His lights were on last night but I had no way of getting his attention.
My father had been in a decent mood the past two days too, which left everything inside me feeling so opposite I felt like reality had slipped away.
The big business deal my father had been waiting for finally started to go through. It remained in the hands of lawyers and accountants, or so he told me. For the first time in months, he cooked a big dinner and talked to me the entire time. He ordered me to sit at the kitchen table and listen. He explained that once the deal went through we’d be very rich but we would have to live smart. I would have to take on the cooking. With more money, he wanted more quality foods – ones with real flavor and ones that would fill him up.
I had no idea how to cook.
I could make noodles, peanut butter and jelly, and possibly scrambled eggs.
I hated the idea of change that didn’t involve Jack next to me or our lives not becoming Abby Wednesday and Danny Thursday. I thought maybe if my father and I became rich, I’d get money, somehow, and I could help Jack. I would never leave him and I would never give up on him.
During dinner, my father drank wine. The entire bottle to be exact. By the time he tried to take his last bite of food, he missed his mouth and dumped the food on his lap. He didn’t care. He simply stood up and nodded at me. I could see he maybe wanted to say something nice but he knew better. Being nice to me would shatter all the work he had put into belittling me. All my father had to do was flinch and I’d gasp for air and try to cover my face. That was the exact kind of power he enjoyed and would never give it up.
He left the dinner table and stumbled his way up the steps, trying to sing. He put random words together against a string of notes that made no sense. I knew he was going upstairs to find his bottle. I figured since he was in a good mood, he’d get drunk in a good mood.
All I had to do was disappear.
And that’s just what I did.
I cleaned up from dinner, making sure everything in the kitchen looked spotless. If my father came down and saw the kitchen messy, I’d pay for it.
With the kitchen clean and my father strangely quiet, I snuck down the basement steps. I looked at the cold, empty room, all of it made of stone, and let out a sigh. It was the room that should have been scary for a kid, maybe even a teenager, but for all I cared, this was the room where I first fell in love. With a boy. A boy named Jack.
I walked to the couch and stood before the spot where Jack always sat. I tried to inhale the air, hoping to smell a hint of his scent, but it had been too long. I turned and sat in his spot, closing my eyes, going back to the moment I tried to kiss him. There were two scenarios that always played out. The first one, the best one, started with Jack and I kissing and led to less clothing, more touching, and trying things I couldn’t bear to say out loud. It made my cheeks red and my body feel strange, but good. Like really good. The other scenario was the one that happened. Jack turning away. Then he would leave me, without a reason why.
Why did he stop me from kissing him?
My eyes felt very heavy and the image of Jack leaving me kept playing. Over and over.
Jack walking away.
Jack leaving me.
Jack not wanting to touch me.
To kiss me.
To have me.
All that I’d give for him, all that I’d learn to do with him, to him, for him.
All at once, the images stopped and there was a sound inside my head. I caught myself falling for a second and then opened my eyes, feeling deathly ill. The noise came again…
Three taps with a fingernail, two taps with a finger, the raking sound of fingers.
My head snapped back to the basement door and I was so happy I almost let out a girlish squeal and giggle. I didn’t, thankfully, but I hurried from the couch to the door and tore it open.
“Hey Tessa,” Jack said, smiling.
My hands shook and my heart exploded into a million pieces, each one meant for Jack. I grabbed his hands and pulled him into the basement.
“Are you okay?” he asked. “You’re smiling… like I’ve never seen before…”
I was smiling, and I didn’t care.
“I’m fine,” I said. “Just glad you’re here. Wait a second, what time is it?”
I looked up, wondering if my father had a chance to fall asleep.
“It’s a little after two in the morning,” Jack said. “Why?”
“It’s that late?” I replied. “I must have fallen asleep on the couch, waiting for you.”
From there silence greeted us, as it usually did. This time felt so much different. I stood holding Jack’s hands and he didn’t shake me away. He had a look in his eyes that made me wonder what kind of images he had. What kind of thoughts he had for me. What kind of things he wanted to do, or knew how to do, or would show me how to do.
My body became tingly, warm, and I felt things changing. I couldn’t believe how I felt right then… I was turned on by Jack. My cheeks turned an apple shade of red. I couldn’t control it so I didn’t worry about it. I remained focused on Jack’s eyes, face, the way he smelled, the pain we both shared. It was like our lives were bleeding into each other’s, intertwining and tightening, making it impossible for us to ever be apart.
The sad reality was that if it weren’t for my father – and Jack’s mother – none of it would have happened. Jack had been in his room on a quiet night the first time he heard the violent command of my father’s voice and hands earlier that summer, prompting him to come and save me.
Jack never admitted saving me because all we did was sit on the couch and talk. But that did save me.
Now, my mind had other plans.
My feet started to move forward and I inched towards him again. This time I moved just a couple inches, hinting to Jack that I was okay with whatever he had planned.
“I’m sorry I didn’t come over,” Jack said.
“Don’t be,” I said. “Things happen.”
“Do you really miss me when I’m not here?”
I nodded. “It hurts when you’re not here.”
“Worse than him?”
