Everything I’d done was a lie.
Time to destroy it. All of it.
I pushed myself up and out of the chair so hard it crashed over backward. Then I stomped into the kitchen and grabbed the chef’s knife Regina had given me when I first moved out. It was sharp. Maybe too sharp, because I’d cut myself on it more than once. It stayed sharp, too, because Earl had given me a whetstone to go with it, and the crazy man wasn’t above doing spot checks to make sure I cared for my tools, kitchen and otherwise.
Lifting the knife, I tested the edge with my finger, a line of red fire appearing.
The pain felt good.
Simple and easy to understand, unlike the pain still ripping through me every time I pictured my mom’s face. Had he beaten her to death? Shot her? Maybe he just got her drunk and pushed the car over the edge—that would be simple enough.
Why the fuck hadn’t I found a way to get her the money?
I grabbed the couch cushion I’d made from Earl’s old shirts and sank the knife deep inside, pretending it was Teeny’s face. Then I ripped it open and pulled out the stuffing, throwing it on the ground. Next was a wall hanging I’d made from strips of cloth sewn together in a sunburst pattern. Didn’t take long. After that I went after the posters. They ripped almost too easily, making a beautiful tearing noise that failed to satisfy.
Spinning, I looked for something else to destroy.
The curtains. Tearing them would be better . . . They were more work, which was good. The red fabric was heavier and I had to drag a chair over to reach, because when I tried to yank them down they were too strong for me.
Earl had hung the rods, and Earl didn’t do shit halfway.
First I cut them into strips, savoring the sound of the knife ripping through the threads. Then I pulled the rods down, throwing each of them across the room in a different direction. In my mind they were spears, punching holes through Teeny’s chest.
Strips of fabric puddled like blood across the floor.
I eyed my couch. I wanted to kill it. I wanted to kill everything. I started toward it, figuring I’d start with the cushions before I attacked the frame. I could use my hammer on that part.
Fuck you, Teeny!
A glint of reflected sunlight caught my eye.
My Singer.
She sat there in the turret window, bathed in light, calling to me. The machine was a work of art. Smooth, black lines. Perfectly oiled, ready and waiting to create something beautiful. They’d painted it with real gold leaf, and not even the electric motor could tarnish its glory.
That Singer was a thing of beauty.
Too bad that beauty was a fucking lie.
Regina had given it to me, and I’d been so proud because she’d trusted me with it. Idiot. She told me to use it to create, to design a new life for myself. This was the kind of machine that a mother gave to her daughter as a sign of her love, but only in a real family. A normal family.
It sat there in the sunshine, pointing at the ceiling like a middle finger.
Putting me in my place.
Fuck this. Fuck all of it. I bypassed the couch with grim purpose, my decision made. Of course, I flubbed the grand gesture by tripping over the bin holding my fabrics, falling on my face. The knife went flying. Somewhere in the back of my brain I realized that my nose was hurting.
I wiped it with the back of my hand, then stared at my skin, mesmerized by the sight of bright red blood.
The blood between my legs had been red. After Teeny got me that first time, Mom took me into the bathroom and hosed me down in the shower. I remembered watching the stained water swirl around and around before it disappeared down the drain. I don’t know what I expected after that.
No, that’s a lie.
I expected her to save me.
I expected her to put me in the car and start driving far far away.
Instead, she cried and I cried but when it was all over, nothing changed except Teeny visiting my room at night. Then he’d started sharing me with his friends and there’d been more blood.
Catching the edge of the Singer’s wooden cabinet, I steadied myself. The legs were wrought iron—stunningly beautiful in their own right. The whole fucking machine was art and it was perfect and creative and it had no fucking place in my life.
None.
I staggered to my feet, then reached down to lift the entire thing up. It was heavy, but not too heavy for me. I wasn’t some useless, delicate little girl who’d been spoiled and fussed over. Nope. I was strong. I’d survived rape, I’d survived Teeny, and I’d damned well survive losing my mom.
It took two tries to raise the Singer high enough, but I managed it.
Then I turned to the window. The sun was shining down across the mountains, bathing me in light just like it’d illuminated the Singer earlier.
Mom would never see that sun again.