Clash (2 page)

Chapter Two

There was a hard knock on Casey’s door. It immediately flew open and Dylan barged in without an invite. “Casey, dinner’s ready, and you two need to set the table.”

This was a shift from his earlier attitude. I should have known he was just playing along with Carter, but it didn’t stop the pang of disappointment I felt.

Without so much as a response, Casey picked up her phone and slid it into the back pocket of her jean shorts. She motioned me to follow as she exited the room without a look in Dylan’s direction.

Because I’m such a dork, I held my breath as I walked by him. He made me that nervous.

Once the table was set, Dylan and Carter joined us. After a few minutes the conversation began to flow as I sat back and watched. Dinner at my house usually meant John sat on the couch with his plate balanced on his lap while I snuck off to my room so I could eat in peace. I then hid out quietly in my room until he passed out from his heavy drinking before slipping back out to quickly clean up the kitchen. I remained as quiet as possible to avoid any type of altercation. He was always looking for a fight.

As I watched Casey and her brothers bicker and tease each other, I was a little jealous. I wished I had only a small amount of the close relationships they had.

After we finished dinner and everything was cleaned up, it was time I went home. I was about to walk out the front door when Dylan hollered, “Bye, Twig,” over his shoulder as he was running up the stairs toward his room.

Yes, “Twig” was my nickname. It’s not very glamourous, but since I am five-foot-six and weigh next to nothing, I guess I earned that title.

I turned just in time to catch Dylan’s backside before he disappeared behind his bedroom door.

“Just tell him,” Casey said from my side and I closed my eyes tight. Once again I had been caught eyeing her brother.

“Case, I just like to admire.” I shrugged as I reached out to twist the door handle. “Admiring from afar saves me the humiliation of rejection. I’m nothing like the girls he dates…I'm just me.”

She leaned in and wrapped her arms around me from the side, hugging me close. “You would be too much of a good thing for him, and he’s just too stupid to realize it.” I smiled half-heartedly and thanked her for her compliment, but I was definitely not convinced.

I heard the click of the door shutting behind me as I walked to the rusted, rundown Camry parked in the driveway and drove home to the place I called “hell.”

It was a quarter past eight when I pulled up to my house. In my spot in the driveway sat a car I didn't recognize. I knew that meant only one thing—John had company. I parked in the gravel at the end of the road, reaching across the seat to grab my bag. I pulled on the handle and crawled from the car. Each time I came home it was forced; one of those things I had to talk myself through instead of running in the opposite direction.

Stepping up on the porch, I heard voices spilling from the windows. I recognized John instantly; he had a raspy voice that made my skin crawl. It was scratchy and irritating, like someone had punched him in his throat.

There was also a woman’s voice, but not one I recognized. I couldn't make out the words they were saying, but the meaning was mixed in her cackle of a laugh, one fake and over-exaggerated.

I only needed a few seconds, enough to slip in and quickly rush down the hall toward my room.

Holding my breath, I turned the knob slowly and stepped inside. I found John on the couch in what appeared to be the start of a very heated moment with a dirty-looking brunette.

Before I knew what happened, John was in my face, shoving me backward toward the front porch. He pushed against my chest, shoving me back against the wall just outside. The impact sent a sharp pain through my shoulder as it connected with the mounted mail box.

He leaned in close, only two inches from my face, and breathed, smelling intensely of alcohol. Slurring heavily, he muttered, “You better keep your ugly ass outta my house until I say you can come in. I’m busy inside with a real woman, and you aren’t welcome!” He pulled back and continued staring at me, as if he was studying my face. He did that often; I think it was because I looked like the perfect younger version of Maggie.

John turned suddenly and walked toward the front door. Just before entering, he looked over his shoulder one last time with intense disgust. “You know how much I hate you? How much you’ve ruined my life?”

I held my breath, hoping he would just walk away. When he finally entered the house and slammed the door behind him, I let out the air I’d been holding in my lungs. Slumping back against the house, I closed my eyes and thanked God John had not hit me. Whenever he passed on the opportunity to hit me, I found myself lucky. It’s sad, I know, but it was true.

