I want to run.
Hide.
Disappear.
But to where?
I should have never called him tonight. I didn’t even want to talk to him. I was just irritated because he took our last twenty dollars and spent it on either crack or heroin, depending on his mood. I haven’t seen him for a day and I was actually pretty content with that, basking in the peace and quiet. But then I’d gone to check our money jar and found it empty. I had lost my shit and am still pissed off.
I work my ass off day and night, taking care of Mason and working at a gas station in town, sometimes walking the three miles to the nearest bus station because Conner takes the car without consulting me first and I need it when I work the nightshift, like I have to in just a few hours.
I’m tired. I hate my job. Hate everything. I just want… something. But it’s like I’m drowning in a sea of razor sharp objects that cut at me from all sides. It feels like nothing I do will ever get me out of the water. And the really depressing part is, I jumped in myself.
I’m finishing up my cigarette when the headlights reach the house. I drop the butt on the ground and stomp it out with the tip of my sneaker then just stand there helplessly. I think about running back inside the house, but I know that move will only escalate what’s about to happen, so I wait on the porch.
As he turns the headlights off, darkness suffocates me. I hold my breath as he gets out of the car and moves through the dark toward me.
“So”—he pauses at the bottom of the steps—“You think you can just call me up and tell me to come home whenever you want to?”
“I needed the car for work,” I argue. “And we need money.”
“And how is me being home going to help with that?”
“It’s not. But neither is going out and getting high.”
He lets out a derisive laugh that echoes across the bare land. “And getting drunk every night is better?”
“That’s not what I said.” I wrap my arms around myself. “I just think we better figure out what we’re going to do since I don’t get paid for over a week and we have literally no food. And we have to have food for Mason.”
“And how is that my problem?” he asks, stepping onto the bottom stair. The entire porch creaks with his weight like it’s going to break apart at any minute.
“Um, because I’m your wife and Mason’s your son.” I inch back as he moves up another step.
“Yeah, we’ve yet to prove that he’s mine,” he says as he reaches the porch.
I step back until my back slams against the door. “Are you really going to start on that shit again? Look at him for crying out loud. He looks so much like you.”
He’s silent and motionless for a while. I wish I could see his eyes so I could figure out what he’s on or if he’s strung out. It’d help me get a read on how this conversation is going to end.
“You know, I’m getting tired of your shit,” he finally snaps. “I gave up everything to take care of you. Sold my cars. Dropped out of school. I don’t have a life anymore.”
“Don’t kid yourself,” I say, even though I know I shouldn’t. “You don’t take care of me at all. You don’t even have a job. And let’s face it, even if you wouldn’t have met me, you probably still would have ended up right where you are, only you wouldn’t have Mason—the one thing that’s good in your life, even though you’re blind to it.”
“Fuck you.” In three long strides, he’s right in my face. “Fuck you! Fuck you!” He punches the door right beside my head and I flinch, hot tears threatening to pour out. “I’m a good father.”
“You’re not even here!” I cry out, loathing the quiver in my voice. “You weren’t there when he was born. For his first steps. For his birthdays. For anything. You’re as bad as my God damn father.”
“Take that back.” His voice is low and carries a dangerous warning.
I should take it back because I know where this is going to go, but it’s my protective side that stops me, wanting him to see just how shitty of a father he is, stupidly hoping he’ll finally open his eyes and see it. And change.
“No. It’s the truth. You’re a terrible father.”
His chest rises and crashes as he breathes rabidly in my face. “You. Fucking. Little. Cunt.” Before I can react, he grabs me by the hair and jerks me forward, causing me to trip over my feet and bash my hip on the corner of the metal railing.
“Conner, let me go!” I scream as he drags me down the steps and toward the car.
“No. I’m so sick of this shit.” He jerks so hard on my hair I swear he’s going to rip the strands from my skull. My head aches. My eyes burn. And I’m God damn terrified of what’s about to happen. Terrified because, in the end, I know I have no control.
I struggle to keep up with him, tripping over my feet as he swings me around the car. I think he’s going to climb in and that frightens me.
“We can’t just leave Mason here,” I tell him as he yanks open the door.
He drops down in the driver seat, still holding onto my hair, leaving me standing with my head tipped at an awkward angle. I attempt to back away, but he tightens his hold as he opens the glove box and rummages around for something. When he leans back and hops out of the car, I realize it’s a knife.
“Conner… no.” My eyes snap wide. Yes, he’s hit me, pushed me, thrown me into things several times, but he’s never used a knife on me. I should have left while I had the chance, just ran until my legs gave out on me without worrying about the tomorrow because now I’m worried I might not have a tomorrow.
He’s going to kill me.
“Please,” I beg, loathing the pathetic sound of my tone. “God, please, please, please.”
“Oh now you want to talk nicely to me,” Conner growls as his grasp on my hair constricts. He heads out to the field beside our house, dragging me along with him like a ragdoll.
“I wasn’t talking mean to you,” I lie as I stumble through the dirt and the dry grass. “I swear. I was just trying to talk to you.”
“That’s bullshit!” he shouts as he throws me down on the ground, releasing my hair.
My back smacks against the dirt and the wind gets knocked out of me. I gasp for air, my lungs aching to give up, but my feet scream at me.
Move. Avery. Run for your life.