ALL THE RAGE (writer: T.M. Frazier)(82)

It’s snowing.

Thanksgiving Eve 2015; I open my eyes and cringe at the harsh white light that comes in through the window. People think snow equals cold, but when the sun reflects off white snow at the right angle, it can burn your skin to cinders.

There is something burning me. Not the bright reflection of snow.

A pair of blue eyes, a matching smirk.

Damon. My stepfather. Shit.

I suck in a breath and sit up with a start; my head spinning. I’m wearing an oversized tshirt that smells faintly like the guy who’s been f*cking me in secrecy for almost a year; and in front of me, my stepfather’s eyebrows rise in disapproval.

“Oh,” he says, equal parts amusement and disdain. “You’re finally awake, party animal.”

I rub my eye with the heel of my palm. I feel smashed, worn, like I’ve been run over. My entire body feels achy and dull, my head stuffed full of wool, and somewhere at the edges of my memory I remember swallowing pills, the taste of their bitter residue still faint on my tongue. Jesus. My wrists ache, faint bruises ringing them. I hold my right hand in my left, counting the five fingertip-shaped bruises that punctuate my pale skin. Four on one side, one on the other. Four fingers and a thumb. I wonder how I’d explain them. If anyone will ask. Most likely, nobody except Damon would even notice the way my skin has been marked as large, hot hands held me tightly down.

Damon clears his throat pointedly. I forget my wrist and looked back to see he’s fully dressed for work, the gold star affixed to his sheriff’s uniform glinting in the light. He’s clean-shaven and smelling like pine needles and mint, his cologne drifting over to me from where he stands in my bedroom doorway.

“What time is it?” I ask. My voice comes out low, hoarse. Did I drink last night? The taste of stale whiskey lingers in my mouth, confirming my suspicions, and I have to stifle the overwhelming urge to scrape my tongue with a corner of the bed sheets. Just picturing the bottle of Jack makes my stomach twist. Don’t puke. Do-not-puke. If I threw up in front of Damon, he’d probably make me lick it up as punishment.

“Almost eight.”

Almost eight? Shit! I lift the covers to get out of bed; my underwear’s gone. Double shit. I freeze, setting the blanket back over my thighs and trying to act casually. The very last thing I need is for Damon to see that I’m naked from the waist down. I see him glance at my lap, what looks like suspicion sparking in his blue eyes. He takes a step towards the bed, and for one horrific split second I imagine he is going to rip the blankets off me and see what I am – or rather, what I’m not – wearing.

Fate decides to intervene, though. Thank you, universe. I hear the crackle of a radio, and Deputy Chris McCallister’s voice sounds in the kitchen downstairs. Damon hears it too, freezing mid-step.

We continue to stare-off, his blue eyes pitted against mine, and the radio crackles to life again. The voice more urgent. Sheriff King, do you copy?

Saved by the proverbial. Thank you, Chris.

“Downstairs in five, Cass,” Damon says with an air of reluctance, giving my lap one final glance before he turns and leaves. A moment later, I’m out of bed and pulling fresh panties over my bare legs, my skin rising in gooseflesh to greet the frigid air. Gun Creek is the coldest place in Nevada, and it only gets colder after Thanksgiving. Soon, the pass forms ice and it’ll be dangerous to drive on, just like it does every year.

Just like it did last year.

Coffee. I need coffee.

I locate my pajama bottoms, stuffed down into the bottom of my blankets, as if they were kicked off in a hurry. Kicked or pulled, its all the same. I’m sore down there, and although I can’t remember the act itself, I’ve got a fairly good idea about what went down. It was quiet, but it definitely wasn’t gentle.

I traipse downstairs, the tight feeling in my chest expanding with every step. Running late is a cardinal sin, according to my stepfather. Everything must be perfect. Everything must be on time. All the time.


The staircase stops at the entrance to our kitchen. We’ve got one of the bigger – and older – houses in Gun Creek, one of the original Gold mining ranchers. Every window is large, square, and framing a picture of mountains and empty tundra and snow.

It’s beautiful to look out there if you’re in a good mood. If you’re not, it’s utterly desolate, miles of blank space waiting to swallow up your soul.

I’m feeling pretty f*cking salty right now. Huh. Salty. That’s not a Cassie word. That’s a word he would use.

I’m losing a little bit more of myself, every single day. Soon I’ll look like me, but I’ll be full of other people’s words and thoughts and desires.

“Hey, daydreamer,” Damon snaps, breaking my thoughts. He’s sipping coffee from an old Mickey Mouse mug my dad bought for me when I was eleven and we went to Disneyland. Something stabs me in the gut. I wish he wouldn’t touch that mug. That’s my f*cking mug.

“I made you cereal. Eat it.” He pulls a chair and points to it. “We’ve got ten minutes. Sit.” I do as I’m told, acting every inch the sullen stepdaughter. He tells me all the time that I need to curb my attitude, but my attitude is just about the last piece of me that’s still hanging on. After the accident, after Leo went to jail and mom went to the nursing home, I had a lot more…. Salt. I was feisty. I threw tantrums. It only made things worse. So much worse. Those days, they were fiery. I think they were so harrowing because I couldn’t believe what was happening. I couldn’t accept the fact that when I woke up on Thanksgiving morning of two-thousand-and-fourteen, I had everything to live for, and by the time the doctors held me down and sedated me on Thanksgiving night, the only person I had left in the world was Damon.