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“Someone stole it, and he had to go collect it.”
“Stole it?” Her eyes go wide. “Who would be that stupid?”
“I know, right?” I don’t tell her that he killed the woman who did. Or that the reason I had that dress on was because I’d been covered in half the woman’s blood, or even that she’s wearing that dead woman’s dress.
Maybe I’m becoming too accustomed to him and his lifestyle. I didn’t come from a clean one to begin with, and I know of all the bad things that happen in this life. I’ve seen it and sometimes have even done some of them.
“Rumors are flying.”
I sit on my bed next to her.
“What do you mean?”
She looks away and touches the bottom of the dress.
“About you both.”
“Lucas and me?”
“Yeah.”
“What are they saying?”
“Well, you know the streets talk, they always do. It could be false, what they say.”
“What are they saying, Merci?”
“That there is a reason he’s so invested in you and hasn’t killed you yet.”
“Did they say what the reason is?”
She shakes her head. “No, but it started to sound more and more true when Brody told me he didn’t actually find the job, but that the job found him. Knowing how protective you are of your brother you would go there. And…” She pauses.
“And…” I say, indicating for her to continue.
“That he has you where he wants you. But you are too blind by the way he fucks to see clearly.”
“There's no doubt he is good in bed,” I point out. “But I already suspected the same thing. I just don’t know exactly what it is yet.”
“And you’re willing to find out?”
“Lucas won’t let me walk away, regardless. He isn’t that type of man. So, I have no other choice.” I shrug.
“You always have a choice.”
“Since when? Look at where we live, what we do. Who we are?”
Merci stands, walks over, and grips my face. “But look at where you are now. You aren’t that little girl that your momma abandoned anymore. You are amazing, you know that.”
“Sometimes, I don’t feel it,” I say in a small voice.
“That’s just because we aren’t conditioned to it. We weren’t lucky enough for that. I’m thankful for my grandmother, but I didn’t always have her.”
I look down at my bare right foot, where a small scar sits. You wouldn’t notice if I didn’t point it out, but I remember it clearly.
* * *
They were fighting. Always, always fighting. They mentioned love, but was that really a thing if it was meant to be like that? I didn’t understand it. Surely, this couldn’t be right.
Brody cries from the next room, and I push open the front door. I was planning on staying on the other side until they finished, but I’m hungry, and I need to use the bathroom. Plus, I need to comfort Brody.
“You useless piece of shit.” Dad’s angry. When isn’t he, though?
“Fuck you,” my mother hisses.
“You.” I stop just as I walk in. Both sets of eyes fall to me. “Where have you been?” My father walks over to me. I look back to my mother to see her turn away and grab a bottle of something with brown liquid before she lights a cigarette. My father slaps my face for not focusing on him—he hates it when I disobey him. But sometimes, I have to. He just doesn’t understand, or maybe he does.
“Yes.” My voice is small because I am small. But I know well enough to not argue with him. He doesn’t care about hitting me. He will do it, then walk over to Mama and do the same.
He hasn’t hit Brody yet, maybe because he’s too little.
I don’t remember a time when he didn’t hit me.
“Where have you been? Your brother has been crying for the last hour, and you know you’re meant to be looking after him.”
I hold up the now warm bottle of milk. He grabs and throws it. I hear it crack, and I shiver.
I had to steal that money from him to be able to get it. Brody needs milk. It’s why he’s screaming.
“Go and look after your brother. Shut him up.” I nod and walk behind my father to the kitchen and grab a bottle. It’s dirty, so I rinse it under the water as Mama stands there doing nothing but smoking. When I look at the milk, there’s a little bit left in the bottom, so I pick it up and pour it in, then add some water.
Just as I screw on the lid, Dad is back, the glass from the broken bottle in his hand.
“I told you to shut him up,” he screams at me. “Why is he still crying?”
I hate him.
Detest him.
Loathe the fucker and her.
I hate them both.
I shouldn’t hate them.
But I can’t help it.
The clothes that I am wearing are second-hand, and the shoes I wear are too small and hurt my feet. I currently have blisters all over them and my toes are curling.
