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I can hear Logan and Easton quietly trailing behind me. Probably making sure I make it home in one piece. I’d walk beside them, but I can’t talk. I’m afraid if I do, I’m going to act like a big pussy. I’d never hear the end of it.
I turn the corner and see my front door come into view. Behind the screen, I see my dad standing there with a stoic look on his face.
I pause.Shit.
I drop my bike, and with my head down, limp towards the door. My dad opens the screen and I lower my head, wiping some dripping blood from my forehead. The moment I step through the doorway, I can feel the impending doom dripping into my bones, thick as tar.
“Get in the bathroom.” He says, voice flat and baritone.
I grab onto the counter, feeling my legs weaken into jello. He walks behind me, his presence a constant darkness. Stepping into the bathroom, I fall onto the toilet, hissing through my teeth.
“What the hell happened?” My dad sighs as he comes in behind me, like I’m more of an inconvenience and isn’t the least bit concerned of my injuries. He rifles under the sink and grabs the first aid kid.
“We were just screwing around.” I mumble, leaning against the wall as my eyes drift shut. The pain has gotten so bad I’ve gone completely numb.
“Screwing around where?” He already knows. I can tell by his voice. Barely restrained anger. Bubbling rage.
“The hill by the yellow slide.”
Silence.
“You really are a fucking idiot. Fucking no-brained idiot.” What feels like lit flames fall on my shin, and I screech out in terror.
My eyes fly open and I see my dad kneeled in front of me with a wet cloth. When the scent of alcohol permeates the air, nausea overwhelms me.
“Don’t you fuckin’ puke on me.” He spits in my face.
I swallow down the acid as he cleans up my leg. Clearly the most severe cut, the rest of them—at least from what I can tell—are just surface injuries.
“Stupid boy. Thinks he’s on top of the world until he gets hurt. Huh… pussy.”
My eyes burn with emotions. Where is my mom? Probably passed out somewhere. I need her. I wish my dad were at work. My mom might be fucked up, but she would at least tend to my injuries without insulting me in the process.
“You need stitches. Hold still.” When the needles pokes through the skin, it feels like he’s jabbing my bone with a knife. His movements give away that he’s not being the slightest gentle, if anything, he’s being more forceful than he would usually be.
I puff out my cheeks and breathe through my nose, but it doesn’t help. A tear falls, then two, then three, and finally continuous rivers flow down my cheeks unashamed even though my soul fucking hates to be crying in front of my dad.
I feel the thread pull tight through my skin and then thick fingers grasp my chin. “Are you cryin’, boy?”
Blinding pain lances through my cheek. The back of my dad’s hand sits in front of my face, and stares at me in utter disgust.
“Quit your fuckin’ cryin’, boy, or I’ll give you something to cry about.”
He stabs my shin again, and the pain is too much.
I pass out
11
Cara
“Come on, Cara.” Isit at my kitchen table, knee bobbing. Talking to myself. Biting my nails down to stubs. Yeah, fucking normal pregnant lady I am.
I’ve been sitting here for the last hour, trying to get myself to open the damn envelope filled with potential parents for my unborn child. Rose called me two hours ago and said she’s going to be over later this evening and threatened that if I didn’t narrow the potential parents down, she was going to do it herself.
So, here I am. One step closer to the envelope but mentally I’m miles away from being ready to pick out parents.
Deep in my bones I know I’m hesitating because a part of me doesn’t know what the right thing to do is. My head knows I’m not financially, emotionally, or physically ready to take care of a child. My heart on the other hand… I don’t know. There’s some lump of uncertainty sitting in the pit of my stomach and I can’t get rid of it.
