wrist. His fingers trace my jaw, and I jerk out of his hand, but it doesn’t do any good.
Hovering over my face, his cold fingers dig into my cheeks, forcing me to turn my head. “You might be an idiot, but you’re a pretty idiot. I’ll give my sister that much.” He trails the pads of his fingers down the side of my neck, then down my chest, and around my nipple. “So pretty, Wayne,” he purrs, closing his eyes as he maps the scars along my chest. “Shame. All these times that you didn’t listen. Just like you aren’t listening now.” He pauses his touch and struts toward the dresser where the packet of cigarettes is half hanging off the corner. Justine pats the package against the palm of his hand and stares at me.
I’m shivering. My body is cold. I’m scared. Warm liquid drips down my legs, and that’s when I realize I’ve peed myself.
“You goddamn incompetent boy! Look what you did! Fucking look! That’s the second time you’ve ruined my mattress. Why are you so weak? Why can’t you be normal?” Justine pours the cigarettes out, and all of them land on the bed next to me. He sighs in frustration, rubbing his tongue over his teeth, then fluffs his hair. A bead of sweat drips down the beak of his nose, and his red lipstick is smeared from how many times he has rubbed his lips together. His foundation is starting to crack within the wrinkles in his face, right along the edges of his mouth and forehead.
“You make me do this; you know that? You make me be this person,” he says, grabbing a cigarette and lighting it. “You make me hurt you. Why? Why do you make me do it?”
“I…”
“Oh, I know. Poor Wayne. The wittle baby. So hopeless.” He pats my cheek and digs the burning cigarette against my thigh.
I scream, something I’m not allowed to do, but I can’t help it. It hurts so much.
He lights the cigarette again, even though the stem is wrinkled, and makes the tobacco glow again.
I’m still screaming, but it isn’t for the pain in my thigh. It’s for everything. I hope someone can hear me. I can’t do this anymore.
“God, you never shut up, do you?” he reaches into my mouth and pinches my tongue between his fingers, yanking it from my mouth. I shout the best I can through muted, panicked sounds. I kick my legs and bounce on the bed to try to get away, but he throws his leg over my naked waist and straddles me to stop my legs from kicking. “Always so stubborn, never wanting to listen. How many times does this need to happen before you understand?”
I nod, wanting to do anything and everything to make him stop and get off me. I’ll be good. I swear. I’ll be good. Tears fall from my eyes, and I can see him clearly now. The hate in his eyes has me laying completely still.
We lock eyes.
I’m too afraid to move, to breathe, to make a sound.
“I hate you,” he says, emotion curling his lip. “You look just like her. That bitch of a sister always thought she was better, prettier. Look at me now! I’m fucking beautiful. Me! I make money off my looks, not her, and I’m going to make sure you never can. You hear me?” He doesn’t give me time to react before pressing the cigarette against my tongue.
I arch my back and clutch my hands into fists. I can taste the smoke working its way down my throat. The ashes dissolve against the saliva pooling and mixing with blood. The pain is unbearable. He tosses the ruined cigarette aside and picks up another. I watch in horror as he lights it. It could be a still-image with how many times I’ve seen him light the same cigarette, with the same disinterest on his face, and evil promises in his eyes.
The orange glow sets his face in a sunset hue. I only know of the sunset because he allows me outside once a week to get fresh air, always at night, so fewer people see that he has a kid.
I might be a kid, but I feel like I’ve lived a hundred lives, and I’m ready to be laid to rest. I lay there entranced by the delicate way the smoke string leaving the cigarette billows up toward the ceiling; it tunnels in an invisible chimney, searching for a