Chapter 11
16 Years ago—16 Years Old
Math has always been my weakness. A grumble slips out as I try to comprehend how in the hell I'm supposed to reach the solution of X over whatever this equation is. It’s impossible. The indie rock blaring through my headphones also isn't helping. Sitting on my twin-sized bed, legs folded, I rip off my headphones and readjust the slipping strap to my tank top.
“Hey.”
I flinch at the growl of Lonnie's voice. “Gosh, Lonnie, you ever hear of knocking?”
My skin is crawling. I thought I locked the door earlier, but I guess not.
He stands, leaning against my door frame, hands behind his back, the most malicious smile curling up his face. His cheekbones are hollow and gaunt from all the nights he doesn’t sleep—he looks ghostly and as sick as he makes me feel.
A creeped-out sensation tickles up my arms while remembering last week. I came out in the middle of the night for a glass of water to find him standing in front of the door with his forehead pressed to the entrance, jerking himself off.
Who the hell does that? I would have told my mom or Pat, but last time I mentioned him doing strange things at night, I was told to stop overreacting.
“Lonnie has sleep walking issues. You know this. Why are you talking about it? You know it embarrasses him.”
Shitty answers are all I get, so I don’t bother wasting my breath much anymore.
Yet, I still wish either my mom or Pat were here at the moment. They left to go check out a new winery in town. Even if they don’t listen, being here alone with Lonnie is something that sparks dread in my body.
He always finds some awful way to taunt me.
I scowl, hating him in my room. This is the only place that’s mine and safe—a haven from the nightmares.
“What do you want?” I grumble, hoping to seem more annoyed than rattled.
“Little doll.” He pushes off the door post. “Why you gotta be such a bitch? I’m only here to give you a present.”
Creepy bastard. The nickname he started using for me last summer wrings my stomach like an old rag. I fucking hate it, and anytime I complain, I get in more trouble.
Lonnie always gets angry and tells Mom and Pat he means it in a cute way since I’m thin-boned with pale skin.
“Fine.” He won’t leave until he gets whatever this is out of his system. Short and quick are the best interactions with him.
“Give me your gift, then get out.”
“Surprise!” He tosses his “gift,” and it lands on my bed with a light plop.
“Oh my Go—” I squeal, kick and scream, thrashing at the item on my bed, my heart racing hard under my ribs.
A dead, mutilated mouse, missing its eyes and various other parts that should be there.
Blood seeps into my pink and purple comforter, a rotten stench filling the air, making me gag as I cover my nose.
A sharpness digs into the lower part of my spine. I’m fully aware that I’m pressed against the railing of my headboard, and it’s hurting my back, but I lean against it harder.
My hand trembles when I stick it out, looking at the mouse. “Get it off. Please.”
“Aww.” His thin lower lip pouts, his voice mocking. “Is poor Vivie scared?”
“You know I am.” I divert my eyes from the monstrous sight, the tendons in my shoulders knotting up. “Just please get it off.”
“Sure…” he coos. “If…”
A pause hits the room, unsettling my stomach. It grows as Lonnie rounds the edge of my bed, coming closer. His sunken cheeks draw in while his chapped lips curl. My pulse is jackhammering against my wrists when he stops in front of me.
“I'll get rid of it.” He balls his fists, resting pale knuckles on my bedspread. “But only if you fuck me.”
“What?” The reply is a horrified whisper. I keep repeating in my head that I didn’t hear him right, but as his hand drags up my bare thigh, I know I did.
The pulse that was in my wrists leaps into my throat, choking me. A scream I want to release evaporates when he digs his fingers into my skin.
“Seeing you on your fucking knees would be nice too. Let me look at those pretty fucking eyes while you suck my cock.”
I think my leg thrashes out, but I’m not certain of it until Lonnie stumbles away, grabbing his crotch.
He grunts, fire swirling in his gaze.
Panic wraps around my fingers, and I clutch the bedding. Fabric grinds under my fingernails the harder I grip. “Get the fuck out of my room.” The words are strangled, but they hit their mark to the fullest.
“Bad doll.” Lonnie’s face glowers, and a red tinge flashes across his face.
There’s only a second for me to comprehend—to notice his hand is drawing back, and then—
POP.
A sting radiates across my cheeks. My head snaps back, carrying the rest of my body with it. There’s a faint ringing in my ears, blackness in my vision, and the bed under my shoulder blades. Violent, angry heat bites into my skin, and I sense myself being dragged across my bed.
The thudding of my heartbeat roars, drowning out the grumblings of Lonnie’s voice, and I feel it. Danger, hate, fear, sickness—every sense is twisting inside my gut, telling me that if I do nothing, that worst circumstance is about to happen.
There’s a smaller voice too. A more threatening one. It tells me Lonnie’s “sleep walking” isn’t sleep walking at night, and that he’s been plotting, and waiting.
Fuck. I can’t let this happen.
Already, his hand has traveled past the hem of my shorts to my panties, and he’s twisting the article like a thin piece of floss that he wants to snap.
Blindly, I kick, hoping to land a hit. “Get out! Get out!”
His nails scrape along the inside of my thigh. “Shut up and fucking take it.”
“No!” I cry, the inside of my throat burning from a sob. “Get the fuck—”
“What the hell is going on in here?” My eyes fly open at the sound of Pat’s voice. His footsteps thud in quick succession.
Lonnie leaps away, scratching at his arm as he scurries to the entrance of my door. He pops his head into the hall, and I hear a lightness in his tone. “Hey, Dad. I didn’t know you’d be home so soon.”
“No hellos,” he replies. “Tell me what the screaming is about?” Pat’s larger frame moves Lonnie to the side as he fills my doorway.
Apprehension binds up my tongue. There’s a scowl on his face, this look resting deep in his eyes that tells me I’m going to be the one to blame.
Something, perhaps wisdom, warns me that saying Lonnie almost raped me, is going to be a huge mistake.
Coming from Pat and his mindset, I’ll most likely be greeted with a “what did you do to cause it,” question. That’s all I get from him. Instead, I point to the mouse on my bed, hoping that will garner me sympathy—anything, really.
“He brought me this.” My voice shakes, the truth wanting to come out.