All the Little Truths (English Prep 3)

My phone dinged a few times, and when I pulled it out, hoping it was Eric—even though I had left without saying a single word to him—I felt sick.

Unknown: Did that guy really rape u?

Unknown: Hi. It’s Hayley, are you okay? I just wanted to check on you.

Unknown: Wow. Heard you got raped. That explains why you stopped putting out.

Cara: Hey. I know we don’t talk anymore, but I’m sorry about what happened. If the rumors are true, I mean. Sure looked like it when Eric flipped out.

I ignored every message and clutched the phone to my chest as I heard the front door slam.

Maybe I should call 911?

He hadn’t even hit her yet, but I knew he would. He always did.

Their voices climbed up the stairs, and I wanted to cover my ears.

“Do you know how embarrassing it is to get a call from the headmaster, saying my daughter had been raped by a man who was fucking my wife? Is that even true?”

“That’s all you care about? You should be concerned about our daughter! Who cares how embarrassing that is! Your daughter was sexually violated.”

Something slammed; a shriek from my mom was next. My heart started to skip beats; my head started to pound from rising stress.

“You should have been the one to get raped. You always were trash! A dirty fucking slut. I can’t even stand to look at you. Where is she? I want to know every last detail, and I want you to sit there and listen, too. Maybe then you’ll feel so bad for bringing a man like that into this house that you’ll kill yourself. Madeline is better off without you.”

I slapped my hand over my mouth to keep myself from screaming.

“Well, I let you in here, and you’re just as bad! Hitting me when you feel like it, fucking me like I was made for your own personal pleasure and nothing else. You’re no more a man than he is.”

“Are you fucking sticking up for the man who raped your daughter?”

No, Dad. She’s trying to get you to see that you’re fucked up, too.

There was another loud bang, and I jumped to my feet.

“Do you like that? Huh?” There it was. That psycho-like tone in his voice that had my hair standing up straight. I threw my blazer off my shoulders and glanced at my window. Half of me wanted Eric to come to my rescue again, but the other half wanted him nowhere near my father.

“Do you enjoy getting raped? Maybe I’ll just fuck you right now so you know how it feels!” My father’s laugh made me sick. “Oh, wait. I forgot. You’re such a slut you’ll probably enjoy it anyway.”

My mother cried out, and something broke. A plate? A picture frame?

I walked closer to my door, something pulling me forward. I was so fucking sick of being afraid. I was so sick of hearing this over and over again. There were big gaps in time where my father would disappear before he came back again, but when he showed up, it was like no time had passed at all.

A shuffling of feet and rushed footsteps sounded from below. I opened my door just a crack, and instead of my father’s voice, it was my mom’s.

“Leave.”

“Are you fucking nuts? You won’t fucking shoot me. You’ll have nothing if you kill me. You’ll go to prison. Madeline will be on her own. Put the gun down.”

My eyes grew wide.

I rushed through the hall and leaned over the banister, peering down at my mother who was holding a black pistol in her shaky hands. Her shirt was ripped by the collar, and her hair looked as if it had been pulled. Her jeans were undone at the top. My father prowled the room in a predatory way, which made sense because that was exactly what he was: a predator. Someone who stood by and waited until prey walked by and then destroyed them over and over again. And I hated to say it, but my mother was the worst kind of prey—walking into the trap time and time again.

I crept down the stairs slowly on my tiptoes. I wasn’t sure what possessed me other than the fact that something had to give. We were in a never-ending, fucked-up cycle of fear, hurt, and betrayal. It was time my father faced the truth, and what better person to spit it out than his ruined princess.

My mom caught my eye first, and she shook her head, her mouth set in a firm line. My father was too busy staring at the gun in her hands, trying to find a way to put her down before she put him down. His hands were in fists by his sides, his broad shoulders wide as he paced.

“I’ll kill you before you kill me,” he seethed, taking a step toward her.