Some Quiet Place (Some Quiet Place #1)(24)

“ … would you lie to me about where you’ve been unless you were with a guy?” Tim is demanding. “Did you sleep with him? How long has this been going on? What if you get pregnant, slut? Huh? Do you expect your mother and me to clean up the messes you make?” The questions come at me relentlessly, each one punctuated with a head slam. My vision blurs, the first sign that I’m going to lose consciousness. Impulse takes over again, and my fist lashes out before I can stop it, connects with flesh. Tim stumbles back, bellowing.

“I wasn’t with anyone,” I attempt to say. But the words are lost when Tim utters another cry of rage. He seizes my arm and throws me to the floor. I start to scramble up but he steps on my hand with his heavy boot, and we both hear something crunch. I let out a scream of pain, and I can tell that the sound gratifies him. He bends, lifting me by my throat. With my good hand I reach to scratch his eyes out, but he jerks away just in time. Kicking is pointless, but I try anyway.

“You’re part of this family,” he says through his teeth, shaking me. “I take you to church every Sunday. Where did I go wrong? Why am I cursed with a daughter like you?”

I couldn’t say anything even if I wanted to—Tim’s grip is too tight. I see now that I shouldn’t have said anything. I should have taken his abuse, endured the hits, the insults, his revolting breath and sweaty palms.

No. Fight or flight. Once again I gravitate to fight. Is it really instinct that urges me to it? Has to be. Before I comprehend what’s happening, my nails are digging into Tim’s hand. He releases me, making yet another animal-like sound that’s part grunt, part growl. I tumble to the dirt, scraping my knees and the heels of my hands, jarring my injury. The pain nearly consumes me. No, I think again. Quickly I glance around for a weapon, something to deter him. The manure shovel—

Tim comes at me from behind. Then his fist is in my hair and he’s yanking me back. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Fear materialize—he must’ve been coming for one of his visits. His white beauty makes the ugly scene almost surreal. His expression is thunderous and … torn.

“It won’t last long,” he says to me. “He’s going to pass out soon.”

I know this. It doesn’t lessen the physical pain any. I try to crawl away, but Tim kicks me and I slump against the wall. A groan slips past my lips. “Get up!” he orders. “Get up, whore!”

Fear stands close, so close that I can feel his cool presence gently flowing over me. I touch the edge of his coat. There’s blood on my fingers I didn’t know was there. Fear kneels down, his icy eyes lovely and anxious. “I can’t interfere,” he murmurs. “It’s one of the few rules my kind has. You know I would help if I could.”

“Doesn’t matter,” I manage to say.

“What’s that?” Tim sneers. “What did you say?” He reaches down, hauls me up by my shoulders. Yet another slam. I’m going to have some bruises tomorrow, I think insipidly. Fear touches my cheek before standing back.

Then, suddenly sagging, Tim stumbles into me so that I’m crushed between him and the wall. My hand shrieks and I struggle to escape, but Tim is dead weight. His breathing becomes more labored as he hangs onto me, as if he’s really the child. “Well?” he mumbles, the words muffled and watery now. “Answer me.” He sobs, a gurgled, ruined sound.

I stare straight ahead. Blood runs down my temple. “I have no answers that will satisfy you.”

My father laughs, more of a bark, really. “You’re so …

strange. I hear people in town calling you a freak. Yeah, a freak. That’s what you are … ” I still can’t move, and I scan the area around us again for anything to use as a weapon. Fear is still watching from a corner, his jaw clenched, and our eyes meet. Tim groans, distracting me. As I pull my attention away from Fear, another puff of Tim’s foul breath assaults my senses. “I’m so sorry,” he mumbles tearfully, mindless. “You know I don’t mean it, don’t you? Sarah won’t even look at me, you know. She doesn’t love me. It’s my fault. I was the one who was supposed to be watching you that day … ”

I grow more alert at this. Is he talking about the accident?

But Tim is too far gone to answer any questions. He makes another sound deep in his throat and stumbles against me, trying to stand. I’m forced to shift to the side and lose my balance. Tim continues to sob as I fall …

… right into a pitchfork.

I let out another cry of pain, instinctively dropping and rolling to my back. The end of the tool clinks against the ground but doesn’t fall out. The tines should be easy to extract, yet the agony is already blazing through me, making it impossible to move. Should I pull it out? I think distantly, lying in some moldy hay. Tim is blubbering, moaning more apologies and woes. I pull my hand away from my side and gaze down at the red on my fingers. Too much, a voice in my head whispers. Black begins to cloud my vision. “Fear,” I say without thinking. I don’t know why.

And that’s all it takes. One strangled word, his name, his essence, and Fear is there, a gust of frozen fury. Yet the hands that cup my face are gentle, and it’s as if I’m made of something more breakable than glass. As if I’m infinitely precious. “This is going to hurt,” he warns. Before I can tell him that I already hurt the burning intensifies, and I arch my back and scream. Somehow the pitchfork is gone, and the holes in my middle close. One, two, three, four. When it’s done I pant, blinking through sweat. The wall of nothingness quivers, then becomes firm once again.