Page 86 of He Hate Me

“I’m sorry I couldn’t protect you.”

For a few seconds, I sit there stunned. My mind reels as I try to process the revelation. Memories long buried begin to surface, hazy impressions of feeling disconnected from my own body and choking. I squeeze my eyes shut, willing the images away, but they persist, flickering like a horror film behind my eyelids.

“How old?”

My mother hesitates before answering, her voice filled with shame. “You were eight when it started. Not long before your father died.”

“Those nightmares I used to have. I told you they started before Dad died, but you didn’t believe me.

I remember meeting Devin at my father’s funeral, how familiar he seemed, but also the strange squirmy feeling I used to get around him, like my subconscious was telling me to keep my distance from him. But my mother had assured me he was kind and for years I only saw him every few months at a party or when he dropped by to check on us. He listened to my rambling stories, he brought me gifts. He bought me off with cupcakes and the bare minimum of the fatherly attention I craved. The fatherly attention he had robbed me of when he had my father killed. Rage bubbles up inside me, feeling like heartburn. It’s followed by a wave of nausea.

“Why didn’t you stop him?” I demand. “How could you not know?”

“Deja, I’m so sorry, I never thought he’d hurt a child, and we were his closest friends. Whatever he did, he was never less than a gentleman with me.”

“What do you mean, whatever he did? What did he do? I know you’re not just talking about Lindsey.”

“His fraternity had their charter revoked during their sophomore year. Devin said girls would get very drunk and do things with him and some of the frat brothers and then claim later they didn’t remember and hadn’t consented. He said the allegations were false, but they got shut down anyway. I’m not sure, but I think it was one of the reasons David transferred out. Being black, people probably just assumed he was one of the perpetrators. I had no reason to think that they weren’t telling the truth.”

“Not even when they roofied Lindsey? You are so full of shit. I heard the way you laughed at Lindsey on that tape; you enjoyed seeing her humiliated. You knew they were probably rapists, but you married both of them. I can’t even wrap my head around this, Mom. How could the two of you sit in church every week knowing what kind of people you are.”

“I didn’t—,” she says, but I cut her off. I don’t want to hear any more of this bullshit.

“You fucking did. If you had an iota of decency, I wouldn’t have been…” I choke on the words. I can’t say it out loud and I know I’ll never watch the videos. I hate the horrible void where my memories of the abuse should be, but I think I’m also grateful for it. The shadowy memories I have are bad enough. I don’t think I could handle more.

I hang up on her, and when she calls back, I ignore it.

Twenty-Eight

Brandon

The rideshare drops me off in front of the house. It’s not yet 5:00, so I’m surprised to see Devin’s car in the driveway. I thought I’d get here before him and be waiting when he got home. The house looms over me ominously, light glinting off the glass windows. I go through the open front door, my steps silent as I listen for movement. I hear a thud from upstairs and climb the stairs quietly. It takes only seconds to locate Devin. He’s in his office, this door wide open as well.

“What’s the rush?” I ask from the doorway. He looks up, irritation flickering across his expression. He’s on his knees, frantically transferring cash from the safe into a duffle bag on the floor. His passport lies on the desk blotter. He continues to empty the safe, paying no attention to me.

I step inside the office and close the door behind me, pulling out my new gun and pointing it at him.

“Why are you being so rude, Devin?” He’s still focused on his task and hasn’t seen the gun yet.

“Didn’t I kick you out?” Devin asks, not looking up. “What do you want?”

“Just looking to have some fun,” I tell him, sitting on the leather loveseat across from his desk. This statement piques his curiosity enough for him to glance over at me and his jaw tightens when he sees the gun. He sizes me up, trying to gauge how dangerous I am. I think it’s hard for him to fathom that I, still a child in his eyes, could present any real danger or actually derail his plans.

“Aren’t you a little old to play with toys,” he quips. He’s cool as a cucumber. Like most people I’d be at the very least nervous if someone pointed a gun at me, but he appears perfectly at ease. He places the last few items from the safe into the bag and zips it closed.

He drops the bag on the floor behind his desk and sits in the task chair. He looks at the gun and shrugs his shoulders.

“I have to admit I didn’t think you’d be this upset about being evicted.”

“Oh, no,” I say, laughing, “that’s water under the bridge. I’m curious what all this is about, though.” I gesture at the safe.

“Been a while since I traveled,” he says. “Do you mind if I grab some things out of the desk?”

“I do, as a matter of fact. Hands on top would be much better.”

He steeples his fingers. Even now, his face is affable, a smile implied by the slight curve of his lips.

“I’m sure you want an explanation,” he says glancing at the door.