Only a few minutes passed before the nauseating sounds of John and that dirty brunette woman began to flood from the windows. The noises that poured out of the open windows were more than I could handle—squeals and loud grunts, followed by John yelling vulgar commands. I had to leave and go for a walk. I knew I would never sit on that couch again.

The night was chilly, and with only a light jacket my teeth soon began to chatter. After about fifteen minutes I decided to crawl back inside my car and wait it out. I had dozed off when I heard a vehicle start, and I watched the brunette back out of the driveway. Looked like the nasties were done getting freaky.

Grabbing my bag once again I walked toward the front door, my stomach tense and my hands trembling. I paused, wondering what I should do. Would it be okay for me to go in now? Deciding to knock, I waited to hear John’s angry groan or footsteps. But after no answer I cautiously opened the door.

The living room was empty and dark. After making sure that I was, in fact, alone, I walked down the hall. As I neared the bathroom I could hear the shower running. I snuck quietly past the door and straight into my room, quickly putting on my pajamas without even turning on the light.

Sliding into bed quickly, I curled in the light blanket seeking warmth. I tried to remain focused, listening for any movement or signs he was coming in my direction. I was tense and my body hummed in fear. After about an hour or so I hadn’t heard anything, so I allowed myself to slowly relax. My eyes grew heavy and my limbs grew weak as I slowly drifted off to sleep.

I was startled awake and my eyes shot open as I peered up at a dark figure hovering over me. I quickly glanced over to the clock on my dresser—it was only 4:38 a.m. What was he doing here in my room? I knew it was premature of me to think John would let my earlier interruption be forgotten so easily.

He was silent as he stood over me. Time seemed to stand still. Then from out of nowhere, with the back of his hand he struck me hard across my right cheek. I knew better than to cry out; that only made things worse. He took my cries as a reason to repeat his actions.

I couldn’t see the expression on his face, but by his tone I knew he felt no remorse. “Don’t you ever enter my house again when I have company. This is my house, and you’re a fucking guest here. Learn your place.” He sounded so hateful.

And just like that, he turned and walked out of my room. He looked at me as if he felt nothing, had no cares and no worries.

Tears slowly began falling down my face as I held back my sobs. My cheek throbbed, and my chest vibrated as I fought against my emotions. I turned into my pillow to hide the possibility of letting any noise escape. I knew he would be leaving for work soon. He had to be there at six, and his commute was forty-five minutes one way, so he had very little time left.

I focused on the door, praying he would not come back, begging God to give me just this one time.

Once I heard the truck come to life, I knew I was safe. The rev of the engine followed by the squeal of tires told me John was gone.

As I walked toward the bathroom my entire body ached. Lying in bed with my body fully tensed left my muscles sore. I leaned forward and turned on the water, holding my hand beneath the stream, waiting for it to warm. When I turned to get a towel from the cabinet, I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the mirror. The red mark across my cheek had already began to bruise. I felt nauseated as I stepped back so I could no longer see myself.

Stepping into the shower, I stood below the hot water and the reality of the entire morning hit me. I slid down the shower wall and began sobbing uncontrollably, heaving to catch my breath. I knew I needed to pull myself together.

I found the strength to stand and wash my hair before stepping out and drying off. My gaze shifted upward; through the fog that now covered the mirror, my bruised face once again came into view.

I was going to need some help hiding this. I knew the small container of concealer I had hidden beneath my bed would in no way cover this. I was going to have to go to the one person who had more makeup than half the girls in school combined—Casey.

I dialed her number; after two rings, she picked up. “Payton…what in the hell are you doing up this early?”

It took everything I had to stay calm and simply state, “Casey, I need your help. Can I come over?”

“It happened again, didn’t it?” I swallowed past the lump in my throat and held back my tears. I would not cry; John didn’t deserve my tears. He was a heartless bastard.

***

Fifteen minutes later I lightly knocked on her front door. My gaze was focused on my feet when I heard the front door open. “Payton?” she whispered, and it was almost enough to make the tears I was fighting so hard to control spill over.

I lifted to meet her gaze and shrugged my shoulders. “It looks worse than it is.” I assured her.

Without warning, she pulled me into her arms and hugged me close. “You have to tell someone. Please, Payton, let’s talk to my mom or the counselor.”

“I only have a little over a month before graduation, and then a few short months after that I will be safely tucked away in a dorm,” I replied.

