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Paige: You said you’d respect my decision. Why are you not listening? You can’t come here. You’ll get hurt. Please don’t try.
Brody: Whether you give us your address or not, we’re getting you out of there.
Since he’s not listening, I do the only thing I can think of: lie. It comes out harsher than I intend.
Paige: No! I don’t want to see you. I never want to see you again. We’re over. I told you I didn’t love you, so why can’t you accept that? If you come here, I’ll want nothing to do with you. Ever. Only Amber. This is MY life, and I’m setting a boundary right now. My boundary is you need to leave me alone and stop chasing after me because you can’t accept that I don’t want you. What we had was fun but we’re OVER. I still want to talk to Amber but not you because I don’t need your help. I can make my own decisions. Please follow through with what you said and RESPECT my decision.
I hit send and instantly regret it. Why did I phrase it that way? I sound so mean. I don’t want to be mean to Brody, but I don’t want him and Amber to come here and get hurt. That man is too violent. I know Brody is big and intimidating and wants to beat people up for me, but I can’t imagine him having a gun. There’s a gun here.
Before I can wait for any kind of response, if one is even coming, the smoke alarm goes off. I gasp. The chicken.
I stuff the phone in my waistband and rush to the living room. There’s smoke everywhere and the high-pitched wail of the smoke alarm is scrambling my brain. I cover my ears and search for it. It’s so loud. So, so loud. Like Black Canary’s sonic scream. It feels like my ears will start bleeding.
I stand on my tiptoes and smack the alarm with my palm until it shuts up. I cough and scratch my forehead, letting the silence soak into me and erase the needles in my ears.
Mom is passed out on the couch from her afternoon round of pills, a muted TV in the background. I check if she’s still breathing. She is, so I hurry to the kitchen to turn off the oven. When I open the door to grab the blackened chicken, more smoke billows out and I cough.
At the worst possible moment, the front door opens and then slams shut. A few moments later, he appears, the wrinkles on his skin so deep his face looks like clay a sculptor dug into. “What the fuck are you doing?”
I shrink toward the fridge.
“Pull it out, you fucking moron,” he barks.
I scramble to find oven mitts and then pull the sizzling glass pan out. I lose my grip and it crashes to the floor. The glass is too thick to break, but chicken and grease splatter near my feet, hot liquid burning my toes. I cry out and step back.
“Jesus fucking—” He slams the oven door so hard I’m surprised it doesn’t break. Then he grabs a fistful of my hair and forces me to my knees. He shoves my face down until it’s inches from the spilled food. “This is not what I want to come home to. I expect to come home to my wife, beer, and food that’s not black. Now I’m starving and there ain’t no goddamn meal ready.” He yanks my head back so I’m looking up at him. “You know all the shit I had to put up with at work? This was not the day for this, cunt.” He pushes me so my forearm falls onto the hot pan. I scream and try to move, but his boot crushes my shoulder, holding me down. My skin sizzles as heat sears the top layer. The pain is so blinding I pray I’ll black out.
When he finally releases me, he kicks my side. “Clean this shit up and make something else. Make it fucking quick. I have no patience for your shit today.”
My stomach throbs and I stare at the red, blistered skin on my arm. It stings and aches so much it’s hard to think—flesh is bubbling and peeling apart. My eyes shift to the tiny scar near the burn, the one from my fight with Candy.
Yeah, scream at me again, bitch, and see what I do.
I did. I screamed and fought back. I showed her what I can do. This little two-inch mark is a battle scar. I didn’t stand by helplessly while she took my voice, my right. I couldn’t let her take it. I didn’t. I fought back.
All on my own, despite everything against me.
That man grabs my hair again. “Have you gone dumb?”
I shake my head, staring into his hard, empty black eyes. Two simmering black holes. My entire body numbs because it doesn’t matter, does it? Whether I run away or stay here, one day this man will kill me. At least outside this prison, I’ll have a fighting chance.
“Then start cleaning.”
My hands are still stuffed into the oven mitts, so I muscle through the searing pain and grab the pan. I lift myself, turn toward the sink as he tears through the fridge for a beer. I’m barely focused on my throbbing arm and side, the pain overpowered by the growing pressure in my head. I can’t stop thinking about my scar from the fight.
All the things I did.
All my experiences these past two months.
I escaped the hospital where they kept tying me down.
I tried weed for the first time, even though it made me sick. Now I can say, “Yeah, I smoked pot and threw up on someone’s lawn. What a crazy night that was.”
I spent time with kind Mrs. Johnson and watchful Frank. They treated me like any other neighbor, smiling and waving, inviting me to chat to pass an afternoon.
I went downtown alone because, for a moment, I believed in myself enough to try. I failed, but I still tried.
I supported my best friend through her anguish. Encouraged her to get the help she needed.
