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I
TORMENT
“Tell me every terrible thing you ever did, and let me love you anyway.” —Edgar Allan Poe
1
RHYS: CHAPTER I
Then
They’re fighting again. I sit in the darkness of my room listening as our parents go at it. They’ve always been toxic to each other. But tonight is bad. It’s worse than any other night we’ve ever had to deal with.
There’s a knock on my door and I know who it is before she even slips inside. Pike.
She climbs onto my bed and curls up right next to me, invading my senses with that strong fruity scent of hers.
I press my forehead against her cheek as my sister fists her fingers in my T-shirt. I can feel the warm tears on her skin, so I wrap my arm around her and hold her closer.
“Rhys.” Her voice is gentle, but I can hear the shakiness. “Do you think it’ll be okay tomorrow? I don’t want us all to break apart.”
There’s a loud thumping sound coming from downstairs. Mum is screaming and Father is too. I’ve never heard him get this angry before. He only loses his temper with me. He’s screaming so loud that my own heart starts pounding hard against my chest.
What do I tell Pike, when I’m afraid too? Do I give her hope for a better tomorrow? I’d just be lying if I did because after tonight I know deep down in my heart that things will never be the same again. But I lie to her anyway, because I can’t tell her the bitter truth. I won’t. That’s what I’ve always done. Protected Pike from the ugly, while I absorbed the bad.
If I don’t protect her, then she’ll get Whitlock sickness too. The one that runs in our family. The same sickness that makes us Whitlock’s hear those evil thoughts and do bad things. Sometimes I hear them and other times, I feel it coursing through my veins, urging me to be bad.
“Yeah. They’re just fighting like always,” I tell Pi. “They’ll get over it in the morning. Don’t worry about them, Rabbit.”
Pike relaxes against me, but she’s not stupid. She’s just trying to make herself feel better, rather than face the inevitable truth. I let my fingers sink into her black mass of hair and pull her against me, before kissing her forehead.
“That’s not my son sleeping up there!” I hear Father yell downstairs. “You’re just a fucking whore, Michelle. You should take your filthy fucking bastard son and leave my house.”
He’s talking about me. Why would he say that? A lump wedges itself in my throat.
I grow still next to Pike and thankfully she’s not listening to the fight anymore, because she’s tucked deep against my side and falling asleep. I pull her tightly against me, my mouth is dry.
Mum says something unintelligible and then I hear something else getting thrashed. I should go down there. What if he’s beating her again? It wouldn’t be anything new. He enjoys using his hands.
“No!” Father shouts. “Don’t bring my daughter into this. Pike will stay here. She has me. She doesn’t need a whore bringing her up. It’s over. I don’t want you and him here. Can you not see how fucking sick you make me feel?!”
The house is silent after that. I hear a door slamming and then the sound of an engine roaring. That’s probably him leaving.
I’m never usually scared when they have fights but tonight I’m terrified. It’s different.
I attempt to move so that I can go and check on Mum, but Pike grabs my t-shirt as if she can sense what I’m about to do.
So I stay there with her in the dark, holding her until she’s softly snoring against me. I grab a pillow from behind me with my free hand and replace my arm that is wrapped around Pike’s neck with it before I climb out of bed.
I wait a few seconds and when Pike twists away from me to face the other side of the room, I quickly slip out and shut the door behind me.
Mum is downstairs sitting on the floor next to the settee with a bottle of vodka in her hands. Everything is a mess. Pillows are scattered. Pike’s trophies from school for her volleyball competitions are thrown on the floor. My first hockey game that was framed is on the floor too. A shattered bottle of red wine sits at Mum’s feet. The blood-red liquid is sitting in a dark puddle. Her head is down as I step into the living room, but the floorboards creak underneath me and she glances up.
The black stains from her mascara left dark trails down her rosy cheeks, probably from when she was crying. Her eyes are bloodshot and her lips quiver before she gives me a quick smile. I can tell it’s forced because it doesn’t reach her eyes.
“Where’s your sister?” she asks, brushing the back of her hand across her red nose. I hate seeing her this way.
“Upstairs,” I say, swallowing hard.