“Stay here,” she offered. “My mom wouldn’t care. You know that.”

“Your mom has enough to worry about besides adding another kid to the mix. I’m okay, I promise.” I could tell she didn’t like what I had to say, but she nodded lightly and led me to her room.

“Let’s get you fixed up,” she said as she deposited me in the chair in her room. I closed my eyes and allowed Casey to cover up the damage John caused. I tried not to wince or react when her fingertips worked the makeup into my cheek bone. It would only make it harder to keep her from telling someone, and I didn’t need the unwanted attention. It would only enhance John’s hate for me.

I would just stay out of his way. Spend very little time at home, and when I was there I would hide in my room.

A half hour passed by without me even realizing when Casey announced she was finished.

I turned to the mirror. “Thank you,” I whispered. Fisting my hands in my lap, I toyed with the hem of my pajama shirt. I was in such a hurry to leave my house I forgot to grab any clothes. Looking up toward Casey, I saw she watched me with concern. “I’m gonna need to borrow some clothes.”

Chapter Three

“Damn, Payton. Now those are some sexy legs,” Dylan stated from his seat at the kitchen snack bar. I hoped we would be able to escape without anyone seeing me, but when we entered the kitchen and found Dylan sitting at the snack bar, my stomach tensed. I hoped I could hide my bruise by tilting my head to the side. Casey did cover it, but if someone looked close enough it was still visible. “I don’t think I have ever seen you in a pair of shorts.”

“Shut up, ass, leave her alone,” Casey snapped back, coming to my defense.

“I’m just saying Twig looks mighty fine.” I felt my face heat in embarrassment.

“Come on, Payton.” Casey gripped my elbow and tugged. My foot caught the edge of the cabinet and I stumbled toward the refrigerator. Just before my head collided with the handle, Dylan’s arm hooked me around the waist.

“Still clumsy as shit,” he complained as he righted me. I looked back over my shoulder and immediately regretted it when his eyes focused on my cheek. “What the hell happened to your face?”

Instinctively I placed my hand over my cheek. I don’t know why, since he had already seen the damage.

“Oh this—you know me. I tripped in the middle of the night walking into the bathroom. I hit my cheek on the counter.” I brushed it off by shrugging my shoulders.

Dylan didn’t look convinced.

I spent my day sticking to that story whenever someone paid enough attention to notice the mark. Mostly everyone kept commenting on seeing my legs. I have to admit the compliments I received throughout the day were flattering, with the exception of a few perverted guys who went a little overboard. The one that really stuck with me came from Dylan that morning. He actually noticed me, not to call me some dorky name, but to compliment me in his own way.

After school, Casey insisted I spend the night at her house. I knew John wouldn’t miss me. It was Friday, and by this time he was already three sheets to the wind. After last night, it was probably best I stayed away.

***

Sunlight shone through the window heating my skin. It felt so nice. The big cozy, plush blanket formed a cocoon of safety and I didn’t want it to end. I loved the mornings I woke up at Casey’s house. I loved the smells, the sounds, and knowing that no matter what, no one here would hurt me.

Just as I began to fall back to sleep, I heard raised voices filter through the hallway. Lifting my head just enough to hear better, I focused on the conversation.

“Tell me who the hell he is Casey…now!” Dylan sounded angry.

The voices seemed to come closer, and I no longer had to focus as hard to hear them clearly.

“Dylan, please just let it go. You really have no idea what you’re talking about. It’s none of your business.”

There was a pause, then Dylan spoke again. “If you don’t tell me who the fucking punk is who’s hurting her, I’ll ask her myself. Really, Casey, is she that lonely, that desperate to have a boyfriend that she would let him beat on her? Is her self-esteem that low?”

My stomach lurched, and I suddenly felt the room was closing in around me. My safe harbor had now become the one place I needed to escape. Hearing Dylan call me desperate was hurtful. The only thing I had been desperate for was a life without terror.

“Just stop, Dylan!” Casey raised her voice to be heard over her brother’s irate rambling. “You need to leave her alone.”

By this time I had gathered my bag and held my car keys in my fist. I could feel my body trembling with fear and shame. I just needed to get out.