“It’s two different kinds of pains,” I said. “And I don’t care about him.”
“Tessa… I’m no good. For you, or anybody.”
“No, you’re perfect,” I said. “For me.”
Jack closed his eyes. “Nobody deserves any of this mess. You deserve to go off and be happy. To find someone with a family.”
“A family? What does that have to do with anything?”
“Us,” Jack said, his voice rising and cracking. “We’d have nobody but each other.”
“So?” I cried out. I didn’t need anyone else in the world besides Jack.
“It’s not that simple,” Jack said. “We’d have nobody else to rely on. No family.”
I felt myself wanting to cry. “That doesn’t matter to me. We’d become Abby Wednesday and Danny Thursday, right? We’d find close friends, friends who could become our family.”
“You really think two broken hearts can make one good one?”
“Our hearts aren’t broken,” I said. “Our lives are.”
We both had suddenly been thrown into a world of adulthood thinking and talking. I didn’t like it one bit. I liked it better sitting on the couch, talking about our future. Or trying to kiss Jack. Or…
Jack closed his eyes and cut off my thoughts. “I think I’m in love with you, Tessa.”
“I love you too,” I said without thinking about it.
That’s when Jack took the lead, twisting his wrists so he could hold my hands. He pulled me hard. I stumbled forward to his body, inhaling the smell of his clothing. It was his smell, Jack’s smell. Old clothes, sweat, and a hint of soap. It was locked in my memory forever.
I looked up at Jack and he was already on the move.
I opened my mouth to gasp, moan, something, and his mouth touched mine. It was an open mouth kiss, no tongue. Our mouths just pre
ssed together, both of us shaking. I went with my urges at that point, closing my mouth so Jack could do the same. Our kiss was then locked, our lips together. When he pulled back it made the wet sound that I always dreamed it would make. Just like on television. Just like in the movies.
We kissed three more times, wet smacking, heart racing, and together we slowly opened our mouths again. That time, there was tongue. A quick flicker from both of us, then a little more, and as each second went by, we were tempted for more.
My hands slowly touched Jack’s sides and he put his arms around me. We had hugged before, plenty of times, but this was a different kind of embrace. Something with so much more meaning. And purpose. And love.
It was perfect.
The perfect moment.
The perfect person.
The perfect kiss.
Somehow in the midst of it, our sense of reality shut down. When I heard the basement door above us open with a thundering boom, I knew instantly it would be too late.
Jack and I were caught.
By my father.
8
My father came down the stairs like a demon. I swear I saw him floating. His eyes were wide and his hands already in fists. I turned and spread my arms, wanting to protect Jack. Jack was taller than me, wider than me, and I was no match for my father.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” my father said. “This is what you’re doing, Theresa? Trying to fuck up our lives? Sleeping with the next door trash?”
Jack pressed his body to mine, wanting to engage my father, but I resisted. I planted my feet and shook my head.
“No, it’s not that,” I cried out. “We’re friends. We were talking.”
“You were talking,” my father said. “I can see it in your eyes. Fooling around with filth.”
Jack growled and the tension in the basement had become a terrible fog. There was no good ending to this story but all I cared about was getting Jack out of the basement. I’d bear the brunt of all of it. I’d find a way to make it all right, make it okay. I’d still see Jack, even if we had to run away together.
Why hadn’t we run away together yet?
The idea seemed so logical right then, as my father lifted a fist and started to shake it, addressing Jack.
“You want to fuck with my daughter? My life? What do you want, kid, some money? You hungry? Go to a shelter. Tell your mother to stop shooting herself up…”
“Stop it!” I yelled.
My mouth snapped shut and my father looked at me.
“What did you just say to me?”
I shook my head. My body started to shake. Jack put his hands to my hips, to hold me – or maybe to throw me to the side, I wasn’t sure – but it certainly didn’t help the situation at all.
My father started taking huge breaths. I used to believe that meant he was trying to calm himself, but it was the opposite. Breathing like that allowed everything to fester inside, let everything boil over.
“What did you say?” he yelled.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mea-”
His fist came across my face. If he would have hit me dead on, he probably would have killed me. Instead, I felt the hardness of his knuckles crash along my face. I spun and screamed, reaching for my face. By the time I looked over my shoulder he was coming at me again, this time with his fist in the air. He was dead set on punching me in the face. I looked back at Jack, making sure his face would be the last thing I saw before I died.
I watched as Jack’s face twisted and his lip curled. His eyes went from their pain filled innocent look to ones of rage, desperation, and hatred. That was his breaking point. He had just lived it. Actually seeing my father hurt me was the final piece to the puzzle. Before I could say a word, Jack’s right fist came at my father with speed and force, hitting him in jaw. My father’s head snapped and he let out a grunt as blood sprayed from his mouth. I collapsed to the floor and shuffled back to the wall. I needed a plan but my mind couldn’t calm down.
Jack took a fighting stance, holding both fists up. He was visibly shaking, but he wasn’t going to back down. I tried to think about all the times in his life where he had to back down… but not tonight.
I found strength in my legs and started to push myself back up.
