Page 37 of Where Your Scars Meet Mine
“You waltz into my house like you’re the only one who’s ever suffered. You test me. You push me. You play your little mind games like I’m some fragile thing you can corner and break.”
Dragging the sharp edge of the key down the center of his chest, I press hard enough that I know it must be irritating his skin beneath the fabric.
Still no reaction.
“I’m damaged goods,” I spit. “The fucked up adopted girl with the dead junkie mom. The charity case with scars, baggage and a whole tragic backstory you can throw in my face whenever it’s convenient.”
The metal scrapes faintly against the button of his flannel as I press harder.
“And now I get to explain that my new adopted brother killed his father because he couldn’t handle it anymore? Newsflash, Silas. You’re not the first kid who got roughed up. You’re not the first one who snapped. And you’re sure as hell not getting sympathy from me because it got too heavy for you.”
The words hang between us, sharp and ugly.
His hand moves so fast I don’t see it coming.
In one swift motion, he grabs my wrist.
The pressure is immediate and painful. His fingers wrap around my arm, squeezing until pain shoots up toward my elbow. The key slips from my grasp, clattering somewhere onto the floorboard.
A small yelp escapes me before I can swallow it, before his other hand comes up, covering my mouth.
The movement pushes me back slightly, but he leans forward at the same time, closing the space until our noses nearly brush. My back presses awkwardly against the steering wheel as his chest rises and falls steadily against mine, his breath warm against my skin.
The anger in his eyes isn’t loud.
It’s contained.
That’s what makes it worse.
“You have no idea what kind of monster my father was,” he whispers.
The words aren’t shouted. They’re pressed against me, low and dangerous.
“You have no idea what I had to do to survive.”
His grip on my wrist tightens just slightly before easing enough that it no longer feels like he’s trying to hurt me, just restrain me.
Outside the car, the music from the party continues to pound.
Inside, the air feels too thin to breathe.
For the first time since he touched me under that dinner table, I don’t feel grounded.
I feel like I’ve stepped too close to something that will burn.
The longer his hand stays clamped over my mouth, something inside me detonates.
It isn’t just fear of him.
It’s memory.
The pressure of his palm, the way his body leans into mine to keep me still, the air disappearing from my lungs , it rips me straight out of the car and back into that motel room with peeling wallpaper and a deadbolt that never felt strong enough. Back to the smell of cheap cologne and sweat. Back to being held down, silenced, told to stay quiet because my voice wasn’t worth anything anyway.
My chest caves in on itself.
“You have no idea-” he starts again, his voice low.
“Get off of me,” I sob against his hand.
