We were in this alone. Mom was upstairs, probably sleeping in her bedroom, as usual. Dad would deal with us in the way he saw fit. He’d never beat Lucy or Grace—he saved that for me—but their punishments would be worse than any other six-year-old should have to deal with. I was bigger. I could handle the beating, going to bed without dinner, having to take on an extra load of chores, whatever he thought was fair, even if nothing ever was.
“Go upstairs,” I said quietly as a key slid into the lock. “Go. Now.”
They looked at me with identical bewildered eyes, but said nothing. They ran past me to the stairs and clambered up the treads louder than two little girls ever had in the history of the world.
The door opened, and there was my father in his shirt and tie, a briefcase in his hand. I didn’t think I had ever seen the man smile in all my ten years, and he definitely wasn’t smiling now.
“It smells like shit in here,” he said, his voice an eerie calm as he stepped inside and closed the door behind him. “Why does it smell like shit in here, Maxwell?”
“I was just about to clean it up,” I replied, holding my voice steady. Looking right into his cold eyes as he put his briefcase down onto the table beside the door.
“I’ll ask you again.Whydoes it smell like shit in here?”
He walked toward me, taking one step at a time in what seemed like slow motion. I knew what was coming before his hand even fell to his belt buckle.
“Smoky is sick,” I answered, unwavering.
He snickered, then cracked his neck. I watched him sigh, listened as he clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. Acting like I was the biggest disappointment of his entire life when I already knew I was—he reminded me regularly.
“You remember what I told you,” he said as he dropped his hands to undo his belt. “Do you remember, Maxwell?”
“I remember.”
“Daddy’s gonna kill Smoky.”I heard my sister’s small, panicked voice in my mind.
“So, you know what I need to do now, don’t you?”
I must’ve taken too long to answer. He swung the belt, striking the middle of my back. It stung, but I only winced for a second before gritting my teeth, fighting back the need to cry.
“Don’t you?!”
“Yes, sir,” I replied.
He turned his attention back to the dog shit. A low, frustrated growl rolled over his throat as he shook his head.
“Useless,” he muttered, swinging the belt again. “Worthless, miserable, disobedient waste of breath.”
Every word, every insult, was enunciated by another strike of the belt across my back, my thighs, my butt. Tears stung the back of my eyes, but I bit my tongue to keep them from falling.
His breath came in loud, heavy puffs when he was finished, his striking arm limp at his side. He stared me down, his eyes boring into the side of my head. My entire backside was on fire, blinding pain searing through to myaching bones beneath the skin. He wanted a reaction. He wanted the satisfaction of my pain. He wanted to know without a shadow of a doubt that my lesson was learned. But I remained expressionless, strong, just the way he had taught me to be.
Then his hand came down on my back, and he shoved me—hard. My knees buckled, and I fell forward, landing on hands and knees in puddles of Smoky’s diarrhea.
“Clean up your fucking mess.”
I swallowed against the urge to heave. “Yes, sir.”
“And when you’re done, go to bed, and don’t you dare think about leaving your room. You can think about what you did wrong while the rest of us eat dinner.”
“Yes, sir.”
“One day, Maxwell, you’ll understand the importance of following the rules. And maybe that’s when you won’t be such a pathetic disappointment to me.”
He said it—he said it all the time—but somehow, I doubted it. I wasn’t sure there was anything I could do that could make my father happy, that could make my mothercare.
They hated me. But, gosh, I did everything I could to change their minds.
He turned around and headed up the stairs. When I was sure he was out of earshot, I let out a trembling breath, lifting my palms from the shitty carpet. I didn’t know how to clean up a mess like this. I didn’t know how to get the smell out, and was it going to stain? Gosh, I didn’t have a single clue, and who would I ask anyway?
