Page 1 of Beautiful Deceit
Prologue
Blood drips slowly from my cupid’s bow, falling down to my bottom lip. My tears mingle with the drops of blood. The once steady flow is now barely noticeable as I grab a bag that I've hidden under the loose floorboards in my room. I have a plan.
He's been silent for over two hours. I’ve waited, backed into the corner of my childhood room, listening for signs that he is gone or asleep. I pray he's passed out and that the quiet creaking of my bare feet won't be enough to wake him.
A small button on the sleeve of my shirt catches my nose, as I again try to wipe the blood away. I need to move unnoticed but can’t chance staying in this house long enough to clean myself up. I hiss from the contact. I won’t do that again.
My hope to make it another three weeks is gone. I wish I could finish my sophomore year and collect my final paycheck from the small grocer where I work. Mr. White would probably give it to me early.
The floor creaks from down the hall. I freeze. Is the house just settling, or is he up?
When no more sound follows, I continue gathering the few personal belongings I've stowed away over the last year. Things have been getting progressively worse. If I want to make it to my junior year, I need to run now.
With one final look around my childhood room I throw my backpack over my shoulder and slink, silently as possible, through my bedroom window. The drop from the second floor, which seemed so dangerous a short few years ago, doesn't faze me. I know where true danger lies.
As I walk down the dirt drive, I turn around and look at the house my mother loved, the family farm my mom and dad built together. I wish I could walk through the kitchen door once more and feel her presence and hear her humming a little song while she bakes. She’s gone. Nothing can change that. Now all I feel as I leave is relief from the fear and pain.
I turn my back, knowing I'll never see the old house again. Tears fall as I make my escape.
Chapter 1
Iwake to my phone vibrating loudly against my nightstand, its camera light flashing, telling me it's time to rise. The buzzing alone wakes me; I'm still a light sleeper. It's funny how fast your body becomes accustomed to things, like waking from footsteps or shuffling from outside your door. Even years later, when the need to be constantly on guard has passed, I still can't seem to sleep through the slightest noise.
I swipe my finger across the screen, stopping the alarm from sounding again. The sun isn't fully up, so the room is still relatively dark. I wish I could close my eyes and fall back to sleep. I scissor my legs under the covers trying to find a cool piece of fabric.
My dirty blonde hair is piled into a loose messy bun on top of my head. I rub the slight ache of my scalp, from sleeping in it all night, then swat at the tendrils that escaped. One of the few things I've kept from my old life is my long hair. I'm reminded of my mother every time I look at myself in the mirror. Her hair is one of the strongest memories and saddest reminders I have of her.
I sit up slowly, looking over the home I’ve made for myself.
Everything looks exactly like it did when I went to sleep, just like I knew it would. I can't help but check every morning when I wake. It’s another habit from my old life.
Owning my studio is the greatest progress I've made in the last seven years. When I finally ran, it was to Rita, my mother’s best friend in New York. I should have left with her after the funeral. I would have left too, if I had any idea the kind of monster my stepfather would turn into. Instead, I wanted to remain close to my mother's memories and our home. The violence didn't start overnight, and it didn't start with fists. He often cried and mourned my mother so dearly that I wanted to help him grieve.
He began with words, lashing out in what I believed was grief. You still can't convince me that the words hurt less than the physical blows. My body always healed, but the words are still in my brain banging around violently, surfacing when I least expect it.
In the end, all it took was me knocking on Rita’s beautiful ivory door, and I was welcomed into her life to rebuild my own. I didn't tell Rita everything, not at first, just enough for her to know how serious the situation was; she understood by looking at me that night. She knew I needed an escape.
I don't know how she managed it, but within two weeks I had a new identity. My old name disappeared. I became Samantha West, a junior year transfer student at a small private school in downtown New York.Hiding in plain sight,Rita called it. I didn't care what she called it as long as that monster couldn't find me.
He called Rita about three weeks after I left. I was shocked it took that long. Who else did I have to turn to? There certainly wasn’t anyone in his town. He asked if she'd heard from me. She played it off well. Even with me standing nearby, she began acting frantic, offering to come down and look for me. He said he was sure I'd turn up, and that I'd only beenoutfor a few days.She's probably just at a friend’s house,was his excuse. Rita called everyday for a week asking about me, to make sure he didn’t suspect that I was with her. It must have worked, because on the seventh day, he said I'd finally returned and not to worry anymore.She needs to be punished for her behavior. So I won't be lettin her talk to ya just now. I shook hearing those words, I knew if he ever had the chance to punish me again, I'd be dead or wish I was.
I shiver thinking about how much worse it could have been and how bad it almost was.
Rita called occasionally for about a year, continuing the charade. He always told her I was busy or out with friends and that I couldn't come to the phone. After a while she let disappointment seep into her tone, saying she understood and knew that I grew up and didn’t need to hear from a distant friend of my mother’s. She told him she would stop bothering him and me, but told him to call if he needed anything, and with that she cut herself from his life.
I shake my head, clearing my thoughts. I let my bare feet drop to the cool, wood floor, the sensation grounding me to the here and now.
I stretch my arms above my head and arch my back, removing the kinks left over from sleeping. I pad soundlessly over to the kitchen and turn on my one-cup brewer. I have an hour before I need to leave for work, so I move to the only room in my studio with a door, grab a few linens and start the shower.
I enter the oversized stall surrounded in frosted glass and place a washcloth on the wide bench seat. It’s made of the same white tiles that cover the walls. I strip, tossing my clothes into the separate laundry space on the other side of the bathroom. The triple shower heads pound down on my back and head, helping me to wake up. I wash and get out faster than I'd really like, but I need coffee if I'm going to survive the day, and I can’t let it go cold.
I dry my hair quickly and apply a coat of mascara to my lashes through the still fogged mirror. I return to the kitchen in my panties for my first cup of coffee. When I add creamer, I notice I'm almost out, so I start mentally compiling a list of what I'll need over the next few days.
I slide my legs into my favorite skinny jeans and look through my collection of bras. It truly is a collection. I have so many and each one is stunning. I don’t know why I have collected so many, no one but me sees them. I just can't seem to stop buying more. Today, I’ve picked a french cut ivory satin with black lace upper cups. I feel a pep in my step from just putting it on. I tug a white, off-the-shoulder sweater over it. It is dense enough that you can't see the black lace through the weave. I grab a pair of low-heeled, brown boots from my closet and give them a quick dusting.
I look up at the clock to see I only have ten minutes before I need to leave. I make another cup of coffee in one of my to-go cups and grab my small purse shoving my phone inside as I lock the door. I turn the doorknob twice before walking down the stairs past the empty studio beneath me. The building is small, with just two converted studios. I feel safe knowing only one other person can enter my building.
As I pass, I hope whomever moves in is as quiet as the last owner. It has been unoccupied for almost three months. The previous owner was a bit of a hoarder, so I can’t imagine the place being in an appealing state for prospective renters, particularly those having to pay New York prices. I've gotten used to living in the building alone. I can’t imagine having a neighbor any time soon.
