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I let a man love me. Danced with him near the ocean. Lost myself in his touch without caring how it might end. He respects me. Gives me space. Cares about my needs. He’s my safety and my warmth and everything about my day that’s wonderful and worth it. Even though I said harsh words—and he probably hates me now—we still shared those moments. We connected. We orgasmed together, laughed together, found comfort by each other’s sides. I became whole and complete with him.
No. I’ve always been whole. And important. And deserving of respect. And I’m kind and funny and strong and assertive and I’m a great listener and a very good friend.
I just didn’t see before.
I’m a Queen.
A Sex Goddess.
As I stand staring at the sink, gripping the hot glass pan, the man closes the fridge behind me and yells. I don’t register his words, only the sounds. The noise. The stabbing in my ears from each shattered syllable. I soak in the vibrations, letting the blistering burn on my arm penetrate my insides. The words my mom engraved in me all these years seep fully into my soul.
You’re not capable enough.
You’re too broken to have adult relationships.
You can’t have your own life.
I believed her, but I won’t believe anymore. I want a new story. Feelings leak from my chest until a lump forms in my throat. All those years, Mom convinced me her pain was more important than mine.
It’s not fair. This man being here isn’t fair.
Sensations floods my system and I welcome the emotional excess, the overwhelm.
Take it all in, brain. I won’t fight you. Do what you have to and get us out of here.
My brain takes over. I scream, spinning with the pan tight in my grip. I swing until it connects with the man’s head. The pan drops. He drops. The world is a blur of crashing glass and a two-hundred pound body slumping to the floor.
Oh God.
Oh God.
I’m sorry, God.
I cover my mouth. Why did I let my brain do that? I wasn’t trying to kill him. I don’t need criminal charges on top of all the legal shit I’m about to endure.
I fall to my knees to shake him and check his pulse. He’s breathing and his eyes flutter open a second. No blood. He’s just knocked out. Thank God.
But now I need to go before he wakes up.
First, my arm. I stumble to the sink to let cool water run over my skin. Stop the burning. Calm the bubbling. Then I hurry to the bathroom for a bandage, wrapping the tan cloth tight around my arm. I rush to my room to grab Bamsy. Then I’m ready. This is all I need—myself and my stuffed friend.
In the living room, I kiss Mom on the forehead.
She half-opens her eyes. “Dinner ready, baby?”
No, but I love you. You’re still my mom, no matter how twisted and manipulative you are. I wish Dad never left, and I wish you could love yourself. I’m strong enough now to let you deal with your own pain so I can have my own life. I hope you find more happiness than this. Please find yourself some help.
I kiss her forehead again, grab some loose change for the bus, and then slip out the door.
The crickets welcome me.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Brody
AMBER HANDS ME A BEER as I mope on the couch. I check the label. Vanilla Cinnamon Porter. An excellent flavor, but one that does nothing for me. “Where did you get this?”
She sits next to me on the couch, grabbing the remote. “While you were pounding the punching bag earlier, I went to Frank’s. You didn’t see me? You were right there.”
