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Me or him. Which one of us comes out of this alive.
His upper lip curls in disgust. “You got your nose in a goddamn book all the time, thinkin’ you’re smarter than everybody else. Your mama couldn’t even gimme a boy who was tough.” Hatred lights up his eyes. “Or one who didn’t look like he came right over the fuckin’ border.”
I don’t know what Mom saw in him, because all he does is talk crap about people who aren’t white. It doesn’t even matter that I got his eyes, and from the looks of it already, I inherited his height, too.
I remind him too much of my mom, and I’m too skinny for his liking, but that’s his own fault. He uses the cash he gets from his disability checks for beer and chips. It’s up to me to steal real food or scavenge the dumpster for bruised fruits or veggies the grocery store tosses out. Or the bread that’s gone stale and past its sell date.
He doesn’t approve of me being smart, either, and reading everything I can get my hands on. But Emilia always said education’s the key to a better life. I really hope that’s true, because if anybody needs a better life, it’s me.
The glint in his eyes is different tonight. I bend my knees slightly, knowing I’ll have to be quick—much faster than him.
The instant he launches toward me, leading with that broken bottle, I jump out of the way. I grab for the cleaver in the crappy knife block. The only other blade in there is a paring knife.
Reggie chuckles, his tone rich in sarcasm. “Now, what you think you gonna do with that, boy?”
I stare at him head-on. “Whatever I have to.”
He comes at me with that broken bottle aiming for my throat and I swing with all my might at his arm. He lets out a roar of pain when the blade slices deep through his wrist. Dropping the bottle to the floor, he wraps the fingers of his other hand around my throat and squeezes.
I gasp for air, and he only grins, squeezing tighter. “That’s right, boy. Ain’t nobody gonna miss you.”
Spots float in front of me, my vision going blurry, but somehow, I still hold on to the cleaver. It can’t be the end for me.
This won’t be the end.
This monster made me stop believing in God and angels, because what kind of god lets this happen?
Even so, something makes me plead silently. Mama, if you’re up in heaven watchin’ over me, please help me.
I can’t explain it, but a surge of strength suddenly fills me. It’s enough to have me tightening my grip on the cleaver and raising it to the side. When I slam it against his shoulder, it causes him to loosen his hold of my throat, and I swing even harder, but this time, at his neck.
Over and over, I keep swinging until he staggers back and loses his balance, plopping hard on the floor.
His eyes go wide with shock as he clutches at his throat, and his hands come away drenched in blood.
It’s like I’m detached from my body, watching it play out like a movie. I swing the cleaver again and again until there’s no life in his eyes and he doesn’t have a pulse.
When I finally drop to the floor across from him, the cabinets at my back, my chest heaves like I’ve run a marathon. But I don’t take my eyes off the monster lying in a pool of blood on the kitchen floor. I can’t take any chances.
Especially not now that I’ve become a murderer.
4
MAC
Mandarin Springs, Florida
Chirping birds from outside are what first break through my sleepy haze. With that, awareness trickles in.
The sunlight streaming through my windows is far stronger than usual for when I normally wake up. It’s more powerful…like late morning.
I jerk upright in bed, alarmed that I slept in—which I never do—only to hiss at the onslaught of pain in my ribs that nearly renders me breathless.
“The fuck?” I heave out.
My eyes sweep downward, my gaze immediately landing on my naked body atop my sheets. Dark, angry bruises along my stomach and vicious scratches along the tops of my hands incite a panic that threatens to swell my throat shut.
I blink rapidly, trying to remember how the hell I got injured, but come up empty. I remember sneaking out of the guy’s motel room, but that’s it.
