Total pages in book: 260
Estimated words: 245483 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1227(@200wpm)___ 982(@250wpm)___ 818(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 245483 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1227(@200wpm)___ 982(@250wpm)___ 818(@300wpm)
His boots sound as if they’re crunching against the ground as he walks. Each step getting louder and my heart racing faster. I stay perfectly still, resisting every instinct to run or to fight. Both are useless.
“Get up,” he says and his voice is deep and rough. No room for negotiation.
My body flinches out of instinct, and I prepare for him to kick me when I don’t react quickly enough. He always kicks me in the stomach and as I close my eyes tightly, disobeying him, I pray he does it hard enough to end this.
But nothing comes.
With the thin coat of sweat over every inch of my body, a chill goes through me, making my body stiffen. I nearly vomit from the intensity of the change, but I hold back.
“I’ve had enough of this, boy!” my father screams at me and I curl into myself. Embarrassment and shame flow through me from how weak I am, but I don’t give it much thought. I already knew I was pitiful.
“I won’t fucking tell you again!” he yells and leans down to haul me up by my shirt, but I scoot back and resist. If there’s one thing I’ve learned never to do, it’s to resist.
But I’ve wanted this. I have to remind myself of my death wish as the fear cripples me and the years of conditioning settle in and make my body tremble.
The back of his large, dirty hand whirls in front of my face, blurring from the speed as he snarls at me. The scowl on his face is only made more terrifying from his exposed yellowed teeth and the coldness in his dark gaze.
The last thing I see are his knuckles.
The last thing I hear is the crunch of my nose.
The last thing I taste is the metallic blood in my mouth.
* * *
The last thing I feel is nothing. So long I’ve waited for it. And it’s finally here.
Chapter 2
Something to Remember
Fuck.
My neck is stiff, my jaw hurts and I know it’s bruised. But what really fucking hurts is my throat. It’s worse than a sore throat, raw and like it’s on fire.
A groan slips out and I instantly regret it, my body squirming on a hard sheet of metal. I blink slowly, barely opening them and letting my eyes adjust to the dim light.
I know in an instant where I am. The kitchen.
The dusty plaid curtain on the window above the sink is the first thing I see, and that’s all I need to know.
The kitchen, the table. Mother.
This is where she was a few times, I remember it well but I don’t know what brought her here. Maybe it was him. I never thought about it back then, but as my eyes open wider, anger seeps in. Did he hurt her like he hurt me?
My muscles coil, and I try to sit up.
It only lasts a moment and then the pain in my throat makes me wince again.
Shit. It’s only when I lift my hand to my throat that I realize the pain is only located there. It's no longer focused on my stomach in the least.
“I had to intubate you,” my father says from the dark corner of the room. My heart thuds hard in my chest as he slowly stands and walks into the light of the room.
“Stupid fucking boy,” he mutters and stands next to me. So close I can smell the dirt and whiskey that waft from him every day.
I try to swallow, but it only makes my dry throat hurt even worse. A sickness and hollowness threaten me. I can’t even kill myself. I’m that pathetic.
I need to find another way then. Something fast.
“You need to knock this shit off,” my father says as though he heard my thoughts. My heart stutters as I slowly raise my eyes to his. I don’t dare speak though.
He looks tired up here with the morning light casting shadows down his face. He rubs his beard and clucks his tongue once before lowering his head to mine.
I instinctively back away as he says in a low voice, a roughness from his throat making his threat sound even more terrifying, “Don’t make this harder on yourself than it has to be, you hear?”
Like the coward I am, I nod. My blood rushing and fueled by fear.
“I have something for you,” he says as he backs away slowly. One step and then another, giving me space, but I don’t trust it. “Sit up,” he tells me. My body’s stiff and my muscles sore. It hurts, it physically hurts to stay still, but I’m done with this.
Just let me die.
“Sit up!” my father screams, pounding his fists so close to my legs and rattling the table. My body jolts as I stare at his face, bright red as he spits, “Sit the fuck up!”