Hopelessness, unlike anything I’ve felt before, fills every part of me. A broken cry tears out of me, and I bring my arms up to try and shield myself, but it only earns me more wild smacks from my mother. My arms burn and ache from the slaps, but I manage to cover my face with my hands.
Make it stop. Please!
With each snip, it feels as if the world closes in on me, suffocating me. There’s a sharp pain above my ear when the scissors dig into my skin. As she continues to cut my hair, the blades nick and gash at my scalp.
It feels like endless hours of torture pass before Mom finally gets up, leaving me lying amongst heaps of hair. I drag myself into a sitting position and cover the cut above my ear with a trembling hand, feeling utterly distressed and terrified.
Mom walks to the door but then stops, and it makes me cringe into the corner between the bedside table and the wall. She glances at me, abhorrence making her look evil. Reaching a hand to the door, her pointer finger circles one of the holes she stabbed into it. “It’s just wood and hair.” Her gaze turns back to me, and then she lets out an irritated huff. “You’re so goddamn dramatic. If I were going to kill you, I certainly wouldn’t do it here. I’m not about to make a mess in my house.”
She takes a step toward me again, and it makes my muscles tighten painfully. My body shakes violently with horror, and I cover my head with my arms.
She stops close to me, and I feel her breath waft over my arms, and then she whispers sinisterly, “No, I’d take you up to Devil’s Bluff and shove you off one of the cliffs. I’ll make it look like a suicide.”
I hear her move away, and after a couple of minutes, I dare to peek from between my arms. Not seeing her, I cautiously climb to my feet. My eyes keep darting between the window and the entrance to my room, and taking a chance, I yank the window open. Climbing out, I don’t care that I might hurt myself, and I jump to the lawn below. Landing, the impact sends pinpricks of pain up my feet and calves.
“Brie!” I hear my mother shout from somewhere inside, and icy terror has me breaking out into a run. I sprint across the lawn and down the driveway. Not caring where I’m going, my bare feet slap against the pavement as I dart up the street.
The ordeal shudders through me, and sobs break free from the tightness in my chest, making it hard to gasp for air.
I can’t handle this anymore.
I want to die.
I wish she would die.
What’s the point of life if hatred is all I’ll ever know. Other kids have parents who love them. They get smiles and hugs where all I get is rage and pain.
Life is just… hell.
COLTON
“I just need time,” Mom says.
My eyes are glued to her, where she’s on a call with Dad. Apprehension tightens my stomach into a tense knot.
“I know, Jonah. I’ll think about it.” She listens to whatever he says then mumbles, “You too. Bye.”
“What did he want?” I ask, unable to keep the worry from making my tone harsh.
“He wants us to move back to California.”
My heart sinks heavily as dread tightens my insides. “No.” The word explodes from me. “There’s no way! Don’t tell me you’re actually thinking about it.”
“I don’t know what to do,” she whimpers, and her face crumbles, anxiety making her dark brown eyes look bruised.
“Tell him no, Mom,” I snap. “Just say no.”
“It’s not that easy,” she cries.
Frustration begins to suffocate me, and I walk out of her room before I do or say something I’ll regret. I keep going, right out of the house and down the driveway.
Someone crashes into me, and we both hit the pavement hard. For a split second, Brie’s terrified face hovers over me, and then she’s up and running away.
I shoot to my feet and manage to catch up to her. Grabbing hold of her arm, I pull her to a stop a couple of houses from mine.
“Nooo!” Brie cries desperately, but I tighten my hold on her arm so she can’t pull free.
“Wait,” I say hurriedly. “Just wait a second.”
“Let go. Let go. Let go,” she chants frantically, trying to twist her arm free, and it’s only then I see the blood on her neck.
What the hell?
Knowing I need to calm Brie down, I pull her to me and wrap my arms around her. “Shhh.” She keeps struggling against my hold, but I tighten my grip so she won’t yank free. “I’m not going to hurt you. Let me help.”
My words must get through to her because the fight drains out of her. Her whole frame shudders as she cries against my chest.
“Can we go to my house?” I ask. “It’s better there than out here on the street.”
I pull a little back, trying to see her face, but she covers it with trembling hands.
My God. What happened to her?
I can’t see much outside in the dark and keeping my tone soft, so I don’t scare her, I say, “Let’s go inside.”
Her movements are fitful as she nods.
I keep an arm around her quivering shoulders, and walking back to my house, Brie folds her arms tightly around her waist.
When I manage to get Brie inside, I let out a sigh of relief. I steer her down the hallway to the bathroom then softly say, “Sit on the toilet.”
Brie keeps standing, her whole body tense as if she’ll run at any given moment.
“You’re safe here. No one will hurt you,” I try to offer her some sense of security.
My eyes drift over Brie and what I see makes a familiar horror chill me to my bones. I move forward, and framing her face, I take in the blood and jagged strands, gasping, “God, did your mom do this?”
Brie tries to pull away, but I lean down and lock eyes with her. There’s so much torment in her blue irises, it’s hard to look into them. “I have to see if any of the cuts need stitches.” There’s also blood on her right cheek, arms, and hands.
Breaths shudder over her lips, and her skin is deathly pale. She tries to swallow a sob down, making a pitiful sound that has my heart shrinking.
Moving my attention to her head, my stomach rolls when I see half of her hair has been cut haphazardly, and there are lots of cuts. I inspect them, but I can’t see properly with the blood. I reach for the facecloth and rinse it under the water until it’s lukewarm.
“I’m sorry if it hurts,” I murmur before I begin to wipe the worst of the blood away.
Brie lifts a trembling hand to the right side of her head and points above her bloody ear. “This side hurts most.” She sounds petrified, her voice hoarse and quivering from the trauma she must’ve suffered.
I should be used to seeing this kind of violence, but it still rocks me to my core.
I step closer and move the jagged strands of hair out of the way. After carefully cleaning the cut, I reassure her, “It doesn’t look like you need stitches.”
All the beatings my father gave me have made me an expert when it comes to taking care of wounds.
I pause for a moment to breathe because it’s so damn hard to look at what’s been done to her.
It’s sadistic and gut-wrenching.
The same thing has been done to me.
Memories of the abuse I suffered at the hands of my father for so many years flash through me. Bile pushes up my throat, but I swallow it down.