Total pages in book: 74
Estimated words: 70264 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 351(@200wpm)___ 281(@250wpm)___ 234(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 70264 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 351(@200wpm)___ 281(@250wpm)___ 234(@300wpm)
Dad shoves his cleared plate across the table at me and slams his empty can down with enough force to make everything on the surface jump. He stares at me with his watery yellow eyes, his mouth curling. When he licks his teeth, I hold my breath, braced for violence.
“Molly, go upstairs now,” I say gently. “You can read your book. I’ll be up soon.”
Molly’s eyes are wide and frightened, but she does what I ask so quickly that her chair almost overturns on the linoleum.
I take Dad’s plate and rest it on top of mine, bracing the muscles in my arms so my hands don’t shake. Seconds tick past.
“You and me, we gotta talk. Clear up this mess, then I’ll be waiting.” He throws his chair back and swaggers back to the den. It clatters to the floor, leaving a loaded echo like a gunshot.
Moments later, the TV sound drowns out my pounding pulse, and I focus all my attention on doing the dishes. The trash is overflowing, so I take it outside. When I’m walking back with the empty can, Dad yells, “Get in here!”
I place the trashcan on the floor and hover in the den doorway. Dad remains sprawled in an armchair, gray shadows shrinking his soulless eyes.
“SIT DOWN.”
I shuffle towards the armchair by the window, lowering myself steadily. It was my mom’s favorite spot, but now it’s just another place in a house of fear and misery. My angst builds in the silence that hangs between us.
“You’re out of here, girl. Just like you want.”
I snap my head up. He emits a low chuckle laced with menace. His eyes trail over my body, his stare harsh and critical. The last time he looked at me like that, his friend found his way into my bed, and the next day, Dad had enough money to replace our broken TV.
That was the day the last of my innocence was stolen.
“This time tomorrow, you’ll be off my hands and someone else’s problem.”
“What?”
Silence settles for a moment before he dissolves into a coughing fit, the sound rattling in his lungs.
“Over the state line, in Knubsworth County, there’s a cattle market for the local ranches. After that, there’s another kind of auction. One where a lonely cowboy can get himself a wife. Or, in your case, another goddamn heifer to add to his herd.”
I stare at him, his words only half going in. An auction for people. Is that even legal?
My blank expression amuses him.
“I’ve got debts to pay, and you’re just another mouth to feed.” The irony.
“So you’re going to sell me?” I sound incredulous, and I don’t know why. He’s been using me since mom died in whatever way he chooses. I don’t know whether to laugh or cry.
One thing I won’t do is beg.
There’s no point. If he doesn’t want me here. he’ll get rid of me one way or another. There are many ways he could do it that are worse than a bride auction. At least the men who go to those things want a wife, not just a warm body to use for thirty minutes, although the idea of being a wife to a stranger at only nineteen is not what I imagined for my future.
Dad’s eyes linger on me. He’s waiting for tears or pleading. He’d enjoy both options, feeding on my emotions like a parasite. It’s why I trap every ounce of panic, every flicker of dread, every hot pulse of fear behind a mask of impassive expression. I’ll never give him that part of me. The soft, weak part that wishes he was a loving father, not a monster. The part that wishes he had died instead of my momma.
When he’s bored with my silent stillness, he hauls himself to his feet and swaggers into the hallway and into his boots and jacket before slamming the door behind him.
The spin of the gravel as he takes off into the night, over the limit and dangerous to everyone, is usually a relief.
But tonight, as I sit in my mom’s favorite chair, panic is my only emotion.
Molly.
Her name explodes through my mind like a door slamming shut, violent and final. My little sister’s upstairs. I hope she’s reading and not craning to listen to the conversation I’m still reeling from. I won’t be able to hide anything from her, but at least I can tell her in a way to give her hope.
Hope is a fragile thing, a dangerous thing, but in times of smothering darkness, it’s the only tiny flickering flame we can hold on to.
The floorboards creak as I tiptoe up the stairs and into our shared room. Molly is already asleep with her book resting on her chest. The lamp in the corner casts a warm glow over her frail resting form. Does she know?