Page 22 of Redeeming the Villain
Mrs. Potts and Chip live with Griffin. Mrs. Potts cooks and cleans for him. She’s been with his family for years. They're practically Griffin’s only family now.
“Yeah.”
Griffin starts driving and I get lost in thought, looking out the window.
I owe him a lot. More than I’ll ever be able to repay. It seems like there’s more people like that than ever. The list keeps building, as does my guilt for accepting the help.
He took me under his wing this past year. Let me move into his place so I wouldn’t have to worry about rent. He never lets me pay for groceries or anything when Mrs. Potts—his housekeeper and chef—goes shopping.
I have money, but it’s a drop in the bucket in comparison to him. He comes from money—like the kind where you never have to check your bank account, you buy a brand-new car just because, you live in a multimillion-dollar mansion, and your family is worth billions.
I know what he spares for me might be nothing to him, but it’s everything to me. And one day, when we’re both playing pro, I’ll pay him back.
Darius tries to offer me money any chance he gets, not wanting me to struggle. But I won’t take another dime from him or Alicia. They have already done too much for me.
Besides, when it comes to family—which is what they have become—I don’t have a great track record of family doing favors out of the kindness of their heart.
My uncle, who raised me, only ever did a favor so he could shove it back in my face later. When I couldn’t repay it, he made me pay in other ways—being a punching and kicking bag for him to get his anger out.
That’s all I knew for most of my childhood. I thought everyone’s family was like mine. I didn’t know any different. When I showed up at school one day with my arm in a cast and bruises on my neck, I learned just how wrong I was.
But the second anyone started questioning the marks on my body, I was yanked from the school and plunged into another one. Eventually, my uncle got better at hiding his damage, ensuring the only marks he left were beneath my clothes.
I could’ve stopped it. Told the police. Told my teachers the truth. But that wasn’t a part of the deal my uncle and I made. As long as I lay down and took the beatings, he wouldn’t touch Micah.
I remember I tested that theory one time, and I’ll always regret it. I was fourteen years old, and Micah was nine. I confided in our neighbor, a sweet couple. They were so concerned when I showed them the bruises on my ribs. They confronted my uncle, and to my absolute disbelief, they left us there with him and never stopped by again. I have no clue what he said to them and why on earth they believed him, but that’s something I’ll never get to learn.
That night was the worst it ever was. The pinnacle of all his rage. I seriously thought I was going to die. I met the devil that night in the basement, and he wore my uncle’s face.
He punched me mercilessly, kicked me until I heard my ribs crack and break. I never knew how painful simply surviving could become. But my pain wasn’t the most excruciating thing I felt that night. It was Micah’s.
I tried to fight, to keep my uncle from him. But every time I gained enough strength to peel myself from the cold floor, he pushed me right back down to it, landing a few more blows as punishment for interfering.
Micah’s screams and cries haunt my nightmares.
When my uncle started beating him like he did to me … that was the moment I wanted to die. Because it was my fault he was getting hit. It was my fault that he would never smile the same way again. It was my fault that my uncle fractured his jaw and killed his spirit.
But we survived that night together, and when we were finally left alone and locked downstairs, I dragged myself to him. He was conscious but in agonizing pain. I couldn’t walk, let alone stand. I tried over and over, falling to my knees each time.
We slept curled up on a rug on the cold floor.
That was the last night I ever let Micah feel my uncle’s wrath. After that, I obeyed whatever my uncle wanted.
I listened. I spoke when spoken to. I cleaned the house daily and learned to cook for all of us. I became his pet.
I learned to take beatings without making a sound or any expression.
My soul and heart caged themselves in with thorns and vines, protecting themselves from what I was going through and anything to come.
But the problem is, my heart and soul are still there, tucked away, and anytime I try to free them, everyone around me ends up getting hurt and I’m left bleeding out from the inside.
“Malik, you in there?” Griffin bumps my arm with his fist, yanking me out of my thoughts and forcing me back to reality.
“Yeah. My bad. Did you say something?” I don’t look his way, not wanting him to see anything in the depths of my gaze.
His voice is softer than usual, chock-full of concern. “What’s going on?”
I sigh, dragging my hand down my face. “It’s … complicated.”
