Tongue (Ruthless Kings MC #8) - K.L. Savage Page 0,3
I don’t know how to read or write.
I try. I try so hard to read, but I can’t figure it out. It’s too late to learn for me. I’m going to be a dumbass forever just like Uncle Jeremy says.
Maybe I should just do what he wants.
He smacks me on the side of the head with his palm. “What? What? Cat cut your tongue?” He slaps me again, this time across my ear, and the burning flush takes over the left side of my face. He chuckles when I stand there, unmoving, waiting for what’s next.
I don’t know what to do.
I should’ve run when I had the chance.
“Sit. Down,” he growls, reaching into his pink robe pocket to pull out the packet of cigarettes. He places them on top of the dresser, sliding one into his mouth and lighting the brown tobacco until it’s glowing orange.
It’s hotter than it looks; believe me, I know.
I do as he says and sit on the edge of the bed, folding my hands in my lap. I keep my head down, and my hair falls in my face. I’m breathing faster because I know what’s about to happen. It isn’t fair.
Or maybe it is. Maybe life is supposed to be like this and involve nothing but a series of challenges until it kills me.
I’m only twelve. I’m not supposed to know so much about the cruelty the world offers yet. That’s what the neighbor said to her son when I overheard her talking about me. I wonder if it’s true. Is life not like this for everyone?
“Get undressed.”
I gasp, tilting my head up. Uncle Jeremy stares at me with so much hate that if it were possible, I’d die from the daggers he’s shooting at me. “Ple-ple-please,” I beg him as my emotions well up in my throat. “Please, don’t ma-ma-make me do it. I’ll do any … anything.” Water fills my eyes, and I tremble all over as I stutter over my words. I hope in time the way I speak gets better.
I don’t want to live the rest of my life sounding dumb. Being stupid is one thing, but sounding it? It lets people know, and I don’t want anyone to know.
“I said—” He shapes his lips to a small O shape, and fog breezes from his mouth again. “Get undressed. Don’t make me repeat myself, boy. I’m going to the restroom. When I come out, you better be ready, or I swear, Wayne, you won’t be able to sit for a month.” Justine sashays away from me, a word he taught me a few years ago. I remember him saying, “You have to own your walk, your strut, or no one will respect you, and you better believe no one will give you a fucking dime.”
I don’t want to learn how to strut.
I want to learn how to run.
With wet cheeks and unsure hands, I grip the hem of my shirt and pull it over my head, tossing it on the floor. There, in front of me, is a full-length mirror. It’s wide, tall, and has a thick silver frame around it. I have cigarette burns all over my body, small craters pimpled all over my chest, shoulders, and back. The new one that burned through the shirt a few minutes ago turned my skin pink, swollen, and a bit bloody.
Holding back puke in my throat, I stand and drop my pants to the floor. I’m never allowed to wear underwear.
The boy in the mirror is someone meant to be forgotten. I wasn’t born to live. I wasn’t born to make something out of myself. I was a mistake.
I was only born to die; I’m starting to realize that. I didn’t die with my parents, so I can realize how I’m not meant to be a part of this world. I’m too weak for it. I’m nothing.
Justine.
Uncle Jeremy.
Whatever he wants to call himself, he’s right.
I’m useless; well not yet, just until I’m used up enough to be useless.
I sit in the middle of the bed and pull my knees to my chest. I’m his living breathing ashtray, and every scar hurts when I remember this is the man who’s supposed to be my family. The silk sheets rub against my bare bottom, and a drip of spit leaves my bottom lip, falling onto my thigh. It’s then I realize how hard I’m crying because the silk sheets remind me of what is to come.