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“She was covered in bruises.”
“That bitch is always tripping over shit. Someone needs to teach her how to walk.”
“She didn’t trip.” I step up beside him as he tightens a bolt. “You hit her.”
He laughs and turns his head to look at me. “You think I hit her? Seriously?”
“I know you did. She told me.”
“She’s lying. I didn’t fucking touch her.”
“Tara wouldn’t lie about that. Just admit it. Admit you gave her those bruises.”
I don’t know why I’m giving him a chance to defend himself. I imagined myself punching him the moment I saw him, but I held back. Maybe because I used to consider him a friend and want to believe a friend of mine wouldn’t do this.
He rises up to standing, a smirk on his face as he taps a wrench against his palm. “What if I did? What are you going to do about it?”
“You’re admitting you did it? That you hurt her?”
“It wasn’t my fault. The bitch made me do it.”
It’s the same thing my dad said every time he beat up my mom, when she was crumpled on the floor, blood running down her face, her eye swollen shut.
“The bitch made me do it,” he’d say to Dean and me as we stood there in horror, seeing what he’d done to our mom, wondering if she’d live or die.
Hearing those words again spikes my anger to a level I didn’t know existed. It’s like every cell in my body is vibrating with rage, ready to explode.
Using all my strength, I punch Troy in the face. He stumbles back and the wrench falls from his hand, making a loud clanking noise on the concrete floor.
“What the fuck was that for?” Troy says, rubbing his jaw where my fist hit.
“You never should’ve touched her,” I say, my fist ready to punch him again.
“So you’re the guy,” he says, his smirk returning. “You’re the one who sent the texts? The one who’s been fucking my girlfriend?”
“She’s not yours,” I say, taking a step forward for every step he takes back, my fist raised, ready to strike again. “Even if she was, you don’t fucking hit her.” I punch him again and he falls to the ground.
“You don’t want to do this, Jake. It’s not going to end well.”
“Guess we’ll find out, won’t we?”
Troy slowly stands up, one hand behind him, his other raised in the air. “Let’s just stop a minute.” He sounds nervous, which is what I wanted. I want him to feel how Tara did, always fearing what he’d do to her. I know this week wasn’t the only time he hit her. It’s probably been going on for months. It’s why she wouldn’t break up with him. She was too afraid of what he’d do to her.
“You and I are friends, right?” Troy says. “You don’t want some girl getting in the way of our friendship.”
“I was never friends with you. I just put up with you because you were always with Sean. If I could get away with it, I’d fucking kill you.” I raise my fist to hit him again and feel a sharp pain in my gut. My arm drops to my side, and when I look down, I see a knife sticking out of me, just below my ribcage.
“What the fuck?” I mutter, watching blood pool around the knife, soaking my shirt.
“You made me do it,” Sean says as I fall to the ground. “You should’ve stayed out of it, Sanders.”
“Help me,” I say, feeling dizzy as I lose more blood. “Call for help. Hurry!”
“Yeah, I don’t think so.” He leans down to me. “But I do need this back.” He yanks the knife from my gut and I scream out in agony. “Don’t be such a baby.”
He gets up and grabs a rag, wiping off the knife.
“Troy, I’m serious. I need help.” I put my hand into my pocket and pull out my phone. Troy notices and kicks it out of my hand, sending it flying across the floor to the other side of the garage.
