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Life, for me, was a bitter disappointment, and at the time, I had wanted no further part in it.
In my father’s eyes, I was just a mouth to feed until eighteen. That wasn’t something I had come up with, either. Dad told me this on countless occasions.
I’d long since grown tired of begging for love from a man who, in his own words, never wanted me.
I just wanted her. You could love this girl your whole life, the crazy thought persisted inside my brain over and over, if you just let yourself.
“I like her, Gibs. I think I really like her, man. Like really as in a lot. A lot more than fucking like. Christ!”
“Jesus, I want her so fucking bad I can’t think straight, Gibs.”
“Someone touched you,” Johnny whispered in my ear, placing his fingers on the marks. “I want to know who.”
Releasing an unsteady breath, I reached up, grabbed Johnny’s neck, and pulled his face down to mine. And then I kissed him.
“Jesus Christ,” Johnny groaned, dropping his head in his hands. “Of course, I like you.” He tugged on his hair and sighed. “I think it’s pretty fucking clear that I’m mad about you.”
“Hi, Johnny.” “Boom, boom, fucking boom, Da,” I groaned, slapping a hand against my chest. “I’m done for.”
She went to him. He beat us. Terrorized us. Tortured us. And she went to him. She chose him. Our own mother.
