Total pages in book: 135
Estimated words: 127484 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 637(@200wpm)___ 510(@250wpm)___ 425(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 127484 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 637(@200wpm)___ 510(@250wpm)___ 425(@300wpm)
My chest heaved up and down as my breath came in short bursts.
Knox’s hand was still around my throat.
For a shadow of a moment, I thought he might not let go. Thought he might just keep squeezing until the darkness at the edge of my vision crept further and further until it swallowed me up, releasing me from this world.
I was sure the thought had crossed his mind. It was clear he was fighting whatever feelings he had for me. That those feelings made him question his whole existence, made him feel weak. And men who felt weak would do anything to delude themselves into feeling strong again. Even if it meant hurting a woman. Especially if it meant hurting a woman. The moment lay in the balance, of whether he was like my father or not, whether he’d use me to feel big.
His hands released a second later. He stepped back, running his hand across his jaw in a rare gesture of unease.
I rubbed at my neck, not hating the pain, even though it served as more evidence that he could hurt me. That he was the kind of man I’d spent my life ensuring I’d never get close to.
“My father killed my mother when we were young. I was thirteen,” I blurted in a hoarse voice.
This was not information I shared readily, definitely not first date kind of fodder. But the scant amount of people I had told always had varying expressions of shock, horror, pity, discomfort. It was not a nice thing to hear. You perhaps read about such things in the news or scrolled across the stories on social media, but it was rare you met someone central to the acts countless true crime documentaries covered.
But I supposed to Knox, acts of horror and depravity were commonplace, so he didn’t have an outward reaction to my news.
Yet his hands balled into fists. Not something I’d seen him do. His face remained impassive, though.
“He abused her since I can remember,” I continued, staring from him to the trees, unsure of why I was sharing this now, of all times. “And us. To a lesser extent, not that I think there really is a lesser extent of abuse.” I sighed. “My mom didn’t protect us, really. She was too broken down by then.”
The memories I had of my mother were mostly sullied with violence, her bruised, begging, being hit. I couldn’t even remember if she was pretty. Because all I saw was the ugliness wrought upon our life.
“The only escape we had was summers here.” I smiled at the trees, seeing much further than just the ones bordering the cabin. “Not right here, but somewhere in these mountains, there was a two-story house with a wraparound porch, three rockers and a vibrant garden out front, vegetables in the back along with a chicken coop. The woods and mountains stretched as far as the eye could see.”
I closed my eyes, smelling the lavender my grandmother grew by the porch, the dirt, the dew, feeling the sunshine on my face.
Opening them I saw Knox staring at me with such intensity it was hard to breathe around.
“My grandmother was my mother’s mom,” I explained. “And to this day, I do not know how my mother let my father batter her so completely when my grandmother had given her support, endless love and was the picture of feminine strength.” I shook my head. “The eternal question of how a man can break a woman who seemingly has everything going for her.”
I didn’t miss the parallels there. My spine stiffened as the truth settled into my bones, and I forced myself to continue the story.
“My mother, even in the peak of her brokenness, knew how to hold on to a façade.” I still looked at the trees, unsure if Knox was really listening. That was a lie. I knew he was. I could practically taste his undivided attention. “My grandmother knew nothing of what was going on in New York, with the daughter who sent her two children to have summers with her, no explanation of why she didn’t come too. My grandmother worried over this, asking us subtle questions about our home life, about Mom. We expertly lied, still holding on to a loyalty to our mother, even though the truth might’ve saved us from a lot. Sadly, we didn’t realize it then.”
I’d spent many nights wondering what life might’ve looked like if we had told our grandmother the truth. She would’ve acted, swiftly and immediately. And though I knew that the laws were infinitely complicated around abuse, custody and removal of children, I knew in my gut that my grandmother would’ve been victorious in saving us from the situation.
Maybe even our mother too. But that was more of a hopeful feeling, that given the real opportunity to escape, to be with her girls, that she would’ve taken it.