As I reached for the door handle, the door opened and Casey and Dylan filled the doorframe. They both looked back at me in surprise.

“I am going to head home,” I told Casey in a low, embarrassed voice. Without waiting for either of them to say anything, I pushed past them and darted down the hallway toward the front door. Through the pounding in my ears, I didn’t hear either one of them moving to catch up. Just as I reached out for the door, Dylan placed his hand on my arm to stop me. “Payton, I can’t sit back and let some guy hurt you like this. You deserve better.”

I looked up into his eyes, and felt nothing but empty inside. “If only that were true,” I whispered. I walked through the front door and Casey rushed after me, crying. She hugged me to her tightly.

With a pleading look she said, “You don’t have to leave. You can stay another night. I can talk to my mom, Payton. Maybe you can stay even longer than that. Please don’t go back there. Please. I worry about you. You need to get help.”

Over her shoulder, Dylan was standing on the porch watching us. I loved that Casey wanted to protect me, but I had to go. “Don’t worry about me. I’ll be okay…I’ll call you later.” I released my hold on her and walked toward my car.

I didn’t go straight home. Instead, I drove around for an hour just thinking. I needed to calm down before I faced the storm. Weekends were usually pretty bad; because he didn't have to work, the days were a constant drinking binge. Who needed food when he had whiskey?

It was about noon when I pulled into the driveway; his truck was gone. Maybe he never came home last night. Maybe he stayed at one of his loser friends’ house after a night at the bars.

I went inside and found the house a mess. Empty beer cans and half-eaten bags of chips were strewn across the coffee table. An empty pizza box was tipped over on the kitchen floor as if it had fallen from the counter.

I began gathering the garbage and throwing it into a bag. I didn’t want to give him any reason to be angry with me. It never mattered who caused the mess—it always backfired on me.

I started a load of laundry, cleaned the bathroom, and was working on the living room when I heard the front door open and John came stumbling in. “About fucking time you get off your ass and do something around here. Clean up this fucking place.” He demanded as he pushed past me. I never replied; I knew better than to say anything to him—he was always right. I just kept my mouth shut, no matter what. I never defended myself or tried to explain my actions. It always got me in worse trouble.

He staggered down the hall bumping into things along the way, finally making it to his bedroom. He must have gotten a ride home, because when I went to the front window his truck was still not in the driveway. Judging by his condition, it was probably a good thing he wasn’t behind the wheel.

I continued to clean up, then folded all the laundry before placing it in a basket and setting it outside his door. Not that any of what I had done today would matter, but I always tried to stay even with him. Appreciation was never given in this house; I was only recognized for things I didn’t do.

John was never happy, at least not around me. Since my mom ran out on him…or on us…he changed. When I was younger, he was always grumpy, but he had never struck me. That didn’t start until after my mom left.

She left me with little hope for a safe future. My mother was an only child, and her parents passed away in a car crash when I was three. I never really knew anyone else in her family. John was an orphan. He grew up in foster care, and they met in college. After she got pregnant with me, they dropped out of school, got married, and moved into this rat hole I now called home. I guess the twelve years of service to him was enough for her and she bailed, without so much as a “Payton, I love you,” or “I will be back for you.” She was home when I left for school and when I came back she was gone.

I had put dinner in the oven while John was asleep. I was just about to go to my room when I heard movement coming from the back of the house, and then his bedroom door flew open. “What the fuck stinks?” he shouted, tripping over the basket of clothes and stumbling a few feet.

Once he realized he had fallen over his folded clothes, he picked them up and dumped the remaining clothes that hadn’t spilled out onto the floor. He looked up at me with a condescending smirk on his face. “Clean this fucking mess up!”

He knew I wouldn’t argue. I’d just do it, but not before I watched him walk past me and straight to the oven. With a small hint of hope that maybe his mood would lighten up, I watched.

He opened the oven door, pulled an oven mitt on his hand, and jerked out the almost cooked ham. Turning toward the front door, I watched as he walked straight for it and opened it with such force it slammed against the wall behind. I jumped at the impact and my heart raced. He took a few steps out onto the front porch and tipped the pan upside down, dumping the entire thing, pan and all, onto the front lawn. “Fucking stinks like garbage,” he grumbled.

My heart sank. Would I ever do anything right?