bathroom mirror. The blood from my nose and the corner of my mouth is all dried in my pitiful display of facial stubble. Flaring outmy nostrils, I try to peek into my nose to find it straight and unobstructed. At least it doesn’t look like they broke my nose this time.
I move onto my eyes, red and puffy from the tears, to see the one bloodshot and the black eye already forming. No swelling, though.
Small miracles, I suppose.
Lifting the shirt over my head, I toss it straight into the bin. It’s not even worthy of rags at this point. The mottled bruises across my torso are already darkening and blending in nicely with the old ones that have turned yellow.
I continue undressing and climb into the shower to wash away the day. The hot water feels so good on my battered body. I don’t ever want to leave.
Leaving this sanctuary means scripture. It means kneeling in front of the crucifix as I read from the Bible. It means admitting that what I am is wrong. A disgrace. Each poisonous word attempting to cleanse my soul while destroying little bits of me. All the while Grandma Julia rocks in that rocking chair and knits. The squeak of the old wood and the clicking of her needles behind me acts as a constant reminder that my warden is watching. Not loving me like a grandmother is supposed to, but judging my words to verify they are spoken with conviction.
I sigh heavily as my forehead drops to the tiled wall with athud. All too familiar emotions rise up into my throat, filling my lashes with tears. This town feels more like a death sentence, and that thought terrifies me more than anything else.
The shower doesn’t take nearly long enough. Not that any length of time will make either of us forget my obligation.
It’s why I find myself shuffling my feet down the carpeted hallway once I’m dressed in a pair of sweats and a fresh T-shirt. Each step feels like one more nail in my coffin as I move closer and closer to my doom.
Dramatic? Yes, fine, I admit that. But two years of this shit would make anyone start to come undone. And out here, in the public spaces of her home, I have to grin and bear it. Not let her see the effect and remain strong.
To my left is the crucifix hung on the wall above her framed cross-stitching—Proverbs 22:15.
Fuck, that one verse will forever haunt my dreams.
In front of all of that is her cushioned prayer stool with her Bible.
On my right, further into the room, is where Grandma Julia is already perched in her chair. However, her needles are sitting quietly in the basket beside her. Instead, she’s holding a framed picture with an expression I’ve never seen on her face. She suddenly appears older, like her wrinkles have increased by a simple furrow of her brow and tightness of her lips. If I didn’t know her any better, I would guess it to be regret.
She blinks rapidly when she realizes I’ve entered the room, placing the image of my mother as a child onto the nearby table. Glancing back at her, really looking at her, I see the depth of that pain. Part of me wishes I could feel happy that she’s feeling remorseful, but the part that remembers she’s still my grandmother wants to console her.
Ignoring my stare, she picks up her knitting as if there wasn’t a deeper moment that just passed between us. Instead, the sounds of her rocking chair and knitting needles hard at work fill the small space.
With a heavy sigh, I turn to the prayer bench; my knees pop and crunch as I position myself. Curling my lip into a sneer I know she can’t see, I flip through the leather-bound book until I find the book of Job.
Creak. Creak. Click, click, click. Creak.
I clench my jaws to stave off the onslaught of overwhelming sensations. Adjusting my kneeling position only causes myknees to scream out a bit more. My eyes slam shut in an attempt to reel in the well of emotions rising to the surface I have to keep a lid on—frustration, anger, confusion, abandonment.
When I open my eyes again, on a fulfilling exhale, I stare at my forearms propped on either side of the book. The pale scars across both wrists draw me in as a constant reminder of that awful day. The day that landed me in this position.
I open my mouth to begin reciting the hollow words and swear to myself that I will find a way out of here. Iwillfind my way to freedom.
Chapter 2
Rami's POV
My stomach growls loud enough to draw several people’s attention in the otherwise silent library. I suppose that protein bar I had last night wasn’t enough.
I learned the hard way to always keep a stash around. Let’s just say that last night wasn’t my first time being denied a meal. Though I could have sworn I was down to only two more bars, and there were six in the box. Thankfully, I won’t have to buy anymore quite yet, but I can’t keep too much food in my room or else she’ll notice. Plus, I already don’t have much of an allowance, so I can’t afford a lot of snacks.
Deborah, the librarian—a.k.a. The Crypt Keeper. That’s what I call her, ‘cause she’s so old—narrows her eyes at me. She’s one of Grandma Julia’s friends. Honestly, the only reason I’m allowed to do schoolwork here is because her little spy can keep an eye on me. Well, it’s that and the fact that here I’m out of her way.
Ignoring the hunger forcing knots in my stomach, I focus back on my schoolwork. After moving to this shit hole, I had to transfer to online classes. Grandma Julia refused to approve me returning to in-person classes because she insisted I needed a firmer hand.
