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A sinister grin curls at his lips. “And there she is.” He shoves me down on the bed. “I don’t know why you always try to pretend like you’re obedient in the beginning. It never lasts. And you want to know why?”
I move to climb off the bed, but he wrestles me down, climbing on top of me and pinning me down. “Get off me!” I scream. “Now—”
He smacks me so hard my ears ring. Then he pins my hands down beside my head, leaning in and breathing into my face, “Because you’re just like your stupid mother. You’re a spoiled little brat who thinks you can do whatever she wants.”
“Shut up!” I scream, tears pooling in my eyes.
“Aw, am I hurting your feelings? Well, good.” Pinning both my hands in one of his, he leans back and lifts the hem of my shirt. “The next time you even think about trying to steal from me, you look down at this and remember.” He points the tip of the blade at my side and nicks my skin, causing blood to pool out. “Remember what you are.”
Then he starts cutting, moving the blade over my flesh. I barely feel the pain, though. I’ve become numb to this. Numb to everything.
Memories of my past—of the day my parents were murdered—begin to surface. It sometimes happens when I shut down like this. Although, it’s always fragments of images that don’t complete a full story.
Warm blood covers my hands as I stare down at my parents. Blood is all over them, covering their clothes, their hair.
Why is there so much blood? And why is it all over my hands?
“Mom,” I whisper as I collapse to my knees.
I can’t remember how I got here. Can’t remember where the blood came from. All I can remember is screaming. So much screaming.
“Raven! No!” my mom shouts a plea. “Please don’t do this, sweetie. You don’t want to do this. Just go. Run!”
But I can’t go. Not until I get to her.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I’m sorry I can’t forget.”
She screams—
“You’re quiet tonight,” my uncle says, yanking me back to reality.
Droplets of blood are on the blade of his knife and his hands.
Blood. Just like in my memories.
I never told anyone that I see myself covered in blood sometimes. If I did, I’d be under more suspicion. Maybe one day I can finally talk about it when all the dots are connected. I just hope I don’t end up seeing something I don’t want to.
Not wanting to think about my parents anymore, I focus on the pain in my side because it’s easier than dealing with the emotional pain piercing inside me.
“Got nothing to say?” My uncle stands by my bed, staring down at me with expectancy.
I stare at the ceiling, not moving, refusing to say a word, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a fight, something I’ve learned he wants.
“Looks like it worked then.” He wipes the blade of his knife across the side of his pant leg, cleaning off the blood. Then he puts the knife away and looks at me again, waiting for something. When I make no effort to even budge, he shakes his head. “Whatever. At least I got you to shut up.” He moves to leave when his gaze zeroes in on my wrist. The wrist where the pendant he tried to burn is. His eyes flare with anger. “Where the hell did you get that?”
I swallow hard. “I found it in the yard at our old house.”
Gritting his teeth, he yanks the bracelet from my wrist. “You fucking little thief. You’re lucky I don’t arrest you.” With that, he storms for the door. “Don’t ever touch any of my shit again,” he snaps then walks out of my room, slamming the door behind him.
I don’t move. Barely breathe.
I don’t want to be here.
I want to fade away.
After what feels like hours, I drag myself off the bed and walk over to the mirror to see the damage. My side feels like it’s on fire as I lift the hem of my blood-stained shirt and peer at the newly marked word branding my flesh. Then I shake my head, my jaw ticking.
He didn’t only carve one word into my flesh, but three.
