Chapter 16

Chapter Sixteen

BEFORE

TOM

I wake up covered in sweat.

I was dreaming about Daisy. Again . Every other night I dream about her. And every time, I wake up with my heart pounding and my bedsheets soaked.

In this dream, Daisy and I were in the kitchen together, cooking. I used to love cooking with my mom when I was a little kid, and I still enjoy it, even though my father says cooking is "women's work." I learned how to sharpen knives using the rim of a ceramic mug, so all the knives in our kitchen are very sharp. Too sharp.

Daisy was slicing some green beans when she let out a yelp. In real life, all she could have possibly done was nick the tip of her finger, but in my dream she had managed to somehow slice off her entire hand. The severed hand lay on the table, the fingers twitching. And Daisy looked up at me with her liquid blue eyes. I had an accident, Tom.

What should I do? I asked helplessly as I watched the blood gush from the stump of her left arm.

Well , Daisy said, now I am uneven. So you'll have to cut off the other hand so I'll be symmetrical again.

Even in my dreamlike state I recognized this wasn't a good idea. But I obligingly took the carving knife out of the knife block while Daisy lay her right hand down on the kitchen counter. I held the knife over my head and brought it down hard on her right forearm. It sliced cleanly through the bone, severing her right hand.

That's when I woke up.

About three or four times a week, I have a dream in which I am stabbing or strangling my beautiful girlfriend. On two occasions, I imagined myself holding her under water until she drowned. And every time I wake up, I feel a rush of relief.

I didn't do it. I didn't hurt her. Daisy is okay.

My relief tonight lasts only a few seconds though. That's how long it takes to realize what woke me up. It's the sound of screaming.

My mother is screaming.

I jump out of bed, not bothering to throw on any clothes, so I'm just in my white undershirt and boxers. I haven't heard her scream like this in a long time. For a while, when I was a little kid, it used to happen all the time. My mother instructed me not to leave my room if I heard scary noises. Hide in the closet, Tommy, she told me. Promise me you won't come out until I say so.

When I get downstairs, I realize the noises are coming from the kitchen. The sound of my father's booming voice echoes through the house. "It's none of your damn business what I do when I go out!" he shouts at her. "Your job is to look pretty and have dinner on the table every night! And you're doing a shitty job at both!"

Something else shatters in the kitchen—he's throwing more dishes at her. My body fills with red-hot rage. He can't talk to my mother that way. Maybe when I was a kid, he could get away with it. But not anymore.

Except he's still bigger than me. I've got to even things out.

I need a weapon.

Most things in this house that could serve as a weapon are in the kitchen, and he is in there. I look around the living room, and my eyes fall on the fire poker leaning against the fireplace. The end of that poker is sharp enough to tear through skin. I imagine sinking it deep into my father's chest.

Yes, that will do.

I march into the kitchen, gripping the fire poker in my right hand. My mother is curled up on the floor, clutching her face as she sobs into her hands, and my father is standing over her, reeking of whiskey. I arrive just in time for him to hurl a ceramic mug at her head, which shatters about an inch away from her face as she screams again.

"Hey," I growl at him. "Leave her alone."

Even though I spoke, it takes my father a moment to realize I'm in the room. And when he sees me, he smirks at my underwear. "Go to bed, kid," he says.

He never calls me by my name. It's always "kid" or "boy." Well, tonight he's going to find out that I'm not a kid anymore.

"Leave her alone." I raise the fire poker threateningly. "Or else."

My father looks me up and down. He stares at the sharp end of the fire poker in my right hand, and after a few seconds, he bursts out laughing. He looks over at my mother, "You believe this kid of yours, Luann? Threatening me with a fire poker ."

My mom raises her face from her hands. I can't tell if her eyes are swollen from crying or because he hit her. "Tommy, please don't get involved. Go back to your room."

"Listen to your mother, boy," he says. "Get back to your room and mind your own goddamn business."

"No. I'm not going."

My eyes meet his. I look a lot more like my mother—I've got her nose and chin and build—but he and I have the same eyes. Very, very dark, and laser-beam focused on what we want.

In two quick strides, my father crosses the kitchen. For a moment, he's close enough for me to strike. I could shove the sharp point of the fire poker through his beer belly and it would all be over. He would never hurt my mother again.

But I hesitate. He's my father, after all. Could I really do that?

That hesitation is all it takes. He reaches out and snatches the poker right out of my hands before I can stop him.

"So, Tom…" His dark eyes stay trained on mine. "What were you saying?"

I can't believe it. How did I let this get turned around on me? My mother, previously cowering on the floor, scrambles to her feet and dashes across the kitchen. "Don't you dare hurt him, Bill!"

He easily shoves her out of the way, like she's a ragdoll. Her body crashes back to the floor, and her head hits the side of the stove with a sickening thud. The blow is not enough to knock her out, but it's taken all the fight out of her.

And now it's just me and my father, the fire poker gripped in his right hand.

"Listen to me, kid." His voice is low and menacing. "What happens between me and your mom—that's none of your business. You get me?"

I don't answer him. He lifts the fire poker and jabs the tip into my belly. It's not enough to break the skin, but it tears my undershirt and I gasp with pain.

"Bill!" my mother sobs from the floor. "Please stop! Please!"

He whips his head around. "Shut up , Luann. Or else, I swear to God, I will shove this poker right through his gut."

He would do it. He's drunk enough and he's mean enough, and there's no way I could wrestle that poker back out of his hands. One good jab and the point will pass through my skin and impale my intestines. It will be a terrible way to die.

"You gonna leave us alone from now on, boy?" my father growls.

When I don't answer, he jabs me harder. The sharp point slices through my skin and the white of my torn undershirt rapidly turns red with my blood. The pain is intense enough to make my knees wobble. My mother is sobbing and pleading for him not to hurt me, but she doesn't move. She knows she can't help me.

Part of me wants him to do it. Let him kill me then spend the rest of his life in jail so my mother is safe. But a much larger part of me doesn't want to die. There's too much I want to do with my life. I want to become a surgeon. I want to lose my virginity to Daisy Driscoll, and someday, I want to marry her. I'm not sure if all that is possible for me, but I know what I don't want. I don't want to die in the kitchen of this crappy, rundown house at my father's hands.

"Fine," I croak. I hold up my hands. "Whatever you say."

He sniffs loudly. "And what are you going to do if you hear any sound in the middle of the night? You going to mind your own business?"

"Yes," I say through my teeth.

"What? I didn't hear that too good."

" Yes ."

Satisfied, my father lowers the fire poker. The sharp pain vanishes, replaced with a dull ache. The bottom half of my undershirt is damp with my blood. I've got to get this cleaned up before I go back to bed. I don't want to get blood all over the sheets.

"Get out of here, boy," my father snaps at me.

I really, really don't want to leave my mother alone, but she's pleading with me with her eyes, so I do like he tells me. But this isn't over. One of these days, he's going to go too far and kill her. I'm not going to let that happen.