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“Tell me, Anita, is today a Thursday?” His nose touches the end of hers.
“No, Peter, it’s not.” Her eyes fall to the floor regretfully.
“What night is it?”
“It’s Wednesday.” Her voice is just a shaky whisper, barely audible.
“And what do we eat on Wednesdays?”
“B…Beef b…b…brisket.” I see the tears starting to form in her eyes and I wish I could stop the inevitable from happening for her.
Mama yelps like a puppy being kicked when Father fists her perfectly set hair, and marches her into the kitchen. She begs him to stop when he forces her face toward the boiling hot pot.
“Is this beef fucking brisket, Anita?” he shouts at her, and her cheek is so close to the hot metal that she must feel like it’s melting.
“No,” she cries, the fear in her eyes reflecting back at me from the shiny pot.
I manage to catch a breath when he finally releases her, and she slumps to the floor helplessly, breaking into tears.
“Explain.” He starts pacing the floor in front of her. Backward and forward over the same spot, with his hands crossed behind his back like a Sergeant Major.
“I… I went to the butchers to get the brisket but they were out.”
“Then you should have gone earlier,” Father responds, trying to find his calm.
Mama nods her head back at him. “I should have. I’m sorry,” she agrees submissively.
“Get up off the floor.” He stops pacing and stands over her, and when she manages to drag herself up onto her feet, she screeches when he swipes the back of his hand across her cheek.
“Do not let me down again,” he warns, marching out of the kitchen and past me like I’m invisible.
He takes his chair in the living room and opens the paper—that Mama had made sure is placed ready for his evening read—like nothing’s happened, and I turn my head to look into the kitchen where Mama has already started pulling herself back together again. Wiping the back of her hand over her cheeks to brush away the tears, she looks up at me with a brave smile and winks to let me know that she’s okay. It’s our secret signal.
I look back over at my father, and my hate for him burns through my veins. It heats through my skin, making it hard for me to control. But I breathe, slowly. In and out while I count to ten in my head. One, two, three…
I stumble back inside the cabin a few hours later, my buzz is starting to wear off and I’m fed up of watching the others getting their dicks polished.
I’ve spent all night wondering if Rogue has let herself back into my cabin, and even though I know it’s a real bad idea. I had to come home and check.
The cabin is silent when I walk in, and I try to ignore the stab of disappointment I’m feeling as I take off my cut and hang it on the hook behind the door. I should have fucked Mel, released some of the fuckin’ tension inside me. It’s been far too long since I gave into my sick urges, and for the last twenty-four hours, Rogue has been putting thoughts in my mind that are impossible to ignore.
Keeping the demon caged is really starting to drain me.
I freeze when I open my bedroom door and find her sitting in my bed, casually flicking through a bike magazine.
“Good night?” she asks, looking up at me and smiling like it’s perfectly normal for her to be here. In my bed. Wearing my fucking shirt again.
“Yeah.” I nod, still adjusting to her being in front of me. How much longer can I ignore how fucking weird this is?
“I’m taking a shower,” I mumble, turning around and marching straight to the bathroom where I can lock myself away from her.
She doesn’t belong here, why is she trying to push my limits? It’s too much. I’m not strong enough. Her being here is bad for me, bad for her, bad for fucking everything.
I stay in the shower for as long as I can, the warm water spilling down my back, and doing fuck all to calm me the way it usually does.
Eventually, I drag myself out, dry off, and wrap the towel around my waist before taking a breath and heading back to my bedroom.
The way Rogue’s eyes skim over my body when I enter sends sparks over my skin. I turn my back to her to sit on the edge of the bed, trying to adjust to the way my body’s reacting, the way it craves contact with hers feels strange to me. I shiver when her fingertips gently touch the skin on my back, lightly trailing across my shoulder, but I don’t flinch. I remain still, and I’m confused by the warmth that suddenly fills my chest.
