the broken

Chapter 3

DECEMBER, 2008

Dan

My stepfather is a dumpy middle aged man with greasy hair, sunken eyes, and a deep, deep hatred for me. It's just me and him, locked in these four walls, and he resents me for it, almost as much as I resent him.

When I was seven, I had come home from school to find an empty closet and the lingering scent of my moms dollar store perfume. When Gabe came home and realized she had left, he pounded his fists into my face and locked me in her empty closet.

When he'd let me out of the closet, scary robots in fancy clothes came, shoving papers into his hands for him to sign, looking at me with their wax eyes, and when they left, we were alone, legally stuck with each other, like a messy glue job.

"Why the fuck are you out so late?"

His words are jumbled and messy and his fist wraps around a bottle of whiskey as he looks down at me through slitted eyes. Liquid dribbles down his hands in disgusting, dirty streaks, covered in god knows what.

"I'm sorry Gabe, I.. lost track of time."

My voice is shaking and his face is unreadable and angry at the same time and it's terrifying.

He has never liked when I don't do as I'm told.

His face twists into a gruesome grin, one that the Cheshire cat would be jealous of. It's cruel and wide and his dead eyes send dread tingling down my spine because he's as far gone as you can be, so out of it that he's never coming back.

"I'm sure you did, you useless piece of shit."

He takes a step towards me, and though I can feel my heart pounding in my shaking hands, against my ribs, I stand my ground, even though my ground is trembling hands and stumbling feet.

"Why do you even care what time I come home, anyways, Gabe, you don't even want me here," I say, voice shaking behind the anger because saying this is definitely a mistake.

His ugly face twists angrily, and he grabs my wrist, fingers burrowed into my skin so that it stings.

"Watch your filthy mouth. You don't speak to me like that."

I dig my heels into the ground and attempt to twist my wrist out, but his grip just tightens, and he pulls me closer, close enough that I can smell his rotten breath, and whiskey, and the smell of a man who hasn't bathed in two years. With a nasty scowl twisted on his foul lips, he raises the bottle dangling from his free hand and swings it down into my head. The shattering of the glass echoes in my head, as if my brain has shattered into itself. Red flames shoot behind my eyes and trickles of blood run down my face, and when the drops catch on my lips and drip into my mouth, I gag.

I taste like dirty pennies.

Well. Dirty pennies and cheap whiskey.

He kicks me swiftly in the knee, scowling, and I let out the most pathetic of whimpers as I buckle down, collapsing into a pathetic heap on the ground, wrist twisted painfully above me, still trapped in his meaty fist. I clutch at my knee with a shaking, bloody hand, and he glares down at me, muttering something unintelligible as he angrily twists my wrist backwards, dropping it only after I make a noise of pain.

"That'll teach you not to be mouthy."

He shuffles out of the room, mumbling angrily, and I quickly pull myself out of the crumpled heap I'd curled into, knowing I need to get out of here quickly before he decides to waste yet another perfectly good bottle of booze on my head. The floor threatens to pull me back down as soon as I stand up, but I clench my fists and stumble up the stairs.