My father was hunched over, groaning, holding his face, spitting blood on the concrete floor in small crimson pools.
“You piece of shit,” he growled. “You piece of…”
“Don’t hit her,” Jack said, trying to find a deep, manly voice. “Don’t ever hit her. Ever! Don’t ever… hit…”
My father stood up and let out a raging scream. It was ear shattering, earth shattering, and nothing that resembled the cry of a human. I moved towards Jack as my father spun around. I knew by the positioning of his shoulders he was going to do something to Jack. I loved Jack for being strong and wanting to defend me, but a punch from my father would hurt him.
My father didn’t intend to punch Jack, not even close.
As he spun, Jack readied another fist for my father.
I caught sight of something reflecting and before I could scream for the entire ordeal – and night – to just end, my father came at Jack with a knife.
The knife was there and gone.
Just like that.
There and gone.
With a grunt and a dry gasp for air, Jack touched his stomach. Blood covered his hands as he started to step back. His head bounced and his mouth opened. He looked at me and let out a whimper and continued to step back.
“No!” I screamed and lunged for him.
I was an inch from touching Jack when something jerked me back. My father had a handful of my hair. He pulled me to his side. I couldn’t break away from his fierce grip. So I stood there, and I watched Jack die.
The boy I loved.
The boy who cared for me.
The boy who gave me my first kiss.
He fell to his knees, touching the end of the knife and his stomach. He then fell to his side and stared off into nothing.
When he was finally dead, I heard my father laugh.
I shook my head, wanting to take it all back, but that wasn’t possible.
“He tried to hurt you, Tessa,” my father said.
It would be the first of about a thousand times I’d hear that phrase.
He tried to hurt you, Tessa…
Our hearts aren’t broken. Our lives are.
10 YEARS LATER
1
One foot, then the other. It was like learning how to live my life but instead I stepped into the hot water waiting to hear my skin sizzle. I never understood why I took baths so hot but somewhere subconsciously I believed it was my body’s way of reminding my heart of the pain that could exist.
Trust me, I’d never forget.
Even with a new last name, I’d never forget.
I had been offered numerous times to change my first name but I couldn’t do it. There was only one other name that made sense to me and that I held tight to my chest, my secret to keep, never to share with the world. The rest of my life had been an open book, from the newspaper articles to newscasters trying to follow me, my life, and everything in between. It felt good to have a secret with myself.
I stood and looked down at my feet in the water. I never put anything in the water – no bubbles, fragrances or any of that – but sometimes I ran the water so hot it appeared cloudy for a few minutes. A thick steam rose from the water and had already coated the small bathroom, leaving condensation dripping from the white walls and fogging the mirrors.
Good.
That was how I liked it.
I put my right hand to the wall and felt the slippery cool tile and braced myself to sit down. The best way to do it was just to sit. Kind of like getting into a pool for the first time. Rater than slowly torture yourself going one little step at a time, just jump the hell in. I again thought about life and all of its reflections that live around us.
Lately, life (and all of its reflections)
were all I could think about. College had been done for a year and while I technically could have been considered unemployed, I gracefully introduced myself as a not-so-much starving artist and writer, trying to forge my own path into success. I had taken up writing and attempted painting back in high school. My awkward teen years were doubled considering all that had happened and all that began to spread around school. Kids were cruel long before social networking. After living in the adolescent jungle of when to lose your virginity to studying for a Spanish test all the way to realizing that school would end and life would begin, I made my move and went off the grid, so to say.
Somehow, someway, I had been set up with a trust that paid me when I turned eighteen. My Auntie B trusted me enough to make whatever decisions I felt I needed to make in my life. The fact that she openly wanted me to get out of her house and live my own life meant a lot to me.
Living my own life meant choosing the smallest apartment I could find, driving a car that died on random days, and watching television on a set so small, it could have been a tablet computer standing on its side.
I took odds and ends jobs, the current one being a barista for a local café called Thorns. The pay was horrible, but the hours were flexible. The place was laid back and had tons of activity in it. All the local artists and artsy people hung there, did freestyle poetry, brought guitars and small drums, and just had fun. Friday night we had a local band, but more times than not bands would just show up during the week days and play. It was the exact kind of atmosphere I needed in my life. I needed that driving force to keep pushing me towards writing.
I sank into the water and let out a small cry as it burned me. I lifted my hand out of the water and just from being in there for a few seconds my fair skin was red and steam came off it. The perfect temperature for a perfect bath.
I had just come off working a late morning into early afternoon shift. The quietest shift for Thorns. The place was usually hollowed out like a ghostly shell of the night before. It was as though the café rested, everything so calm and relaxed that I would catch myself falling asleep. I started bringing notebooks to work to try to write, but I can’t write freehand. Call me spoiled by technology, but the idea of writing an entire book with pen and paper is archaic and a waste of time. Plus, I left my notebook there a few times and some of my coworkers found it hilarious to read the material out loud. To them, it was bratty emo stuff, girl becoming a woman, thriving in her own manifested pain of not being asked to prom or something. If I could only have the courage to actually explain the real pain behind my words…
Hurt Like HELL (new adult contemporary romance) Page 3
