Maybe this will be a series of fiction. Maybe it won’t. But, this story begins with the fictional post, Expecting the Unexpected. Click here to begin at the beginning. And, thank you. Of all the hundreds of thousands of existing options for entertaining blog reading, I am honored you stopped here and chose me.
I don’t know how long I’ve been locked in the bathroom. When I caught him doing…..THAT with………HIM, I tried to pretend. Nothing. I saw a void on the other side of that swinging dining room door. The planets didn’t shift in a universe where I no longer fit. I gripped my snakeskin bag until I broke the strap. My secret bank book was sewn into a compartment in the lining. I had to hide it someplace obscure.
Before my darting eyes could alight on a suitable temporary spot, he came barreling through the door as the front door slammed. Eyes wild. A sheen of sweat and – oh, man juice – all over his erect, naked form. He smelled salty in his masculine arousal. It was the first time I knew it existed.
You can’t leave me he said. No, he ordered. He ORDERED me to stay. You can have all the money, all the things you want, but you can’t leave me. Authoritarian tones were a new tune coming from him.
What kind of pathetic little girl do you really think I am? I didn’t realize I’d spoken it aloud until he hit me, a rushing blow to my jawline that caused twinkly-eyed pinpoints of light to throb in my sight lines. I tasted blood.
He grabbed my wrists before I could flee, squeezed them until my hands started to turn blue. You listen to me. Marrying you was my cover, my respectability. I thought you understood. I give you an unlimited bank account and loads of stuff; you make people stop whispering behind their hands about my sexual proclivities. Well, look at you, you stupid redneck hick. Look at this place, all the stuff you have. Even your secret bank account you’re padding with my money. Yeah, I know EVERYTHING. I control it. ALL OF IT. Just like I control YOU.
I don’t know what came over me – I swear I don’t – but somehow, I knew his one weak spot. I drove my knee into his still-bulbous crotch as hard as I could and left him there, writhing on the pristine Persian rug.
Don’t you call that drunk you call Daddy! he screeched as my fingers found the numbers on the dial. He’s too much of a bum to ever save you!
Ah, he was probably right.
When my twelve-year-old little brother answered the phone, I clinched my eyes together tight enough to make pins of light, and I begged him to understand. He had to save me, to make our perpetually intoxicated father pull himself together and drive over here, to send a child into this hell of a life and escort me out.
Sounds of stirring in the other room meant I was running out of time. With one final Please! I threw the receiver on the floor and locked myself in the bathroom. To block out his raging, I’ve been running his money for hours: flushing the toilet repeatedly and leaving all the faucets to stream down the drain.
Will I fit down the drain with my bank book if my brother fails me?………Never mind.
Dirt separates from dirt in what sounds like a cleaving of the soul outside my window. Headlights stream into the bathroom, making prisms of light bounce through the running water. A thud precedes a crashing wave of silence.
Is the demon I left better than the devil I married? If I can distract them both at just the right moment, would it be murder if I caused them to kill each other and set me free?
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