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“My mother died,” I say to him. “Because of you. You made her that way, and then you killed her.”
“I had a bad feeling about that one from day one,” he mutters. He didn’t know her, not really. Even after all those years. What an idiot. Whatever, I still don’t care.
“Kill me.” My voice is steady, calm. “Just do it already, because I know what you’re about to ask me, and I’m not doing it. I won’t go back to him. The answer was, is, and will always be no. So you might as well just slit my throat, and if you ever loved me as a daughter, even for a second, then you’d have the mercy of cutting deep so that I die quick.”
“Ugh!” He squeezes the blade to my skin, producing blood from just above my collarbone, before removing it from my neck and pushing me against the wall. I slam into the red bricks and feel the familiar sting in my nose.
But I’m not going back.
I’m not doing that anymore.
God, why can’t he just kill me?
“You were good entertainment, girl,” he argues, and I turn around to face him. Still scrawny from “his sickness,” which is actually a severe addiction to crack and alcohol, still with a messy, curly mountain of grey hair and a matching grey beard, filthy skin—maybe it’s tan, but maybe just dirty—in Levi’s jeans, and an ugly Christmas jumper he probably stole from someone’s clothesline.
“You mean a whore,” I retort tiredly, rubbing my eyes with the base of my palms. I sigh and shake my head. “I’m not going back to that. You tortured and abused me. You pimped me out, Dad, and I was only sixteen. Do you even get how wrong that is?”
“We needed the money,” he mutters, looking at me in complete shock, like he can’t understand why I’m making such a big deal out of it.
“No, you needed the money. I needed a fucking father,” I correct, turning again to leave. “I’m trying to build something here. Please don’t ruin it. And don’t come here ever again. I mean it. The Savages are dangerous. They take care of their girls. You don’t want to become a statistic in their unfortunate record.”
Just as I’m about to leave, he yanks me back by my hair and throws me against the wall again. His fingers wrap around my throat, and his blade is digging to my stomach, and this time he means business. I see the manic twinkle in his eyes is back, which only serves to remind me that I hate my dad sober more than I do when he’s high or drunk.
When he is high or drunk, he is annoying and when I’m lucky, unresponsive.
But when he’s sober? He’s just a sick, violent bastard.
“You’re right, Quinn. I should cut you just for being such a cold little bitch,” he sneers. I feel the blade in my stomach, how it slices through my flesh, hot and searing, burning me, but not as bad as his words, and I pray he hits an important organ and just kills me already, instead of prolonging the torture with shallow slices. That’s his game. And I have the scars to prove it. “You’re a bitch.” He stabs into my stomach, digging deeper. I feel it. I feel the blood pouring out like a river. I squeeze my eyes shut, a faint smile adorning my lips. I don’t answer him. I need him exactly like this. Manic.
“Selfish.” Stab.
“Little.” Stab.
“Bitch.” Stab.
He spits into my face each time, his rotten breath directly against my nose, over and over again.
“Stop,” a steel voice interrupts.
No.
Reluctantly, my eyes flutter open. I feel dizzy, out of focus, probably from the blood loss, but I can still make out his figure. His eyes, so blue. His hair, brown and messy like a boy’s, and even in my confusion, this strikes me as odd. His mussed hair is a stark contrast from the severe expression on his face.
God, his face. The way he looks at me.
Carter.
“Don’t touch the knife,” Carter instructs coldly, without an ounce of emotion in his voice. “Keep it there and get off her. Slowly. Don’t make any sudden moves. I’ll take it out myself.”
I’m so ashamed I shut my eyes again. Who can blame me? My dad is stabbing me in an alleyway because he can’t pimp me to his drug-dealing friends. No one is supposed to know my story.
“You her boyfriend?” Dad cocks his head in my direction. “Because you know she’s a whore, right?”
I’m not a whore. I swallow down the shame, but I don’t cry.
“Fine, I’ll take it out. You just stand there and don’t move,” Carter mutters, still blasé. I suck in a deep breath, praying my sorry excuse for a father won’t listen, and this time stab my heart, when I feel his rancid laugh dancing in my face again.
“No. I think I’ll kill her. She’s no good to me anymore.”
