Page 4 of Contention
It’s a lie, of course. She isn’t going to call.
She’s not going to call because nothing happened and the bruising around her neck means nothing at all.
It’s nothing a fashionable scarf can’t hide.
Chapter 2
In the safety of her apartment, Kara falls into an uneasy slumber, filled with nightmares. Only, the nightmares aren’t just dreams.
These nightmares are memories.
“I bet you miss him, don’t you?” Her mother’s voice is dark. Smokey. The kind of voice Kara always wished she had. In this moment though, her mother’s tone is unkind, accusing. “Even after all he’s done to us, you probably want him back.”
“I don’t know what you want me to say.”
“I’ve watched you for years, little dove. You love him because he never gives you what you want. Round and round you go, trying to make him love you. He never does, does he? He never loved me. You’ve always known the truth though, Kara. You’re not stupid. He’s not wired that way.”
The dream shifts, light shining into her mother’s kitchen. The sun is falling in the background, an orange in the fall sky.
Plates clatter loudly into the sink and Kara glowers over her shoulder. “I never thought I was stupid. I just figured it was natural to want your father to…I don’t know…”
Her mother flicks her dark auburn hair over one shoulder, looking at Kara from under heavily lidded eyes. She’s got this certain pout to her lips, unkind, the sort that says she’s going to be blunt without reservation.
“It always made me feel like a terrible mother. Watching my little girl play out her self-fulfilling prophecy with every boy she ever ran around with. It was like you wanted to reenact every horrible moment of your childhood. Like you never wanted to be happy. You would chase the boys in hopes that they would love you, only when they did, you suddenly didn’t want them anymore.” Her mother sneers, hazel eyes glittering with bitterness. “You resented them forruiningtheillusion.”
It touches close to home. Kara’s dark eyes flash as she storms out of her mother’s kitchen. “Why do I even bother visiting you? You always have to bring this up and I’m tired of it.”
Razorblades and blood. Funeral flowers. A boat load of guilt.
A flash of darkness in the dream. A coffin. The smell of dirt is so clear, freshly broken. A sob sticks in Kara’s chest, but the dream moves on.
It’s dark and her feet hurt. She shouldn’t have worn the three and a half inch stilettos. Why did she dance all night in these? Oh, because the heels are rocket-red and it reminds her of blood and pain and angry passion.
“Hey sweetie, new girls go across the street. Move your tight ass on down,” someone calls out to her, voice raspy with cigarettes and alcohol.
The words don’t make sense, she isn’t a new girl, she doesn’t even know what that means. She waves the voice off with irritation, slurring that she just wants to get home.
Uh. It’s so dark and everything is so blurry.
A few more paces and a large stretch limo is beside her, slowing down, keeping pace. The window rolls down slightly, but Kara ignores it, keeps stumbling forward. Her feet are probably going to bleed. Crap. What will she wear to work on Monday that won’t hurt the back of her feet?
Why is it so exhausting to move?
“Hey doll. Want to rest your feet?” Male laughter. Small female sounds. The smell of vape sticks, sickly sweet.
Blankly, Kara looks up, rests her hand on the side of the black limo. Convenient for them to arrive for her to lean upon. She leans and balances on one heel while reaching to take off the other. Screw getting filthy feet. The fire in her toes will not be denied any further. “No shit. What does it look like,” she slurs under her breath, not really paying attention.
She’s mad at herself. She’s always mad at herself.
She doesn’t expect the limo door to open. She doesn’t expect the world to spin and shift wildly as she’s pulled inside.
Someone is grabbing at her face, inspecting her like livestock or something equally insulting. “Aw, look at her. She’s like an angel with a sweet face,” a man says, running his hand through her dark locks, exposing her visage.
There’s another hand, now around her neck, pulling towards someone else. He makes a noise deep in his chest, an unimpressed sort of sound. Like he doesn’t like what he sees. “She’s a baby. Send her back.”
She’s not that young. Is twenty-eight young?
“Hey, you’re the one who pointed her out.”
