Total pages in book: 238
Estimated words: 231781 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1159(@200wpm)___ 927(@250wpm)___ 773(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 231781 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1159(@200wpm)___ 927(@250wpm)___ 773(@300wpm)
I hesitated, and then… I opened my mouth, almost gagging as he forced the silver in deep, almost brushing my tonsils.
Taking the food, I pulled the fork back out, feeling the resistance in his arm as I did.
We refilled the fork for round two, my lungs constricting.
“What is the matter with you, exactly?” he whispered. “Nothing can be done right. Ever. Why?”
I forced the bite down my throat just in time for another forkful to be shoved in. He jerked my hand as it entered my mouth, and my heart stopped for a moment, a whimper escaping at the threat of the prongs stabbing me.
“I thought I’d walk in the door, and you’d sit me down and explain yourself, but no.” He glared at me. “As usual, you try to hide it like the candy wrappers under your bed when you were ten, and the three-day suspension when you were thirteen.” His words quieted even more, but I almost winced at how it hurt my ears. “You never surprise me, do you? There’s a right way and wrong way to do things, Emory. Why do you always do it the wrong way?”
It was a double-edged sword. He asked questions he wanted me to answer, but whatever I said would be wrong. Either way, I was in for it.
“Why is nothing ever done how I taught you?” he pressed. “Are you so fucking stupid that you can’t learn?”
The fork moved faster, scooping up more food and rising to my mouth, the prongs stabbing into my lips as I opened them just in time. My mouth filled with food, not swallowing fast enough before more was pushed in.
“Dead parents,” he mumbled. “A grandmother who won’t die. A loser sister...”
Dropping my wrist, he fisted my collar instead and rose to his feet, dragging me with him. I dropped the fork, hearing it clatter against the plate as he backed me into the counter.
I chewed and swallowed. “Martin…”
“What did I do to deserve this?” he cut me off. “All these anchors pulling me down? Always constant. Always a weight.”
The wood dug into my back as my heart tried to pound out of my chest.
“You wanna be ordinary forever?” he bit out, scowling down at me with my mother’s green eyes and my father’s shiny, dark brown hair. “You can’t dress, you can’t fix your hair, you can’t make friends, and, it appears, you can’t do anything impressive to help yourself get into a good university.”
“I can get into a good school,” I blurted out before I could stop myself. “I don’t need swimming.”
“You need what I tell you that you need!” he finally yelled.
I tilted my eyes to the ceiling on instinct, worried my grandmother could hear us.
“I support you.” He grabbed my hair with one hand and slapped me upside the head with the other.
I gasped, flinching.
“I go to the teacher conferences.” Another slap sent my head jerking right, and I stumbled.
No.
But he pulled me back by the hair. “I put food on the table.” Another slap, like a wasp sting across my face, and I cried out, my glasses flying to the floor.
“I pay for her nurse and her medicine.” He raised his hand again, and I cowered, shielding myself with my own arms as he hit again and again. “And this is the thanks I get?”
Tears filled my eyes, but as soon as I could catch my breath, his hand would come down again.
And again. And again. And again.
Stop. I wanted to cry out. I wanted to scream.
But I clenched my teeth instead.
I hissed at the pain, I winced, and I cowered.
But I didn’t cry. Not anymore.
Not until after he was gone.
He grabbed me by the collar again, fisting it tightly, the fabric chafing my neck. “You’ll go back,” he breathed into my face, “you’ll apologize, and you’ll rejoin the team.”
I couldn’t meet his eyes. “I can’t.”
He threw me into the counter again and backed away, unfastening his belt.
A lump swelled in my throat. No.
“What was that?” he asked. “What did you say?”
Anger twisted his face, and his skin boiled with rage, but he loved this. He complained about my grandmother and me—spit in my face all the time about what a burden I was—but he didn’t actually want me gone. He needed this.
“I can’t,” I whispered, unable to do more, because my voice shook so badly.
He yanked his belt out of the loops, and I knew what was coming. There was no way to stop it, because he didn’t want to.
“You will.”
I stood there, halfway between wanting to cry and wanting to run. It would only make the punishment sweeter for him if I made him work for it. Screw him.
“I won’t.”
“You will!”
“I can’t wear a swimsuit because of the bruises!” I blurted out.
He paused, the belt dangling from his hand, and I couldn’t even hear him breathe.